DEATH OF A FIREMAN: A PREFACE

They'd talked about death sometimes
but always in bad humor. "Some widow
I'd make," she'd said. She knew the doorbell
came first. She'd get out of bed, a white hat,
the battalion chief, standing on the porch.
But instead a nurse called, which meant
he we was hurt. The doctor said, "Shock trauma."
Her knees buckled. "He's got chest pains."
She said, "Then why the hell is he in trauma?"
All her married life she'd been around
the department, so she recognized the jargon.
"It's not a heart attack," the doctor said.
"A building fell in." She didn't want
to wake the kids, his injuries were vague.
At the hospital, she wore a gown, mask.
He was conscious. She said, "You're going
to live." He tried to say they had cut off
his clothes, a towel was draped over him
like a shroud. "Maybe," he said. "God,
I hurt so bad." They had to drag her downstairs.
When she called her son, the words broke
in her mouth. Someone handed her a tissue,
but it was too fragile. Up at shock trauma,
they said, "We're going to put tubes in you.
Internal bleeding." They pushed a crash cart
beside his bed, just in case. He repeated
his statement: "I'm in so much pain
you can't hurt me." But they did.