I have some distinct and well founded opinions about the futility of life-saving methods and machines in the setting of almost certain, albeit prolonged, painful death. But sometimes the fighters are not easily recognizable.

This Old Boy From The Hood

He made it and who could
Believe that he would,
Defy all the odds
This old boy from the hood,
A cat with nine lives
Would wish for his luck,
A bookie from Las Vegas
Would wager a buck,
That no human being
On this side of hell,
Could survive this disaster
And come out so well.

His kidneys had failed
His heart wasn't beating,
This hulk of a man
Went a month without eating,
Then came respiratory failure
Pneumonia and P.E.,
A bowel busting ileus and
Hepatic encephalopathy,
Chills of unknown origin
Fevers of unknown disease,
Layers upon layers of treatment
In a setting of life threatening fees.

Who are we, to think we can predict
The survival of those likely to die,
No matter, the stack of their cards
As their caretakers, we have to try.

Fibril_late; 12/93