Spirit Blanket.

Eyes stare eagerly, anxiously, expectantly, tearfully, hopefully, woefully, angrily, frustratingly, unknowingly as I walk into the room.  Many are holding hands, some are praying, one is weeping within the embrace of two others, and a few are singing spirit songs in one voice, stirring thick waves from an unknown chasm of saints and angels and God, waves that penetrate and drop a thick, heavy blanket in the room.  The patient is dying.  He is young, he is fighting, but he is dying.  I wade through the stares, clear my voice, take my place in the center of the crowd, and present the likelihoods from the gathered evidence: at any moment this young man’s heart will stop beating.  Everyone remains still.  I wonder, do they see me as a blasphemer?  A heretic?  I continue on.  There is a giant clot that has traveled from his veins, through his heart, and into his lungs.  Treatment has failed, and he will die.  I cringe inside, allowing my words to form daggers to cut deeply into the spirit blanket.  I cringe inside, assuming the spirit blanket will fall at any moment, exposing the rawness and reality of the situation.  I finish and expect a violent reaction to the heresy.  Another moment of stillness.  And as though nothing happened at all, all continue holding hands.  All continue praying.  All continue singing spirit songs in one voice.  And unknowingly, I am swept away into that same, warm chasm.