This poem describes the author's experience performing her first brain death examination as a neurology resident. The author hopes this work may prompt readers to reflect on similar experiences. Physicians frequently deal with heavy diagnoses and grave situations. Introspection may inspire empathy and kindness to improve how one provides care for patients and interacts with families.

My light meets your eyes

and I stare. Please, please.

Your pupils—wide and dark.

What was the last thing

you saw? His little hair

as blond as yours?

The threads unraveling

from her wrist splint?

Two, three. Gone.

Eyelids held open, I sway

your head left to right,

left to right.

Your eyes are unfazed.

Did they trace him

crawling

before the morning

you woke up cold?

Three, four, six. Gone.

My string of cotton,

wilted and apologetic,

strokes your corneas.

Not the slightest flicker.

When did you last feel

her kiss on your forehead?

Did you get to smile one

more time as you dreamt?

Five, seven. Gone.

Water charges into your ears.

Cold, wet.

There's no give in your eyes.

What was the last sound

you heard?

His crying in the quiet night?

Not her painful weeping,

I hope.

Eight. Gone.

My tongue depressor

brushes your pharynx.

Please gag. You don't.

The vacuum through

your tube is violent.

Just a little cough. Nothing.

Did she have time to memorize

the sound of your voice?

Nine, ten. Gone.

My hammer leaves

your nails pale.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

In your stillness,

I wade through the viscous

space towards her.

I don't need an interpreter

to understand

she is lost.

Ready or not,

you are gone.

Where did you go?

Where will your wife

and little boy find you?

The author reports no targeted funding.

S.K. Park reports no disclosures. Go to Neurology.org/N for full disclosures.

The author thanks Dr. Aileen Antonio and Dr. Byoungchul Kim for their literary support.

Submitted and externally peer reviewed. The handling editor was Resident and Fellow Deputy Editor Ariel Lyons-Warren, MD, PhD.