| OCR Text |
Show 257 chart for the past few weeks and will continue to add to the graphs as the night progresses and I pass from the overdose of an hour ago to the encroaching underdose. The various lines knit together and unravel across the pages, seemingly at random. Dr. Emerson is coming around the comer into the room. "How's it going?" he is asking. "Fine," I reply. What else could I say? I am breathing. He is looking over the nurse's shoulder at the graphs. "That's slick," he is saying. My nurse is pleased with the compliment but not cocky about it. Dr. Emerson is regarding me, rubbing his hands together. "Intubate...? Maybe tonight we'll intubate...?" he is saying, sing-song, peering into my eyes with a crooked smile. It is a running joke. A morbid running joke but a running joke, nevertheless. We both laugh at this humor. It started when I asked about the big blue tackle box that had taken up permanent |
