Her Girlfriend Never Tells Her How Her Day Went. I Wouldn't Either If This Was How My Days Ended.

Adam Mordecai

My mom was an ER nurse. She used to work in a place called the "knife and gun club." She has not told us many stories about those days. Lauren Zuniga's girlfriend is a trauma ICU nurse. She, too, doesn't like to share many stories. If you have any friends or loved ones in that field, give them a high-five from me.

At 2:45, she sort of rips my guts out and stitches them back in.

If you have a nurse in your life, you could share this and thank him/her from me. I'd owe ya one. And if you like what you saw here, you could also Like Lauren Zuniga on Facebook.

[Intro] My girlfriend and I have this argument about who has the harder job. Because she comes to my shows and she's like "I don't know how you get up there and say all those things to people you don't know." And I'm like "I don't know how you save lives." She's a trauma ICU nurse and I'm like "uhhhhh that seems hard." So this poem is dedicated to her. (I hope I have it memorized.)

[poem]

The black holes are resorting to violence again.

Swallowing stars by the fist full, like some bully on the playground tossing back skittles shaken from the pockets of the puniest galaxies.

You only read the news, if it is news about space.

Tuesdays are our Sundays because we don't have regular people jobs.

We are curled up in our chair scrolling through the latest space report when you tell me, They gobble up everything.

Everything exists inside Black holes. I wonder if that's where you keep your feelings. In the throat of a black hole.

The first time you watched someone die you said it was the sound that ripped through you, a long slow tear in the fabric of space, the patients breath swallowed whole, the room shrinking to one steady flat tone. The pain of life giving up on a body is just a faint door creaking inside death’s loud waiting room.

When you tell me you are getting a Room 30 patient, I don't really know what that means but I know you will need a drink when you get home.

When you get home, I tell you all about my day, I go on and on about the poem I couldn't write, the emails, the never ending discussion on Facebook, your eyes are distant meteors and I say I'm so sorry, tell me about your day?

No, no. I just want to listen to you talk. You lightly drum on the veins in my wrist to feel for their plump salute. Their bright going on.

When I get mad at you for not telling me how you feel, I have to remember what it requires To do compressions until your arms go numb, tuck the brain back in the skull. Keep the lungs going when the liver fails. Tell the family it's time to withdraw care.

Hold the hand of the woman who can't feel her hand anymore, whose family stopped coming because it was just too painful.

The police officer crushed in a high speed chase.

The three year old boy who pull the TV down on top of himself.

What if I made a mistake? I can’t make a mistake.

It's just a job, I'm just doing my job, we can't save everyone. Most people don't know how lucky they are to get to have a goal bigger than lifting a spoon or breathing on your own. Most people complain like the Universe owes them something grander than the 34 billion cells in their miraculous body.

Most people will never know what it's like to get the text that says female, 25, full arrest to hear the name of your friend, the one texted you to see if you wanted to get a drink but you said no because with her it is never just one drink, most people will not know what it is like to call the time of death on a friend.

Somewhere in this universe there is a black hole, shining like a roadside dive bar, where she is still sitting there, you don't have to hold her mother saying we did everything we could do, you don't lay in bed at night wondering if you did everything you could do.

You are throwing darts at Jupiter.

Dark matter is a slow song we can away to, I’m holding you saying, It's okay, baby, it's okay, Everything exists here.

There may be small errors in this transcript.

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