The double door of the ward swings open. In comes the guy in the green overalls, pushing a 6 feet long cart in front of him. On top of the cart lies a scaffold that was shaped like a house, covered by a green canvas. In fact, it is a house for the dead.
The guy strides across the linoleum with brisk purposeful steps, pairs of curious eyes followed his every move, necks craned to see where he will stop. Once he reaches his destination, he takes up a piece of white linen, swiftly and efficiently wraps the now lifeless body from head to toe, and transfers it into his cart. Then off he goes to where he came from. Just a chore he needs to do daily. The frequency may change, but the job is the same.
People die in the hospital wards all the time. When they do, the ones they left behind weep. Some wail. Some silent with shock. Some stand passively like a stone. People do react to death differently.
Death is a norm in a big hospital. It is normal to to find out that someone whom I had spoken to a few days ago were now a piece of lifeless flesh and bones. Someone who was happily telling me that he will go home soon really did go home, just that it is in a coffin.
It is hard not to be affected by death; but then after so many deaths, somehow I became desensitised. When people die, no emotion flows through me. No tinge of sadness. No guilt of what could’ve I done better to save him. I feel nothing.
I am fast becoming like the man pushing the cart, viewing death as just a part of the job. I am scared I am fast losing my heart, fast becoming a cold and soulless person, but I can’t help it…