The Patient in Bed 9 Had Been Dead Since My Rounds Began

It was a calm night on the ward, the kind you're grateful for. I did my rounds, checked my patients, and among them was the gentle old man in bed 9 — awake when I passed in the small hours, and inclined to talk, the way some patients are at 3 a.m. when the loneliness of hospital nights peaks. I stopped and chatted with him a few times through the shift, brief kind exchanges, the small mercies of night nursing. He talked about his garden, his late wife, a dog he'd had as a boy. He was easy company. He thanked me, each time, for stopping. I told him to press his buzzer if he needed anything, and moved on, and came back once or twice, because he was sweet and the ward was quiet.

At the 6 a.m. handover, going through the beds with the day staff and the night charge nurse, I got to bed 9 and said something about the nice gentleman there having had a restful night, and the room changed temperature.

Bed 9's patient had died. Before my shift began. In the early evening, hours before I came on, he had passed, and his body had been moved to the mortuary around midnight, and bed 9 had been empty — stripped, waiting for cleaning, unoccupied — for the entire duration of my shift. There was no one in bed 9. There had been no one in bed 9 since before I clocked in. The night charge nurse had the record, the times, the whole clear administrative certainty of it: dead in the evening, moved at midnight, bed empty all night.