Dedicated to Alin, Age 14 – PICU Veteran, MRSA Warfighter
- My ship was not made of steel,
- But of linoleum and hope.
- I did not sail the open sea,
- I sailed a hallway that smelled of antiseptic.
- The air was thick with silence,
- And the enemy was inside me.
- They called it MRSA—
- A name with no face,
- But with power enough to anchor my breath.
- I lay not in a bunk,
- But in a hospital bed that creaked like a ship in storm.
- My armor was the thin gown.
- My IV line was the supply chain.
- Every beep from the monitor was a sonar ping.
- I was on watch, though my eyes barely opened.
- The nurses moved like angels,
- Administering munitions:
- Antibiotics.
- Fluids.
- Morphine when needed.
- Ice when the fire raged.
- I fought with every white cell I had.
- And when I could no longer fight,
- Spirit took the watch.
- The flesh fails, but the hand of god provides machine, ventilator until one heals.
- The Caduceus was my seal.
- Not of medicine—but of war.
- For I fought in the Halls of the Sick,
- And I lived.
- My scars are my medals.
- My silence is my memorial.
- My breath is the anthem of victory.
- I am not just a survivor.
- I am a decorated soul.
- And I now stand among the Sailors and Saints.
- For I too have sailed death’s corridor,
- And walked back with light in my hands.