There is something surreal about the pronouncement process; how to reconcile the austerity of the hospital environs with the silent sense of tragedy. You wonder if those rehearsed words from your lips mean anything to the grieving family, or if they would remember your being there at all.

The motions seem almost absurd. Putting the stethoscope to his chest to hear only the friction between the bell and his hospital gown, feeling the pulse at the wrist only to feel the warmth ebb from his body, shining the light into his eyes to see the pupils unyielding. And above all, the distinct look of death. The gaunt, yellow, sunken look that sets in only minutes after death. I remember sealing his eyes shut with my gloved hands, grateful that they remained closed, and squeezing his hand one last time, goodbye.