Will you take the newborn's cries, the toddler giggling through tears? All the curses thrown through whiskeyed breath, the blood spots on your clothes? The coffee breaks you never took, the end-of-shift reports? The egos and the maniacs, the stat requests, the orders left, the monitors going off across the room?

Will you take the husband's gesture, reaching for her hand, when he's told that after loving her 47 years, his wife will never recognize him, nor remember their children's names?

And what about the toddler with the iron branded on his back, its blistered rows of steam holes weeping through the gauze? Will you take his screams of "Mama" when the police remove her from the room?

You must take that first Code Red, the run through the halls, people stepping back to press against the walls. The crack of ribs, the litany of atropine and epi, the lungs pushing against the Ambu bag, the heart leaping against your hands.

And the woman with the flawless face; you can't leave her behind. The way she applied her makeup, perfectly, only hours after surgery that took both her breasts.

Don't forget the nine-month-old with yellow skin, waiting for the liver. Or how beautiful snow is when seen from windows of the ICU on Christmas Eve.

Will you take the words you found, that first day on the floor, when the docpronounced-There's nothing more to do-then promptly left the room.

Take one last look now back down the hall. Your shift is done and others wait to take report.