The Burnzo Diaries: June 2025

The following is a short story I wrote that recently won 1^st place in the “Walpole Writes” writing contest hosted by the Walpole Cultural Council. Everyone who has read this story has found it to be very relatable, so I thought I would post it here for more people to read.

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Visiting Mom in the ICU

By Matt Burns

You drive 30 minutes along a quiet and winding road. You try to put the radio on, but you can’t stand the music. Even your favorite song sounds so horrible to your ears. Instead, you drive in silence, save for the hum of the car on the road. You pray some more, but you can only pray so much. Over the past several days, you prayed to Holy Mary (via the Memorare), Saint Jude, Jesus and, of course, God the Father. Your praying sounds more like pleading now, maybe even whining. God has heard enough, you figure.

You pull into the parking lot and dread going into the hospital. You feel like a fish swimming upstream because you don’t want to go in, but you know you have to. In the hospital, you dread hitting the ‘up’ button for the elevator. You dread stepping off of the elevator onto the second floor. And you dread the ensuing walk down the corridors.

The first thing you hear are all the beeps from the bedside monitors. You then see glimpses of patients in johnnies. You don’t want to look at the patients directly—it wouldn’t be good hospital etiquette—but you know they are there.

After the first corridor, you take a left into another hallway and you now see the dreaded ICU unit, barricaded by a set of double doors that can only be opened once you hit a call button. The feeling of swimming upstream is even more intense now. You reluctantly trudge your way down the hallway, hit the call button and, after a moment, the doors open for you.

Once in the ICU, you again see peripheral glimpses of patients in johnnies—some look worse off than others—but you don’t look at them directly lest you violate their dignity. Three rooms down, ICU room #3, is the reason you have come to the hospital.

You immediately notice that she’s still on the ventilator, which was something you hoped miraculously wouldn’t be the case anymore. You’re more used to it now, though. The first time you saw her with the breathing tube, along with all the other wires going into her, you started shaking violently—you couldn’t help it—and then you burst into sobs and cries. But now you have become desensitized. During a time of extreme stress, the emotions eventually shut down and you become somewhat dissociated from reality. You often have to remind yourself that this is actually happening. But it all feels so surreal.

Today, they’re trying to drain excess fluid from her body with some diuretic drug. The problem is that this drug lowers blood pressure. Every time the blood pressure goes down, the bedside monitor starts beeping in a terrifying manner. Sometimes she also breathes “out of sync” with the ventilator and this sets off a terrifying beeping noise as well.

Every time there is a beep, the nurses come into the room, check her breathing and her heart, then adjust the blood pressure medicine accordingly. While this is happening, you stand in the corner, trying to stay out of the way, feeling and likely looking horrified.

Eventually, they find the proper dose of blood pressure medicine and the beeping stops. You’re able to sit in a chair by the bed and spend some alone time with her. Although she can’t speak with the tube in her mouth, she can supposedly hear what you’re saying. You want to say, “Oh my God, Mom, I can’t believe this is happening to you! You don’t deserve this! This is so unfair!” But you know that’s too heavy. You have to keep it light and simple. You tell her that so many people are praying for her. And that you love her. You also tell her that her “numbers” (i.e. vitals) are looking pretty good. “Hang in there, Mom. You got this.”

After a couple hours, you say goodbye and that you’ll see her again tomorrow. Then you leave the ICU and wander down the hospital corridors in a daze. You take a step back onto the elevator and this is when it hits you how emotionally exhausted you feel. You drive home, again in complete silence. You can’t shake the feeling of horror. The horror.

When you get home, the survivor’s guilt kicks in. You can breathe like a normal person, you can eat and drink like a normal person, you can go to the bathroom like a normal person, too. You do all these things with shame, knowing that she is back in the ICU, unable to do anything except lie there in a bed. A machine is breathing for her. A tube is feeding her. A catheter is going to the bathroom for her.

You try to watch a movie, a very light and funny one. You even find yourself laughing at the movie at a certain point, but then you immediately feel guilty. How could you laugh when she is in the ICU? You must be serious and sad at all times! You must mourn her misery at all times! You almost feel like laughing may somehow jinx the situation, like God will see that you’re not taking her health crisis seriously enough and He will punish you by putting her through even more misery. He wouldn’t do that, though. Would He? No, it’s an absurd thought, but, still, you’re walking on eggshells. You feel like taking a deep breath or relaxing for even a moment could somehow jinx her. It’s crazy, but it’s true.

You go to sleep, but you never enter a deep sleep. Your gut has a wrenched feeling in it. You know a phone call could come from the hospital at any time during the night, informing you that things are going south fast. You’re constantly fearing that the axe will make its final fall.

Then you get up the next morning and do it all again.

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MATT BURNS is the author of several novels, including Weird Monster, Supermarket Zombies! and Johnny Cruise. He’s also written numerous memoirs, including GARAGE MOVIE: My Adventures Making Weird Films, MY RAGING CASE OF BEASTIE FEVER, JUNGLE F’NG FEVER: MY 30-YEAR LOVE AFFAIR W/ GUNS N’ ROSES and I TURNED INTO A MISFIT! Check out these books (and many more) on his Amazon author page HERE.