Thursday, July 29, 2004
Hanging by a thread...
aka The Worst Shift of my Life.
I stood over the kid listening to his heart sounds. Or rather, to the absence of heart sounds, for sixty seconds, and wrote :
o (that's medspeak for "no". don't ask me why) heart sounds 60s
o breath sounds 60s
o pulse 60s
o response to pain
pupils bilaterally fixed and dilated
as the nurses fussed about, trying to disguise the ?belt mark around his neck before the family came in to visit.
I was relatively dispassionate about it. I've seen it all before now, several times, in fact.
okay, I wasn't that dispassionate, a few seconds before, as I slammed home the brown venflon and my staff grade called it almost within seconds of his arrival in hospital. I felt slightly disappointed, but what exactly at I wasn't sure. Not that we hadn't even tried much in the way of resuscitation - this kid was dead on arrival. You get a feel for things like this, and you just know when they come through the door. And his downtime of 30 min in asystole made him a no-hoper.
Still, I felt disappointed, looking at his youth, gradually draining from the beautiful corpse that he left behind. What a waste of life.
I discreetly wandered out the cubicle to the empty one next door, crossed myself and said a few short words to myself, and hopefully, God as well. Then walked out with my head down, back onto the battlefield.
*****
That wasn't the bad part. Like I said, I've done it all before.
The bad part was when a nurse suddenly called me for help - "his father's just arrived, and he's a little distraught". (oh, and he might have a learning disability too)
I scurried after her to the relatives room.
A little distraught didn't begin to describe the wreck in front of me. He was a big man, and moving powerfully with the inner demons tormenting him tonight. The policemen either side of him were having trouble constraining him as he shouted that he wanted to Know.
As he saw me, he lost it a little more, and asked what I had come to tell him, over and over again.
I paused, and then I knelt down before him in silence.
He ranted - had I come to tell him that it wasn't hanging, but drugs? That's what I'd come to tell him wasn't it, that's why there were police everywhere (and there were. I'd only barely taken it in, in my haste to get to the rellie's room (damn I sound so australian sometimes) but yes, I had waded through a sea of black and white milling around outside the door to get here...
... kneeling on the ground in front of this big man goggling at the eyes, with his neck veins standing out, straining at the gently restraining arms of the policemen on his shoulders.
I wondered if I could duck in time if he lashed out at me, and then I put all thoughts from my mind, and started speaking.
I got as far as the word "hung" when he leapt out of his chair, without actually leaving his seat. It's something I've only seen on television before, and I can attest that it is frightening in real life.
It all felt rather surreal. There's something remarkably moving, and also very scary about a man saying the same word over, and over, and over again.
As he unfolded before us, words of grief, guilt, anger and bitterness spilling from his mouth, and his utter shock that he wasn't crying ("no tears! I must be mad!") I couldn't help but feel that he was anything but. This man, as he shouted and heaved in his chair wasn't spilling his guts to us. He was bleeding words from his soul, in a torrent. He was verbally exsanguinating before my eyes, and all I could do was hold his knuckles, or put a hand on his knee in sympathy (his shoulders were still being gently and carefully held down by the policemen flanking him either side).
He wanted me to tell him why, to give him a reason and some meaning to this tragedy, and I heard someone say, several times, through numbed lips "I'm sorry, I haven't got the answer to that question for you."
I tried gently probing to see if he was religious... Laughs... remind me never to do that again. Ever.
He was so broken, this ranting, burning hulk of a man, and for a strange moment I wanted to hold him. I didn't of course, it would have been inappropriate in any circumstance, even had I been female, and he might have become violent again.
*****
There's just so much more i want to say, right this very instant. I'm burning inside to write everything that's tumbling through my head, but barely four hours of sleep later, I have to get back to work (thank you, rota lady) and so I'll continue this later.
It's been six hours since I knocked off shift, and I'm still feeling sad.
I guess this is what they call "transferrence".
Why I do this job? I don't know. It's just a job, but not quite like any other.
But in an odd way, for all this - it's an honour, and a priviledge. And all the celebrity or wealth in the world would not begin to compare.
I stood over the kid listening to his heart sounds. Or rather, to the absence of heart sounds, for sixty seconds, and wrote :
o (that's medspeak for "no". don't ask me why) heart sounds 60s
o breath sounds 60s
o pulse 60s
o response to pain
pupils bilaterally fixed and dilated
as the nurses fussed about, trying to disguise the ?belt mark around his neck before the family came in to visit.
I was relatively dispassionate about it. I've seen it all before now, several times, in fact.
okay, I wasn't that dispassionate, a few seconds before, as I slammed home the brown venflon and my staff grade called it almost within seconds of his arrival in hospital. I felt slightly disappointed, but what exactly at I wasn't sure. Not that we hadn't even tried much in the way of resuscitation - this kid was dead on arrival. You get a feel for things like this, and you just know when they come through the door. And his downtime of 30 min in asystole made him a no-hoper.
Still, I felt disappointed, looking at his youth, gradually draining from the beautiful corpse that he left behind. What a waste of life.
I discreetly wandered out the cubicle to the empty one next door, crossed myself and said a few short words to myself, and hopefully, God as well. Then walked out with my head down, back onto the battlefield.
*****
That wasn't the bad part. Like I said, I've done it all before.
The bad part was when a nurse suddenly called me for help - "his father's just arrived, and he's a little distraught". (oh, and he might have a learning disability too)
I scurried after her to the relatives room.
A little distraught didn't begin to describe the wreck in front of me. He was a big man, and moving powerfully with the inner demons tormenting him tonight. The policemen either side of him were having trouble constraining him as he shouted that he wanted to Know.
As he saw me, he lost it a little more, and asked what I had come to tell him, over and over again.
I paused, and then I knelt down before him in silence.
He ranted - had I come to tell him that it wasn't hanging, but drugs? That's what I'd come to tell him wasn't it, that's why there were police everywhere (and there were. I'd only barely taken it in, in my haste to get to the rellie's room (damn I sound so australian sometimes) but yes, I had waded through a sea of black and white milling around outside the door to get here...
... kneeling on the ground in front of this big man goggling at the eyes, with his neck veins standing out, straining at the gently restraining arms of the policemen on his shoulders.
I wondered if I could duck in time if he lashed out at me, and then I put all thoughts from my mind, and started speaking.
I got as far as the word "hung" when he leapt out of his chair, without actually leaving his seat. It's something I've only seen on television before, and I can attest that it is frightening in real life.
It all felt rather surreal. There's something remarkably moving, and also very scary about a man saying the same word over, and over, and over again.
As he unfolded before us, words of grief, guilt, anger and bitterness spilling from his mouth, and his utter shock that he wasn't crying ("no tears! I must be mad!") I couldn't help but feel that he was anything but. This man, as he shouted and heaved in his chair wasn't spilling his guts to us. He was bleeding words from his soul, in a torrent. He was verbally exsanguinating before my eyes, and all I could do was hold his knuckles, or put a hand on his knee in sympathy (his shoulders were still being gently and carefully held down by the policemen flanking him either side).
He wanted me to tell him why, to give him a reason and some meaning to this tragedy, and I heard someone say, several times, through numbed lips "I'm sorry, I haven't got the answer to that question for you."
I tried gently probing to see if he was religious... Laughs... remind me never to do that again. Ever.
He was so broken, this ranting, burning hulk of a man, and for a strange moment I wanted to hold him. I didn't of course, it would have been inappropriate in any circumstance, even had I been female, and he might have become violent again.
*****
There's just so much more i want to say, right this very instant. I'm burning inside to write everything that's tumbling through my head, but barely four hours of sleep later, I have to get back to work (thank you, rota lady) and so I'll continue this later.
It's been six hours since I knocked off shift, and I'm still feeling sad.
I guess this is what they call "transferrence".
Why I do this job? I don't know. It's just a job, but not quite like any other.
But in an odd way, for all this - it's an honour, and a priviledge. And all the celebrity or wealth in the world would not begin to compare.
