I lost a patient today.

I didn’t even know his name, which seems like the first thing you should have when you’re trying to find someone.

In the hospital, we use trauma names. Tango, Tango. Last name comma first name. Which sounds like a fun night out in red heels that hurt my feet. Or Bravo, Bravo. Last name comma first name. Which sounds like we’re applauding something. But we’re not. You just didn’t have ID on your body when the cops or EMS found you.

I lost a patient today and I didn’t even know his name. He spoke to me in slurs when the ER nurse wheeled him up on the stretcher to my ICU. But it was all just slurs. His belly was distended, but not like the adorable beer gut on your favorite middle-aged uncle, more like when an alien’s about to bust out. His skin was orange and I didn’t need his lab results to tell me he was in full-blown liver failure. This was Mr. No ID Foxtrot, Foxtrot. He smiled at me when I made a joke. He started vomiting blood shortly after that.

There are two groups of people in this world, nurses and parents, who know the difference between vomit and projectile vomit. The first gets on your shirt, the second—hits the wall. This was the second kind. He passed out while I called for help and suctioned all the blood out of his mouth. Passed out is the nice way of saying he lost a pulse. Which is a nice way of saying his heart stopped. Which is a nice way of saying he died.

But have no fear, Mr. No ID Echo, Echo! I’m really great at breaking ribs. I’ll pump your heart for you! You laughed at my joke; it’s the least I could do.

Two minutes. Two minutes of CPR is worse than anything a former East German Olympic coach could throw at you in a HIIT cardio class.

I can’t remember the joke he laughed at. I remember his smile though. That’s how I keep doing the chest compressions even when the blood starts spurting on to my face and scrubs. Every compression. More blood. I remember his smile.

Epi. Intubate.

Epi. A bag a fluid and bicarb.

More epi. Bicarb.

Bicarb again.

We’re out of bicarb. Someone grabs another code car from another ICU. The room is trashed. A flood of people both in the room and outside the door. I want to scream at them. YOU DIDN’T SEE HIS LAUGH. YOU DON’T KNOW HIS NAME EITHER.

But two hours of two-minute increments later, the doctor tells us to stop. I yell, “FUCK” at the top of my lungs, throwing an unused syringe to the ground.

I didn’t know his name. He laughed at my joke and I didn’t even know his name.

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*The author is not writing about one particular patient. This is a representation of multiple combined experiences throughout her career as an OR, ICU, an ER nurse.