Tag: death

My obituary

On By Tribal QueenIn Uncategorized

I always described myself as a “worst case scenario” kinda girl. It started as a nurse since seeing trauma every day takes its toll. Combined with regular mass shootings here in America, 9/11, my brother’s description of his own war experiences, I assume something bad will happen everywhere I go. An obese man walking down the street? The rules of CPR for outside a hospital run through my brain as I pass on the sidewalk. Hiking up a mountain? Would I be able to hike off with a broken hip that I’m going have when I fall? If an active shooter barged into my church, would I have an escape route? See the pattern? First responders, military, and health care providers are trained like athletes and musicians. Practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect. We run practice code blues in the hospital. I study constantly, updating myself on new procedures, research studies, and

Life is anything but certain.

In fact, life in its definition I would claim, is uncertainty. Any action we take, any choice made can alter, blow up, or end our lives. That does not mean we stop the actions. We don’t stop the choices and ball up. We live, damn it. We live every second of every day to the best of our ability. We experience life. We connect with others. We love. We allow ourselves to be loved.

I promise I’ll have regrets on my deathbed, but I hope and pray I’m living my life to minimize those regrets to the best of my ability. I want my obituary to read that I didn’t know everything, but I lived and loved the best I knew. And when I learned better, I did better, I lived and loved better.

Death is Ugly

On By Tribal QueenIn Uncategorized

Death is ugly. So many times, the word “peaceful” is used, but I’m here to assure you, that death is in fact, horrifically ugly. It’s painful. It smells. It’s visceral to each of our senses. Death is ugly. The spiritual side is horrific too. The Orthodox Church believes that your soul and your body separate at death, which is the unnatural part about living in the fallen world after Adam, Eve, and that shiny apple. That separation is painful too. It’s described as a ripping away, a wrenching apart.

So there’s nothing peaceful about death.

And the repair of death isn’t peaceful either. It couldn’t be. You can’t clean the floor without dirtying the mop, right? If my patient’s heart stops, I break ribs to restart it. I force air in their lungs. I put needles in their skin, catheters in their urethra, all while literally pounding and jumping on their chest. Have you seen a picture of a hospital room after a code? It makes those Saw movies look tame.

Western Easter is this weekend, and this year, Orthodox Palm Sunday as well. It’s when those celebrations of Christ’s resurrection fall on the same weekend or close to each other that I dwell a bit more. I never understood the celebration of Western Easter. It’s… pretty. I always thought that was the tom boy in me. I don’t do pretty very well. I enjoy baseball and hiking. Guess I’m good with dirt. But pretty? It’s never something I’ve been good at or enjoyed much. But as a nurse, I think I’ve come to a different understanding. Easter is a stark contrast with the Orthodox celebration, Pascha. Easter is pastels and candy. Pascha is red and gold and meat. As a nurse, that resonates a bit more with me. Christ died. He emptied Hades. He conquered death itself. Death is ugly, fixing death is ugly, but the conquering of death is viciously ugly. It’s the knocking down of Hades’ brass gates. It’s the smashing of chains. It’s the earth shaking. It’s the sun eclipsing. It’s loud. It’s raucous. It’s deafening. It’s unapologetic. It’s—powerful.

Every day I am faced with the power of death. I can only imagine the power of its conqueror.

Two Minute Increments

On By Tribal QueenIn Uncategorized1 Comment

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.