D’Arvit!

It’s 01:01 in the morning. I am tired, exhausted, my hyperactive bowel sounds are acting up [I'm the the recovery phase of an awful diarrhea--lost 6 lbs in a span of 24 hours!], and I still have the Health Department rotation to go to tomorrow morning, but I just would not allow myself to sleep without blogging this. I want to remember exactly how it is, how I felt, what I thought–so that when I get stressed, burned-out, numbed, and jaded in the near future, I shall look back at this post and just know what it’s like all over again. I haven’t blogged in ages, and I am doing so right now because I want to remember. I want to remember how it felt to be truly human.

* * * * *

I came to the rotation feeling weak. I was recovering from profuse diarrhea that I have developed over the weekend. I just came from the UNC Hospital in Chapel Hill with my class. We dealt with burn victims and stayed there since Thursday night. I must’ve eaten something rotten along the way. That, or my GI tract got irritated somehow.

So anyway, today, I was assigned to be at the Pediatric Emergency Department. My preceptor gave me an opportunity to be part of a resuscitation team working with a 1 month-old cardiac arrest baby who just came in. I didn’t hear the specifics at that time since I was tasked with doing compressions on the infant’s chest [compressions as in pushing down on the chest during CPR]. The doctor wanted me to go faster and the respiratory therapist showed me how but pretty much took over after I let go. At this point, the adrenaline in my body really kicked in: I forgot about my diarrhea, or weakness. I was ready to get this baby up and about. Cardiac arrest? That is sooo cool. It’s so awesome that they’re allowing me to be doing this!

When I had nothing to do at the scene, my preceptor ordered me to insert a nasogastric tube [NG tube] down the infant. I have never put down an NG tube on a real person ever before, much less on a 1 month-old baby, but hey, this was the ER, and they want it done right now, so off I went, pushing that small tube down that baby’s nose. It was difficult to do and I couldn’t put it in–I met resistance–so I told the nurses around me that I was having trouble with it. One of them took over, met resistance as well, and eventually was instructed by the doctor to forget about that NG tube.

Things happened so quickly and there were a LOT of people all cramped into that tiny room. Some were other physicians who were merely observing, others the nurses, paramedics, and the actual resuscitation team. Monitors were attached, epinephrine was stuck onto the thighs, the physician was calmly barking out orders, the respiratory therapist was doing the compressions, the nurses were all over the place–at the midst of all this, I intently watched the infant, seemingly lifeless one second, seemingly animated the next. I prayed for it to survive. In fact, I was positive that it would survive. Cardiac arrest? Psh. Just strap on the defibrillators and you’re good to go.

However, in what I would describe as an Emergency Department version of a blitzkrieg gone awry, the people just stopped, took off their gloves, and left the room.

You will hate me for this analogy, but it just felt like that episode on Grey’s Anatomy where the donor organ harvest team quickly went into the room, and, in David’s words, “sliced and diced” the deceased patient, harvested the organs, and left. I forgot which character was left in the room, but when everybody else left, it hit her: this patient is human, this patient is dead, and what the hell happened? She just wept. That’s exactly how I felt, and that is exactly what I did.

The monitors were behind me and I have not looked at them during the whole code, and this time, I had the opportunity to do so. I looked behind me, and my heart sank: 0 heart rate, a flatline, and 6 respirations.

The baby’s dead.

In a part-idiot, part-panicked attempt to know what and why and because, I held the baby’s hand in my gloved finger. Cold. I squeezed its arm. Cold. My hands and feet are usually really cold, but this kind of cold flesh is something I have never felt before.

It was Death. It was Demise. It was that baby, dead.

Then it just hit me. I remember the physician [bless his heart, he was amazing], turn to me and started explaining what had happened. Tears started forming in my eyes. I had drowned out his words. It was just all too overwhelming, I couldn’t take it.

I wept.

I wept for that baby.

I wept for that baby’s parents.

I wept for my naïveté.

I somehow ended up being led into the staff break room, crying.

I never had anyone die on me like that: not even a pet. My heart was broken; it still is, and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again, ever.