The first time I watched someone die was during my "mock solo" shift at the hospital. I am currently working as a Medical Scribe in the ER, and after several training shifts, we are observed by a trainer for an entire shift and scored at the end of it. It was the first time I had to assume responsibility on my own, so naturally there were nerves. Luckily, that shift was with one of my favorite physicians there, so that part made it a little less nerve-wracking.
I knew the shift was going to be a rough one the minute I arrived. The waiting room was packed, all the rooms were swamped with patients, and the physician I was working with was trying his best to take on as many cases as he could even though he had just arrived. My trainer said that day, "I feel bad scoring you for today because of how crazy it is." I took a deep breath and told myself, "Allah knows what He is putting you through. It will be fine in the end." I put all my trust in that.
About halfway through my shift, a "Code Blue" was calling, meaning a patient that was coming in had gone into cardiac arrest. I had never seen a code before, so the adrenaline set in and I immediately became too busy trying to document what the physician, paramedics, and nurses were saying so I could put it in the chart. When the patient was brought in, compressions had already been started. The physician began ordering epi and checking the patient's pulse every few minutes. I was scrambling to write on my clipboard when the physician called time of death. I wrote the time down, and that was when the loudness and the noise and the sound of the compressor dissipated.
There was the sound of the ripping of gloves, the cover of the garbage bin slamming down, the removal of the blood pressure cuff, the moving of machines around the room and away from the now deceased person. I say person and not patient because while work is being done, it is easier to think of this person as "another patient," another task. Once that task is over, there is no more patient. There is a person, a rushing of memories, thoughts, and experiences. A member of a family tree. A mother. A daughter. A whole person whose heart just stopped beating.
The physician went to speak to the family, and luckily I am not required to follow. I made my way back to my desk, and it felt as though everything moved in slow motion. I opened her chart as I did any other patient's chart and began documenting, but everything seemed muffled and slow. My trainer seemed to notice this and began describing the first code she saw.
"It's okay to be affected by it. I was. But don't let it stop you from going on and doing your best job with the next patient."
I nodded, took a deep breath, and repeated to myself, "Allah knows what He is putting you through. It will be fine in the end."
But then the family came. I could hear their crying. The patient had been at a family party. She had been fine. Until she collapsed and collapsed her family's life with it.
The physician came back to his desk near mine, but before he sat down, he came by me and asked, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes I'm fine." I responded way too quickly. "Are you okay?"
He sighed and looked away before looking back at me. "Moments like these are not the best, but they are part of my job. I never look forward to telling families that news. But it makes me think of a higher plan, of a higher power, and each time I see someone pass away, I pray that they have some kind of belief. Each time this happens, I reaffirm my faith in God. I know this was your first time seeing this, so I hope that if you believe in God that you find yourself leaning toward trusting Him in these moments."
I was silent, mainly because not many physicians had openly expressed their belief in God. But perhaps moments like these put in these positions, where we needed to trust someone better to feel better. I asked him if I could take a moment and I went to the restroom where I wondered why I wasn't feeling anything. I felt numb and weird, and I tried to tell myself that someone died. When I thought of the family, I felt sick to my stomach. I thought of my own family, and I felt worse. I just wanted to feel, and maybe now wasn't the best time to think of it all, I thought to myself. I still had a mock solo to finish.
I finished my shift (and passed- this was 3 months ago) and when I got to my car after my shift, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. I pulled my phone out to see if I had any messages, and low and behold, in my email sat an interview invite to a medical school on the top of my list of schools I'd like to go to.
Allah knows what He is putting you through. It will be fine in the end.
I broke down shamelessly in my car. You can take this moment in whatever way you can, I'd be really interested in hearing what you think, but for me, I felt as though I had to earn my way to this moment. I had to struggle and come out stronger to receive a message like this, reaffirming to me that THIS was where I was meant to be. I made it through a hard shift, a shift that represented the more challenging parts of the medical field than the positive ones we cling on to, but I made it through. I believed Allah rewarded me for that. And it was all worth it.
Two days ago, I watched my second patient code. I watched as her feet turned blue and her fingertips grew more and more purple. I left the room as soon as I saw family coming in, emotional and broken by the news. And I let myself feel it when it settled in. But I did my job, I reminded myself why I am still here and why this job is important, and kept going. The physician I was working with said it took him over a year of training to finally become somewhat accustomed to moments like these, but he said speaking to the families never gets easier.
I silently prayed for one thing that night: to be loved and surrounded by family like these two patients were.
I chose medicine for my love of storytelling. I choose it again every day when I hear a new story, or I watch a physician became involved in another person's life whether in a positive and life-saving way, or by being the person to give someone the worst news of their life. Allah knows what He is putting us through by challenging us in these ways, and I choose medicine all over again when I am reminded of how He is making us stronger by the affect that the lives of others have on us in this job. Even while someone is taking their last breath, we are writing the final lines in their story, and the best are those who are loved and surrounded by love. For this love, I choose medicine over and over again.
I knew the shift was going to be a rough one the minute I arrived. The waiting room was packed, all the rooms were swamped with patients, and the physician I was working with was trying his best to take on as many cases as he could even though he had just arrived. My trainer said that day, "I feel bad scoring you for today because of how crazy it is." I took a deep breath and told myself, "Allah knows what He is putting you through. It will be fine in the end." I put all my trust in that.
About halfway through my shift, a "Code Blue" was calling, meaning a patient that was coming in had gone into cardiac arrest. I had never seen a code before, so the adrenaline set in and I immediately became too busy trying to document what the physician, paramedics, and nurses were saying so I could put it in the chart. When the patient was brought in, compressions had already been started. The physician began ordering epi and checking the patient's pulse every few minutes. I was scrambling to write on my clipboard when the physician called time of death. I wrote the time down, and that was when the loudness and the noise and the sound of the compressor dissipated.
There was the sound of the ripping of gloves, the cover of the garbage bin slamming down, the removal of the blood pressure cuff, the moving of machines around the room and away from the now deceased person. I say person and not patient because while work is being done, it is easier to think of this person as "another patient," another task. Once that task is over, there is no more patient. There is a person, a rushing of memories, thoughts, and experiences. A member of a family tree. A mother. A daughter. A whole person whose heart just stopped beating.
The physician went to speak to the family, and luckily I am not required to follow. I made my way back to my desk, and it felt as though everything moved in slow motion. I opened her chart as I did any other patient's chart and began documenting, but everything seemed muffled and slow. My trainer seemed to notice this and began describing the first code she saw.
"It's okay to be affected by it. I was. But don't let it stop you from going on and doing your best job with the next patient."
I nodded, took a deep breath, and repeated to myself, "Allah knows what He is putting you through. It will be fine in the end."
But then the family came. I could hear their crying. The patient had been at a family party. She had been fine. Until she collapsed and collapsed her family's life with it.
The physician came back to his desk near mine, but before he sat down, he came by me and asked, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes I'm fine." I responded way too quickly. "Are you okay?"
He sighed and looked away before looking back at me. "Moments like these are not the best, but they are part of my job. I never look forward to telling families that news. But it makes me think of a higher plan, of a higher power, and each time I see someone pass away, I pray that they have some kind of belief. Each time this happens, I reaffirm my faith in God. I know this was your first time seeing this, so I hope that if you believe in God that you find yourself leaning toward trusting Him in these moments."
I was silent, mainly because not many physicians had openly expressed their belief in God. But perhaps moments like these put in these positions, where we needed to trust someone better to feel better. I asked him if I could take a moment and I went to the restroom where I wondered why I wasn't feeling anything. I felt numb and weird, and I tried to tell myself that someone died. When I thought of the family, I felt sick to my stomach. I thought of my own family, and I felt worse. I just wanted to feel, and maybe now wasn't the best time to think of it all, I thought to myself. I still had a mock solo to finish.
I finished my shift (and passed- this was 3 months ago) and when I got to my car after my shift, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. I pulled my phone out to see if I had any messages, and low and behold, in my email sat an interview invite to a medical school on the top of my list of schools I'd like to go to.
Allah knows what He is putting you through. It will be fine in the end.
I broke down shamelessly in my car. You can take this moment in whatever way you can, I'd be really interested in hearing what you think, but for me, I felt as though I had to earn my way to this moment. I had to struggle and come out stronger to receive a message like this, reaffirming to me that THIS was where I was meant to be. I made it through a hard shift, a shift that represented the more challenging parts of the medical field than the positive ones we cling on to, but I made it through. I believed Allah rewarded me for that. And it was all worth it.
Two days ago, I watched my second patient code. I watched as her feet turned blue and her fingertips grew more and more purple. I left the room as soon as I saw family coming in, emotional and broken by the news. And I let myself feel it when it settled in. But I did my job, I reminded myself why I am still here and why this job is important, and kept going. The physician I was working with said it took him over a year of training to finally become somewhat accustomed to moments like these, but he said speaking to the families never gets easier.
I silently prayed for one thing that night: to be loved and surrounded by family like these two patients were.
I chose medicine for my love of storytelling. I choose it again every day when I hear a new story, or I watch a physician became involved in another person's life whether in a positive and life-saving way, or by being the person to give someone the worst news of their life. Allah knows what He is putting us through by challenging us in these ways, and I choose medicine all over again when I am reminded of how He is making us stronger by the affect that the lives of others have on us in this job. Even while someone is taking their last breath, we are writing the final lines in their story, and the best are those who are loved and surrounded by love. For this love, I choose medicine over and over again.
Comments
Post a Comment