A story I need to get off my chest
I'm not a fan of Tumblr. Part of me absolutely hates it, however, right now I feel it may be the only appropriate medium of getting this story off my chest. It hasn't been consuming me emotionally or preventing me from sleeping, it's just a sign that perhaps I'm becoming hardened and cynical. Maybe I'm so used to shutting off my emotions that sentimentality just bounces off me.
As you may or may not know, I work as a Patient Care Technician in a local Emergency Room. Basically, I spend a lot of time with patients -- from running basic tests, drawing blood, cleaning up patients, and providing support. You could consider me part of the team that helps a person get better.
I work almost exclusively 12 hour shifts. They are long, but the ER tends to be pretty bustling. It has a very in-and-out nature (due to the limited number of beds, we try to treat people and either send them on their way or bring them up to the floor for a longer stay) which renders the environment fast-paced. This leaves little time to get emotionally involved with people.
My shift on this particular day, started out fairly normally. The ER wasn't too crowded, but it wasn't unpopulated enough that I could sit on my ass. A patient arrived via ambulance in the zone I was assigned. He was a nice Spanish gentleman that spoke only a few words of English. His daughter was with him who could translate for him.
The man apparently fell (and I must keep details minimal, as confidentiality is a big issue) and his daughter got a call that he was going to the hospital. I introduced myself, and I even spoke a few lines of Spanish with him (I took Spanish throughout high school). He seemed perfectly fine, with the exception of a couple of gashes and a complaint of pain. His daughter was equally friendly, and proved to be an excellent bridge between the language barrier of his healthcare providers.
After returning from a cat scan, the man seemed to be less lucid than before. As I continued to visit his room, he became less talkative and eventually less responsive. The doctor came in and feared that he was starting to slip. It appeared that the man would soon have difficulty breathing on his own. The doctor informed the nurse, myself and his daughter that he would need to intubate him.
This news understandably shocked and distressed his daughter. She began to sob hysterically and appeared to be having a mild panic attack. The doctor requested that she leave the room and return to the waiting room. I offered to walk with her. Once we got to the waiting room, I sat her down and told her to try not to worry.
I planned to return to the ER and to the patient's room, to see if my help was needed. I planned to give this woman a meager smile and a meaningful pat before exiting the waiting room. Except that didn't happen. I sat down next to her and put my arm over her shoulder. Her sobs didn't go away, instead they intensified. She began wailing to a degree I had never heard before. In a panic she opened her phone and called her brother.
"Papa isn't going to make it!" She screamed the phrase over and over again. The secretary at the desk was now looking as well as the security hanging around the area. I didn't flinch. I kept staring at this woman with my arm still warmly around her shoulder. I stopped thinking and just let the words ooze out of me.
"You need to stay strong right now," I told her. "We are doing everything we can for your father. What I need you to do is to hold your head high and try to be strong woman he needs."
"I can't!" She cried to me. "I'm not the strong one."
"You are strong. I know it," I said. "The doctors are going to do everything they can for your father. All we can do is hope for the best."
The woman let out the meekest of meek smiles to me, her eyes still stained by the transparent tears of sorrow. I told her that I would go back into the ER to see how her father was doing and I would continue to keep her updated.
I walked back into the ER, leaving the woman by herself, alone to contemplate her father's inevitable death. While every known emotion was simltaneously erupting from her body, I felt nothing. I didn't feel a twinge of sadness. Sure, I felt bad for this woman, perhaps a little remorseful, but at the same time I was completely unphased by the experience I just had.
The scene of her father's room at this point had morphed into a highly organized disaster. Doctors, PAs and nurses were littered throughout the room. They were pushing tubes and medicine into this man in such a calmly chaotic manner that it was almost unnerving.
A couple other PCTs stood there watching, and waiting to see if they doctors or nurses needed anything. I told my co-worker that his daughter was sitting outside in the waiting room and that we should eventually go back and see how she was doing.
Then, it suddenly hit me. I didn't even know this woman's name. I had spent all this time talking to her, trying to calm her down and I never even bother to figure out the most basic personal information.
As emergency care continued to be provided, more and more family arrived. We only allowed several people in at once (at this point there were only a few doctors or nurses in the room, most of the hard work had already been completed) but each group of family members took their time to grieve and wallow in pain. I just sat there and watched it all unfold.
Whether the man ended up dying, I never found out. He got transferred to the ICU and at that point he was still alive. I'm sure he didn't survive for much longer.
While this story is somewhat long, I wanted to put it into writing because it was one of my first experience with the actual coping of death and loss. I've had my fair share of loss myself, but never had I been required to be on the other side of it. To care for others dealing with these sentiments. It was a jarring experience that came surprisingly easy to me.
So it made me wonder: Why did this situation completely unphase me. Why was I not crying with this woman in the waiting room? I didn't even shed a tear.
Perhaps it's because I've become so hardened and jaded by the short life I've already lived. I'm not really sure. I guess. Even though I stayed emotionally strong, I'll never forget this woman's face, the sound of her anguish or the memory of the moment when she realized her father wouldn't be coming home for Thanksgiving.
Be thankful for life. That's all I can say really. It can go so fast.
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