Milestones
Saturday was the day I took my MCAT. I can't really say yet how I did. It was tough. I just have to wait to find out.
Saturday also marked four years at OHSU. I can't believe it's been so long already.
This morning I went in on the early shift, at 4:30 am. About 6:15 I went into a patient room. She was young, about 26, fast asleep. I called her name, but she didn't respond. I shook her shoulder, tapped her arm, nothing. I touched her face. It was cool to the touch. I went back out.
I asked the nurse if this patient was usually responsive, and she said yes and followed me back in. She took one look at her, felt for a pulse, said "oh God" and slapped the code button. Within seconds the room was full of people. I stood outside as the team was paged, doctors ran in from their rounds nearby, rapid response reached the spot in about a minute. They intubated her, performed chest compressions for about 10 minutes, hung fluids, called for atropine. But I knew that she was already cold. I didn't have any expectations of her heart restarting.
At last they called it, began asking each other how to get in touch with her family, closed the door and put a discreet sign beside it. Someone said something about a stroke. Someone else jokingly lamented that it was always their team that was getting hit. Someone finally said the word "dead."
Fifteen minutes after it all began I started my rounds again, crossing the girl off my list and moving on to the next patient. It was bizarre how life simply moved on, how I still had a job to do, how my heart, unlike hers, was still beating inside me. It seemed the merest chance that I was alive and she was dead, the finest line that separated movement from stillness. I thought to myself, I wanted to be here.
Saturday also marked four years at OHSU. I can't believe it's been so long already.
This morning I went in on the early shift, at 4:30 am. About 6:15 I went into a patient room. She was young, about 26, fast asleep. I called her name, but she didn't respond. I shook her shoulder, tapped her arm, nothing. I touched her face. It was cool to the touch. I went back out.
I asked the nurse if this patient was usually responsive, and she said yes and followed me back in. She took one look at her, felt for a pulse, said "oh God" and slapped the code button. Within seconds the room was full of people. I stood outside as the team was paged, doctors ran in from their rounds nearby, rapid response reached the spot in about a minute. They intubated her, performed chest compressions for about 10 minutes, hung fluids, called for atropine. But I knew that she was already cold. I didn't have any expectations of her heart restarting.
At last they called it, began asking each other how to get in touch with her family, closed the door and put a discreet sign beside it. Someone said something about a stroke. Someone else jokingly lamented that it was always their team that was getting hit. Someone finally said the word "dead."
Fifteen minutes after it all began I started my rounds again, crossing the girl off my list and moving on to the next patient. It was bizarre how life simply moved on, how I still had a job to do, how my heart, unlike hers, was still beating inside me. It seemed the merest chance that I was alive and she was dead, the finest line that separated movement from stillness. I thought to myself, I wanted to be here.