"It tastes.... like, chemicals." I say out loud in my empty apartment.
Nothing but disappointment and I share this bitter moment together, as my beer induced curled-lip frown slowly fades away. Unfortunately, the taste lingers far longer than the stupid look on my face.
"Six weeks." I utter, with bitterness that nears the level of my failed beer.
It took six weeks from boil, to bottle... to get the crappiest tasting beer that has ever coursed across my tongue. It was simply undrinkable.
I don't know what went wrong.... whether I contaminated it during the fermentation, or if the sterilizing mix didn't get rinsed out properly, or if I managed to screw up the recipe during the boil somehow.
I guess it's all moot at this point, what matters to me, while stuck motionless in my kitchen... still staring at this flavor-forsaken, anti-freeze tasting home-brew, is that it sucks.... bad.
However, after getting some advice, I've learned that it's possible, (though unlikely) that my windex-infused ale just might need a few more weeks "bottle conditioning." Well, alright then.... all I have to do is wait.
Waiting and I have, if not gotten along quite well over the years, at least grown accustomed to each other, for, I am patient. Or, at least I can feign patience.
I've spent many tortured hours in malls, holding purses.... or stuck in traffic, tempering my temper.... waiting for my love to get ready for our dinner reservation that was 20 minutes ago, or keeping my cool when the computer decides to freeze up at the most inopportune of moments. All the while my insides scream out so loud that I'm sure someone could hear, or somehow see the pain bubbling over; but they never do. They never discover my secret, that I am a fake.
But, maybe that's all patience really is; pretending to be patient. I think that patience, by definition, requires some inner turmoil; when your mind screams out in frustration, but your outward appearance remains cool. Because without something to get you all hot and bothered, you wouldn't HAVE to be patient.... you would just, be.
It's like overwhelmed.... can you be just whelmed? I think not. Whelmed isn't even a word. And, to me, that is weird.
Anyway, that's alright with me, I can do that; pretend... but, today I noticed the first signs of my inner impatience bursting through the confines of my own personal world, and into my very public actions.
Someone caught me.
I walked into a patient's room today, sat down, and asked why they came to the ER. And, after explaining what a PA is, and what I do, (and for the very first time in my career, had to verbally judo someone into allowing me to see them, instead of "the doctor") the long and convoluted story began.... none of which could even begin to answer my first, well, my ONLY question of "What brings you to the ER today?" Before I had the chance to interrupt this person, and redirect them into a more useful course for the conversation, so I could understand why they were there, and thereby narrow down my options from doing a full-body scan, and a compete smattering of blood tests, their cell phone rings, which they proceed to pick up, and have a full conversation with their family member. "Yes, I'm in the hospital....... yea, no, I fell........... I don't know, there's a guy here..... who are you again????" "Chris." (sigh) "well, he's asking me a bunch of questions....." (I asked one) and it goes on for a while longer before I simply stand up, and walk out of the room, without words...
I. Need. To. Leave.
before I explode from pure and total frustration.
Why are you here? = my back hurts
how long has it hurt? = 1 day
did you have some sort of trauma? = no
I wish it was this simple... i wish people could just tell me what I needed to know, with me asking open-ended questions, like we were taught in school..... but we can't.... and, if it were only as easy as above. OH, that would be sweet.
I can't say it's like pulling teeth, because that would be easier than this. Much of the time, I can ask simple yes or no questions....or things like, "better or worse?" ...and get nothing... well, in fact, worse than nothing... I get a whole lot of words that equate to nothing close to an answer that addresses my question. So, I ask again.... is it BETTER, WORSE or the SAME? Like I'm talking to a 2 year old....
But somehow, I've managed to fake patience with my patients. I seem very calm, caring and level headed.... empathetic even. Not today.... I just walked out, without a word. Before I could get more than a few steps out the door, the patient calls out to me, "Hey, are you leaving?!?!"
"Well, yes, I have other patients here that I need to take care of." I say, very curtly.
"Wait, hold on.... I've got to go, he's getting mad at me.... ok, bye."
I wish we didn't allow cell phones in the ER.... this is not the first time this has happened to me, but usually, they answer, and tell whoever it is, "hey, the doctor's here, i'll call you back." -click-
Not this one.... there would have been a full on conversation while i stood there like a moron, waiting. So I left... or tried. Then, I think my patient realized how they had upset me.... it's not that they had realized that they were being rude or inappropriate, but instead, that they pissed me off.
So, in an instant, I bottle up my frustration, like my failed beer, and let it sit.... I turn around, and walk back in, kneel down at the bedside.... With my hands resting on the hospital bed, I apologize for making the patient feel as if she'd upset me. I say in a very empathetic tone, that I understand that her family is just worried about her, and that it's important to keep them informed.
I then finished the interview and physical in a much more directed manner, with leading questions and statements like, "You're not having chest pain today, no?"
My inner-carbonation began to settle as I took control of the conversation, and then left the room in the usual, much calmer, manner. But, it's still volatile. Nearly failing in an instant, it barely passed this test. In time, I will find out if my newly weakened veneer will regain its prior fortress status, or if it will crack and poison my insides, like a solitary bacteria in a fermenting batch of beer.... growing, reproducing and turning a clean and crisp Pale Ale into a death soup.
And, as for my real beer? Well, it needs a couple more weeks to mellow out.... and then I can test it again. Hopefully, not unlike my impatience, it will calm, and morph into something palatable... something respectable. For now, on both fronts, the direction is still unclear.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
A Terrible Deed
Finesse.
Right, finesse, I'm thinking, as the beads of sweat drip down my face.
From the edge of my fifteen year-old-esque sideburns, down, what could only be labeled as a '4 o'clock shadow', (it never quite reaches 5 o'clock... and not because I'm diligent when it comes to shaving, but simply for a lack of growing) to the greater angle of my jaw... where it swells to a bead so large that my face's grip can no longer resist gravity's pull, and it falls through the frenzied air, full of odd noises, limbs and chemicals.
I picture the anatomy in my head, as if this will assure that I make all the appropriate moves by which to ensure my eventual success. The leg bone's connected to the..... hip bone.... the hip bone's connected to... my wristwatch. Wait, that's not right...
The bead of sweat falls from A to B in the most direct of paths, nearly colliding with a swinging limb. The sodium-infused sphere ends up dodging a field of blue to end up on the only green in the room. In an instant, the glob turns the green where it has just landed, a darker shade of the same. Its wild, perilous and hasty exodus from me ends in a calm silence that stands in stark opposition to the way it began, which makes me think about the duality of such a singular thing. How in the world did chaos turn into tranquility? How in the world do these things happen? And they do!
With a sudden grunt that seemed to escape my lungs without my consent, I am immediately aware that the recent resolve to work out again is making this whole situation more painful. My entire upper body feels as if it's a sneeze away from complete spasm - a full body charlie-horse. This is not only painful in a physical sense, but is a terrible blast to my ego, for it is only the result of about 50 pushups and some rotator cuff exercises the day prior.
I reposition, bracing my right knee on the rectangle of green in order to get some damn leverage.... my left foot still on the ground, now flexing so that only my toes touch the ground, my heel raising off the linoleum causing my left calf to tighten into what feels like a solid piece of granite.
Still nothing.
Now, my left leg abandons the cold white floor, rises the two vertical feet, and rejoins its counterpart on the green cloth... feet now planted firmly on the soft cushion below. My left hand grips my right wrist so tightly that my right hand begins to change color. No matter, the two joined hands create more strength and stability. The force is directed from the crook of my right elbow, which is mashed into another person's flesh, to the union of my right and left hands. It feels strong. If only I could take some of this strain of my back, I think, as I reposition closer to the blob of carbon below me, now barely conscious. I get my feet under me, finally, and my back quiets its shriek somewhat. With my feet directly under me, my knees no longer bearing my weight, I am towering above everything.
The sweat is now pouring, and is dampening my clothes, which I'll have to change later. From powder blue, to navy blue... to salty blue.
She isn't fighting as much now.... how much total? Is she breathing? Did you feel it? Did you feel anything?
And then, as unexpectedly as the initial failure that got us to this point, a snap, slide, thunk and quiet signal the end.
Seconds tick by, silently. We stand motionless.
The duality reenters my mind. From chaos to peaceful, albeit uneasy, silence.
The silence remains for what seems like minutes.
I stare at the green sheet on the bed.
"How do you feel?"....... nothing.
"How do you feel?" is asked yet again.
The carbon blob begins to take more of a human shape, and is reclaiming some of her misplaced consciousness. The monitor beeps, signaling to us that it has been in some way displeased by what we have done to this poor woman.
"How are you feeling?" is again asked. In fact, it is nearly shouted, and spoken in a manner that is nearly identical to that which you'd speak to an infant, or a dog.
She looks up from the hospital bed, the forest green sheet surrounding her, a haze of amnesia surrounding that, and a mass of blotchy powder blue, navy blue and recently farmer-tanned, 4 o'clock shadowed PA standing on top of her cot, dripping sweat onto her hospital gown, still holding that same bit of flesh.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
A pause....... (thinking, or i suppose she was thinking.... taking a bit longer than normal... dredging her way through the medicines; propofol and fentanyl)
"Good." She says. "Much better.... can I have another blanket?"
And that's how you relocate a hip.
Right, finesse, I'm thinking, as the beads of sweat drip down my face.
From the edge of my fifteen year-old-esque sideburns, down, what could only be labeled as a '4 o'clock shadow', (it never quite reaches 5 o'clock... and not because I'm diligent when it comes to shaving, but simply for a lack of growing) to the greater angle of my jaw... where it swells to a bead so large that my face's grip can no longer resist gravity's pull, and it falls through the frenzied air, full of odd noises, limbs and chemicals.
I picture the anatomy in my head, as if this will assure that I make all the appropriate moves by which to ensure my eventual success. The leg bone's connected to the..... hip bone.... the hip bone's connected to... my wristwatch. Wait, that's not right...
The bead of sweat falls from A to B in the most direct of paths, nearly colliding with a swinging limb. The sodium-infused sphere ends up dodging a field of blue to end up on the only green in the room. In an instant, the glob turns the green where it has just landed, a darker shade of the same. Its wild, perilous and hasty exodus from me ends in a calm silence that stands in stark opposition to the way it began, which makes me think about the duality of such a singular thing. How in the world did chaos turn into tranquility? How in the world do these things happen? And they do!
With a sudden grunt that seemed to escape my lungs without my consent, I am immediately aware that the recent resolve to work out again is making this whole situation more painful. My entire upper body feels as if it's a sneeze away from complete spasm - a full body charlie-horse. This is not only painful in a physical sense, but is a terrible blast to my ego, for it is only the result of about 50 pushups and some rotator cuff exercises the day prior.
I reposition, bracing my right knee on the rectangle of green in order to get some damn leverage.... my left foot still on the ground, now flexing so that only my toes touch the ground, my heel raising off the linoleum causing my left calf to tighten into what feels like a solid piece of granite.
Still nothing.
Now, my left leg abandons the cold white floor, rises the two vertical feet, and rejoins its counterpart on the green cloth... feet now planted firmly on the soft cushion below. My left hand grips my right wrist so tightly that my right hand begins to change color. No matter, the two joined hands create more strength and stability. The force is directed from the crook of my right elbow, which is mashed into another person's flesh, to the union of my right and left hands. It feels strong. If only I could take some of this strain of my back, I think, as I reposition closer to the blob of carbon below me, now barely conscious. I get my feet under me, finally, and my back quiets its shriek somewhat. With my feet directly under me, my knees no longer bearing my weight, I am towering above everything.
The sweat is now pouring, and is dampening my clothes, which I'll have to change later. From powder blue, to navy blue... to salty blue.
She isn't fighting as much now.... how much total? Is she breathing? Did you feel it? Did you feel anything?
And then, as unexpectedly as the initial failure that got us to this point, a snap, slide, thunk and quiet signal the end.
Seconds tick by, silently. We stand motionless.
The duality reenters my mind. From chaos to peaceful, albeit uneasy, silence.
The silence remains for what seems like minutes.
I stare at the green sheet on the bed.
"How do you feel?"....... nothing.
"How do you feel?" is asked yet again.
The carbon blob begins to take more of a human shape, and is reclaiming some of her misplaced consciousness. The monitor beeps, signaling to us that it has been in some way displeased by what we have done to this poor woman.
"How are you feeling?" is again asked. In fact, it is nearly shouted, and spoken in a manner that is nearly identical to that which you'd speak to an infant, or a dog.
She looks up from the hospital bed, the forest green sheet surrounding her, a haze of amnesia surrounding that, and a mass of blotchy powder blue, navy blue and recently farmer-tanned, 4 o'clock shadowed PA standing on top of her cot, dripping sweat onto her hospital gown, still holding that same bit of flesh.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
A pause....... (thinking, or i suppose she was thinking.... taking a bit longer than normal... dredging her way through the medicines; propofol and fentanyl)
"Good." She says. "Much better.... can I have another blanket?"
And that's how you relocate a hip.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
i don't feel the break, but i feel the bend
I find it interesting, or perhaps perplexing better describes it, how our perspective can dictate exactly what we see.
As I stare at the floor I can see where the hardwood meets the wall. It is flush, strait.... perfect. Well, for the most part. As my eyes trace the line it makes with the wall, running horizontally along my living room, I see a gap. It starts ever so small, like a poorly timed smile you dare not let escape for fear of reprimand. And not unlike that smile, it widens in the center, and tapers near the other end.
As I sit, staring at the smile in my floor, I try to decide whether it's the floor that has strayed from the strait and narrow, or if it is the wall which has warped with time. I decide it is the wall which is flawed, then, I rescind this assertion and call the floor a poor excuse for a level surface.
And then the argument begins again, and again.
I peer at a shadow, and call the floor crooked.... I inspect the light reflecting from the wooden floorboards and name the wall the culprit.
Though I know not who is at fault, I know that something displeases me. I wish for a more put-together seam.
I cannot decide who is to blame. I cannot blame the floor if it has bent with age... and I cannot blame the wall if it has curved with time. It would only be their natural reaction to a stress applied. One, or both, had to react in some way to the pressure of time, age, weather, hurt and consequence.
To blame an inanimate object for a less than desirable reaction to stress, I decide, is at least equally unfair as to blame an inherently flawed person for a similar bend.
No matter who is to blame, (if anyone at all), at least the bend creates a smile.
So, I lean back, release my held breath into a sigh, and let it all go.
As I stare at the floor I can see where the hardwood meets the wall. It is flush, strait.... perfect. Well, for the most part. As my eyes trace the line it makes with the wall, running horizontally along my living room, I see a gap. It starts ever so small, like a poorly timed smile you dare not let escape for fear of reprimand. And not unlike that smile, it widens in the center, and tapers near the other end.
As I sit, staring at the smile in my floor, I try to decide whether it's the floor that has strayed from the strait and narrow, or if it is the wall which has warped with time. I decide it is the wall which is flawed, then, I rescind this assertion and call the floor a poor excuse for a level surface.
And then the argument begins again, and again.
I peer at a shadow, and call the floor crooked.... I inspect the light reflecting from the wooden floorboards and name the wall the culprit.
Though I know not who is at fault, I know that something displeases me. I wish for a more put-together seam.
I cannot decide who is to blame. I cannot blame the floor if it has bent with age... and I cannot blame the wall if it has curved with time. It would only be their natural reaction to a stress applied. One, or both, had to react in some way to the pressure of time, age, weather, hurt and consequence.
To blame an inanimate object for a less than desirable reaction to stress, I decide, is at least equally unfair as to blame an inherently flawed person for a similar bend.
No matter who is to blame, (if anyone at all), at least the bend creates a smile.
So, I lean back, release my held breath into a sigh, and let it all go.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Betty, 1989-2010
"Was that you?" I ask.
It was as if Betty took offense to this simple question, because she then seemed to begin to shut down.
"All I was wondering, Betty, was if you made it smell... like, that, in here? Or, was it the car next to us?"
It was too late.... she took it personally. Though, I doubt she would have if it actually hadn't been her. I truly believe that, rather than upset, she was embarrassed, ashamed and frightened of what was happening to her more than anything.
She was dying in my arms.
Her last breathes were sour, and filled her insides where I sat. The aroma slowly faded, as did her strength.
"Betty, please... please get me home," I plead.
She responds as best she can, though rigor mortis is beginning to creep inside of her tissues, and it is slowly winning the battle- the wheel begins to tighten.
Betty's responses slow.... new and unknown lights begin to flash on, off, then on again. She seems to quiet with every passing block. Her usual rumble dissipates under my feet; she becomes oddly smooth- discordant, only slightly... but eerily noticeable to me, when compared to her normal dysarthria.... which was never obnoxious, but comforting instead- like the voice of Louis Armstrong.
She had been singing to me for 5 years... and now all I could hear was "what a wonderful world...." fading into the dark of the night.
As I wrestled with the ever stiffening wheel, begging her to make the corners, I feared the worst. Though, I had fleeting thoughts that this was not Betty's goodbye, but only a power steering problem. Perhaps we would part on better terms, on our own time, when we decide. Though, after the body was cold, I realized that this is the way it had to be. Only death could part us.... neither she nor I would be able to let go otherwise.
It had to be this way.
She left a trail of blood... or perhaps it was tears, or perhaps both. It led from the streets, where we used to roam together, into the garage. She was bleeding out. Steam was rising from her chest, like her soul was escaping from the mess that had become her withering body. It was as if it needed to finally be free of its ever aging cage, one that failed a little bit more every day.
She needed a tow to get to the car doctor, where the diagnosis was terminal. It would be that Sunday, February the 7th was our last ride together.
She will always hold a place in my heart. Even in the end, she never failed me. She did, in fact, get me home.
There were no long goodbyes, reminiscing, or tears shed as I cleared the remaining things from her comforting, yet stark and now empty interior. She had gone. All that was left were pieces of metal, rubber, glass and leather. So, I didn't fear for her when I snapped off the hood ornament that had, throughout her life, adorned Betty as a proud, strong and beautiful Cadillac.
She wasn't there to feel the break. I, however, did.
It was as if Betty took offense to this simple question, because she then seemed to begin to shut down.
"All I was wondering, Betty, was if you made it smell... like, that, in here? Or, was it the car next to us?"
It was too late.... she took it personally. Though, I doubt she would have if it actually hadn't been her. I truly believe that, rather than upset, she was embarrassed, ashamed and frightened of what was happening to her more than anything.
She was dying in my arms.
Her last breathes were sour, and filled her insides where I sat. The aroma slowly faded, as did her strength.
"Betty, please... please get me home," I plead.
She responds as best she can, though rigor mortis is beginning to creep inside of her tissues, and it is slowly winning the battle- the wheel begins to tighten.
Betty's responses slow.... new and unknown lights begin to flash on, off, then on again. She seems to quiet with every passing block. Her usual rumble dissipates under my feet; she becomes oddly smooth- discordant, only slightly... but eerily noticeable to me, when compared to her normal dysarthria.... which was never obnoxious, but comforting instead- like the voice of Louis Armstrong.
She had been singing to me for 5 years... and now all I could hear was "what a wonderful world...." fading into the dark of the night.
As I wrestled with the ever stiffening wheel, begging her to make the corners, I feared the worst. Though, I had fleeting thoughts that this was not Betty's goodbye, but only a power steering problem. Perhaps we would part on better terms, on our own time, when we decide. Though, after the body was cold, I realized that this is the way it had to be. Only death could part us.... neither she nor I would be able to let go otherwise.
It had to be this way.
She left a trail of blood... or perhaps it was tears, or perhaps both. It led from the streets, where we used to roam together, into the garage. She was bleeding out. Steam was rising from her chest, like her soul was escaping from the mess that had become her withering body. It was as if it needed to finally be free of its ever aging cage, one that failed a little bit more every day.
She needed a tow to get to the car doctor, where the diagnosis was terminal. It would be that Sunday, February the 7th was our last ride together.
She will always hold a place in my heart. Even in the end, she never failed me. She did, in fact, get me home.
There were no long goodbyes, reminiscing, or tears shed as I cleared the remaining things from her comforting, yet stark and now empty interior. She had gone. All that was left were pieces of metal, rubber, glass and leather. So, I didn't fear for her when I snapped off the hood ornament that had, throughout her life, adorned Betty as a proud, strong and beautiful Cadillac.
She wasn't there to feel the break. I, however, did.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Betty's Kicks
Each and every day I have to fill up my left rear tire. (I suppose Betty can't be perfect, though I still think she is.)
It seems to be slowly leaking; I find it nearly flat every morning. It's been quite a nuisance the past few days... and it serves to remind me of the constant drain, and subsequent refill that is my energy, my confidence and the joy for the work that I do.
I have had wins, and I have had losses. But when the tire empties, I continue to fill it back up, despite the losses.... and I am happy.
I recently filled the tire by nailing my first solo Lumbar Puncture.
"Champagne", as they say.... and, just like that, I was filled to 30 PSI.
Today, I suppose, was neutral. My love for procedures was fed, but... to the point of nausea and bloating.... like the horrible feeling you get when you eat a whole Chipotle burrito and weren't really ready for it.
I'm on day 5 of a 5 day stretch tomorrow... and, it's the longest stretch of work days in a row I've had in 3 months at the ER. So, I guess I should just count my blessings and shut my face.
I still love life, and I still love my job.
oh, and I still love Chipotle.
It seems to be slowly leaking; I find it nearly flat every morning. It's been quite a nuisance the past few days... and it serves to remind me of the constant drain, and subsequent refill that is my energy, my confidence and the joy for the work that I do.
I have had wins, and I have had losses. But when the tire empties, I continue to fill it back up, despite the losses.... and I am happy.
I recently filled the tire by nailing my first solo Lumbar Puncture.
"Champagne", as they say.... and, just like that, I was filled to 30 PSI.
Today, I suppose, was neutral. My love for procedures was fed, but... to the point of nausea and bloating.... like the horrible feeling you get when you eat a whole Chipotle burrito and weren't really ready for it.
I'm on day 5 of a 5 day stretch tomorrow... and, it's the longest stretch of work days in a row I've had in 3 months at the ER. So, I guess I should just count my blessings and shut my face.
I still love life, and I still love my job.
oh, and I still love Chipotle.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Chasing Circular Logic
We are all in hot pursuit of something. And, something is always in hot pursuit of us.
The unaligned reality of it however, is that this is usually not one after the other, like a dog after its own tail. At least in this never ending chase, one is connected to the other; they both are following one another, admittedly, in a snare of the most basic of logic. But, if they were to just stop with the chase, they might see that they are connected, and find each other... sans the dizzying venery.
We toil, preen, plan, plot, hide away and quietly attempt to garner attention from the tail, as if we didn't care. But we can't help it. Our quiet actions couldn't be enough, and we lack patience, so we begin the nauseating spin... calling out in the middle of the hunt.
We are all too recluse, in the deepest sense of the word, to really know our neighbors, our friends and our loves without boisterous shouts and oversized signs that even the deaf and blind would have to acknowledge. We have lost the art of subtlety, and therefore, the art of deciphering such subtlety.
I blame facebook.
I shout there, with such a quiet whisper... and I whisper here in such a loud voice.
I suppose it doesn't really matter, the nystagmus hasn't quite yet gone after all the spinning.
The unaligned reality of it however, is that this is usually not one after the other, like a dog after its own tail. At least in this never ending chase, one is connected to the other; they both are following one another, admittedly, in a snare of the most basic of logic. But, if they were to just stop with the chase, they might see that they are connected, and find each other... sans the dizzying venery.
We toil, preen, plan, plot, hide away and quietly attempt to garner attention from the tail, as if we didn't care. But we can't help it. Our quiet actions couldn't be enough, and we lack patience, so we begin the nauseating spin... calling out in the middle of the hunt.
We are all too recluse, in the deepest sense of the word, to really know our neighbors, our friends and our loves without boisterous shouts and oversized signs that even the deaf and blind would have to acknowledge. We have lost the art of subtlety, and therefore, the art of deciphering such subtlety.
I blame facebook.
I shout there, with such a quiet whisper... and I whisper here in such a loud voice.
I suppose it doesn't really matter, the nystagmus hasn't quite yet gone after all the spinning.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I Am The Angel Of Death
We don't save lives; we palliate the dying.
In just over a month of working in the ER, I have yet to pull someone back from the grips of death. In fact, the Reaper has yet to make an appearance in any of my workdays. (Though he has been ever present in someone's day in the ER) I have not pumped on a chest in order to force the blood from the ventricles to the rest of a gasping body, dying for air. I have yet to administer the epinephrine, and the life saving shock of 360 joules to an ailing heart.
I doubt I've saved a life. But I can say with a high degree of certainty that I've crushed more than one.
I recently had a very pleasant 60-something gal visit me in the ER. She was sent to us after being seen by her regular doctor earlier that morning for ankle swelling that was noticed by her husband while eating breakfast. Her primary care doctor did an EKG and and exam, and told her to come to the ER to get looked over a bit more thoroughly.
This is precisely what I did. With my words, my hands, and the tools at my disposal, I did my best to uncover what might have been causing her swelling. And, to keep a long (and as is usually my mode of operation) wordy, story short. I discovered that it was not her heart, nor trauma, nor a clot that was causing her ankle swelling, but was a result of ascites. Her liver was full of lesions, and her enzymes were quite elevated.
They were metastatic lesions; spread from another, primary tumor site- at least, this was the read of the CT by the radiologist.
"SHI........" I mutter when reading the CT report.
By now, not only was her husband present, but a handful of family had amassed to accompany their hospitalized family member. It wouldn't be easy, for any of us involved.
All who stood in the cold, curtained room of 5A, were forever changed by the news that passed over my lips. The words penetrated each of the vastly unprepared masses of flesh in front of me like shrapnel ripping through unsuspecting soldiers, blown away by a hidden IED... placed by the most vicious of insurgents.
I am the insurgent.
My words are the Improvised Explosive Devise.
I exit, leaving destruction, smoke and confusion in my absence.
"Saving lives in the ER..." or, what do I do at work? 'Save lives, duh!" These are things l hear, and read from time to time from other health care workers, none of which ever seem to be doctors, PAs or NPs. Though I doubt this to be the case.... that souls are being grasped from the edge of the abyss, and snatched back by my fellow healthcare troops, I hope this is happening. I, however, have no such delusions of grandeur. I realize that I may heal certain conditions, treat the sick, and palliate those in pain.... but I do not save. I am no savior, nor do I jest about it.
I suppose those who have been in the position that I was, find it difficult to say that they've saved lives. When you, in some sense of the word, have killed someone, there are no number of souls you can pull from the fire that will be enough to claim status as a life saver. There is no more room for playful, and boastful banter.
If I do anything comparable, in permanence, importance, and power, to that of saving a life, it is to recite death sentences.
I am someone's bearer of bad news, bringer of death, and Reaper himself.
Don't misunderstand, I love my job. I love what I do. I'm happy that I've found myself to be where I am today. I just realize that I'm only prolonging the inevitable. I'm not saving lives, at best, I'm simply making them longer.... perhaps long enough for me to tell them that they are going to die from their metastatic cancer that has spread to their liver.
Only if I'm good enough to preserve them for that long, and, only if I'm that unlucky.
I guess you could say we're damned if we do, and damned if we don't.
I wouldn't, but you could.
In just over a month of working in the ER, I have yet to pull someone back from the grips of death. In fact, the Reaper has yet to make an appearance in any of my workdays. (Though he has been ever present in someone's day in the ER) I have not pumped on a chest in order to force the blood from the ventricles to the rest of a gasping body, dying for air. I have yet to administer the epinephrine, and the life saving shock of 360 joules to an ailing heart.
I doubt I've saved a life. But I can say with a high degree of certainty that I've crushed more than one.
I recently had a very pleasant 60-something gal visit me in the ER. She was sent to us after being seen by her regular doctor earlier that morning for ankle swelling that was noticed by her husband while eating breakfast. Her primary care doctor did an EKG and and exam, and told her to come to the ER to get looked over a bit more thoroughly.
This is precisely what I did. With my words, my hands, and the tools at my disposal, I did my best to uncover what might have been causing her swelling. And, to keep a long (and as is usually my mode of operation) wordy, story short. I discovered that it was not her heart, nor trauma, nor a clot that was causing her ankle swelling, but was a result of ascites. Her liver was full of lesions, and her enzymes were quite elevated.
They were metastatic lesions; spread from another, primary tumor site- at least, this was the read of the CT by the radiologist.
"SHI........" I mutter when reading the CT report.
By now, not only was her husband present, but a handful of family had amassed to accompany their hospitalized family member. It wouldn't be easy, for any of us involved.
All who stood in the cold, curtained room of 5A, were forever changed by the news that passed over my lips. The words penetrated each of the vastly unprepared masses of flesh in front of me like shrapnel ripping through unsuspecting soldiers, blown away by a hidden IED... placed by the most vicious of insurgents.
I am the insurgent.
My words are the Improvised Explosive Devise.
I exit, leaving destruction, smoke and confusion in my absence.
"Saving lives in the ER..." or, what do I do at work? 'Save lives, duh!" These are things l hear, and read from time to time from other health care workers, none of which ever seem to be doctors, PAs or NPs. Though I doubt this to be the case.... that souls are being grasped from the edge of the abyss, and snatched back by my fellow healthcare troops, I hope this is happening. I, however, have no such delusions of grandeur. I realize that I may heal certain conditions, treat the sick, and palliate those in pain.... but I do not save. I am no savior, nor do I jest about it.
I suppose those who have been in the position that I was, find it difficult to say that they've saved lives. When you, in some sense of the word, have killed someone, there are no number of souls you can pull from the fire that will be enough to claim status as a life saver. There is no more room for playful, and boastful banter.
If I do anything comparable, in permanence, importance, and power, to that of saving a life, it is to recite death sentences.
I am someone's bearer of bad news, bringer of death, and Reaper himself.
Don't misunderstand, I love my job. I love what I do. I'm happy that I've found myself to be where I am today. I just realize that I'm only prolonging the inevitable. I'm not saving lives, at best, I'm simply making them longer.... perhaps long enough for me to tell them that they are going to die from their metastatic cancer that has spread to their liver.
Only if I'm good enough to preserve them for that long, and, only if I'm that unlucky.
I guess you could say we're damned if we do, and damned if we don't.
I wouldn't, but you could.
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