if you're a nurse... "chest compressions"

have you ever seen someone die? If you have, chances are it was someone you are related to. but, in my everyday job, I see it quite often. and I'm not related to any of them. In fact, there have been times that I have held the hands and softly whispered into the ears that "it's okay. it's okay to go", then watched their chest stop rising. because there was no one there with them but me, their nurse.

I second verified an "expiration" on our unit recently. as I entered the room, the family was just leaving. calling a death, even if it is one that has approached expectedly and calmly, is always a somber moment. My friend who was this patients nurse said, "4:10 pm?" I verified after listening for a heart beat, "Yes, 4:10 pm". I helped out with some paperwork, and then I left the room to tend to my other patients. The other patients who had no idea someone just passed over the threshold of life/death. That someone just entered into an eternity of time...somewhere. and you look into their face and think, "I hope you lived deep and loved hard."

shortly thereafter, another patient was fighting for their life. well, with the assistance of a team of nurses, respiratory therapists, and doctors. chest compressions, bagging with oxygen, epinephrine, chest compressions, atropine, fluids, chest compressions, more fluids, intubation...it's dizzy to think about it when I'm not there doing it. You fight hard for their life, and you silently beg, "not today, not on my watch will your heart stop beating." Occasionally a holler, "Is there a beat? Are they in rhythm?" A strong applause of celebration when there is, and a sense of silent defeat and sadness when there isn't. and then someone calls it. "time of death..."

and if death claims victory, you look into their face, you say, "i'm so sorry. you fought so hard." and you clean up and you move on.

you finish your day, you clock out, and you drive home. maybe you stop off at the grocery store or you remember you're out of toilet paper. you eat some oatmeal for dinner, because it's fast and easy. and you set your alarm to get up and do it all over again the next day.

but you don't dwell on it. you can't think about it. that cold, harsh, death stare into nothing. that chilling emptiness.

you're a nurse. and there are those who are living. life, hearts that are beating, chests that are rising, fingers that are feeling, and stomachs that are growling. dressings that need changing, IV's that need replacing, pumps that are beeping, and monitors that are screaming.

and you dwell on them and the life in them.