Bed 16
The hallway of the ICU floor is unfamiliar and cold.
Shifts are stressful.
Rounds are long. Painful.
Attendings are stern.
Chaos fills the ICU floor. When there isn't a massive group of people rounding, there are procedures and interventions underway on the ICU floor. With intubating bed 8. Coding bed 1. Placing lines in there. And pulling lines here.
Doctors and nurses and pharmacist and Respiratory therapist armed with medicine try and try here in this ICU floor to make a dent in the enemy that is disease. And sometimes, most often than not, we do not win the battle. We succumb to loss. We succumb to death.
Bed 16. We will be withdrawing care tonight. She's on pressors. On maximum vent settings. She's on continuous dialysis. She is swollen now, her hands and face edematous. She is hardly the woman she was a few weeks ago, few days ago...
She reminds me of another ICU room I stood in 10 years ago. My grandmother's. Being just a child then and seeing her with a tube in her mouth, it was confusing. It was foreign, then. Cold and unkind then, not today. Today it's a procedure. Not a necessity. It's a "cool thing I get to do'.
I spoke to this family today. The decision was made like the one my grandfather had to make a decade ago. They will be withdrawing care tonight. I hugged the husband who will lose his love tonight. Who will walk out of this hospital like my grandfather did when our grandmother passed away, he walked alone. Surrounded by family, but without his soul mate that he lived and loved for the majority of his life. My memory of the day I lost my grandmother is foggy. Too many things going on that day clouding the specifics. But one thing I do remember so vividly was getting off the elevators after saying our last goodbye; I walked off the elevators with my parents, uncles, aunts and my grandfather onto another floor. My grandfather was near the back of the elevator and was the last to exit. As he made his exit, he looked back with one hand stretched out to take hold my grandmother's hand as he had done so many times before, only to find her not beside him. He looked up at me and smiled a little defeated sad smile to himself and joined the rest of the family. After 60 so years of marriage, he no longer had a hand to hold.
Death does that. Our status as humans often places us in such a place.
I said my good byes and my condolences to this family, the family of bed 16. To the daughter in law who tries to hold the family together, I gave a hug. Shook the hand of the sons of the lady in bed 16. I left before looking the family of the woman in Bed 16 clear in the eye. Before the tears started to fill my eyes.
This loss for this family hits close to home. It makes me realize what is it that I am privileged to do, day in, day out. On long days. Hard days. With hard attendings overworked staff and tough rounds. With anxious patients and frustrated families. Yet such a privilege to serve people on their worst days.
I think I like it here. In this ICU floor that is not so unfamiliar today.
Shifts are stressful.
Rounds are long. Painful.
Attendings are stern.
Chaos fills the ICU floor. When there isn't a massive group of people rounding, there are procedures and interventions underway on the ICU floor. With intubating bed 8. Coding bed 1. Placing lines in there. And pulling lines here.
Doctors and nurses and pharmacist and Respiratory therapist armed with medicine try and try here in this ICU floor to make a dent in the enemy that is disease. And sometimes, most often than not, we do not win the battle. We succumb to loss. We succumb to death.
Bed 16. We will be withdrawing care tonight. She's on pressors. On maximum vent settings. She's on continuous dialysis. She is swollen now, her hands and face edematous. She is hardly the woman she was a few weeks ago, few days ago...
She reminds me of another ICU room I stood in 10 years ago. My grandmother's. Being just a child then and seeing her with a tube in her mouth, it was confusing. It was foreign, then. Cold and unkind then, not today. Today it's a procedure. Not a necessity. It's a "cool thing I get to do'.
I spoke to this family today. The decision was made like the one my grandfather had to make a decade ago. They will be withdrawing care tonight. I hugged the husband who will lose his love tonight. Who will walk out of this hospital like my grandfather did when our grandmother passed away, he walked alone. Surrounded by family, but without his soul mate that he lived and loved for the majority of his life. My memory of the day I lost my grandmother is foggy. Too many things going on that day clouding the specifics. But one thing I do remember so vividly was getting off the elevators after saying our last goodbye; I walked off the elevators with my parents, uncles, aunts and my grandfather onto another floor. My grandfather was near the back of the elevator and was the last to exit. As he made his exit, he looked back with one hand stretched out to take hold my grandmother's hand as he had done so many times before, only to find her not beside him. He looked up at me and smiled a little defeated sad smile to himself and joined the rest of the family. After 60 so years of marriage, he no longer had a hand to hold.
Death does that. Our status as humans often places us in such a place.
I said my good byes and my condolences to this family, the family of bed 16. To the daughter in law who tries to hold the family together, I gave a hug. Shook the hand of the sons of the lady in bed 16. I left before looking the family of the woman in Bed 16 clear in the eye. Before the tears started to fill my eyes.
This loss for this family hits close to home. It makes me realize what is it that I am privileged to do, day in, day out. On long days. Hard days. With hard attendings overworked staff and tough rounds. With anxious patients and frustrated families. Yet such a privilege to serve people on their worst days.
I think I like it here. In this ICU floor that is not so unfamiliar today.
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