Everywhere I go, it rains on me.

What cartoon was it? The one where everywhere the guy goes there is a dark cloud above him and a steady stream of rain pouring down. It's sunny to the left, warm to the right, and clear both ahead, and behind him. And each step he takes, that cloud follows him, reminding him that regardless of where he steps, it's going to rain.

I felt like that yesterday.

Being late for work, the iPod not working, the stain on my shirt, the broken work radio, the faulty computer, the cell phone, the map book, and no spot to park within a mile radius of work. None of those things got to me.

It was the lady with the heartbeat of 10, respiratory rate of 4, with the mentation of fleece blanket. Not to mention the fact that when we arrived to the "assisted" living facility there was not a SOUL around that could, wanted, or had any intention on telling us that this lady had been flat on her back, deteriorating by the hour. Around 5, she said she didn't feel well. Around 7, they finally realized something was wrong, as she laid there flat in her bed breathing like a fish out of water.

So, I step forward and that cloud follows. Somehow, I acquire a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate). That means no airway, CPR, or "heroic" measures. But, that's after she dies. She's still alive. Do I give her meds? Do I pace her? Are those "heroic"? So I do some small things to try and improve her condition, all of which fail. What next? I sit with this dying lady as we drive her to the hospital, where she will die, and does. Where's my damn umbrella?

I step to the left, and the cloud follows. In the form of being sent to a residence for chest pain. On the way, as we zig-zag through traffic and slow down to 40 at the red lights, I get a premonition. It's not going to be good. As we arrive, fire comes running out screaming it's a cardiac arrest. Of course it is.

We start lines, bag him, and shock him multiple times. Eventually winding up in a futile rhythm, asystole, that flat line you always see on ER that they are shocking back into life. That doesn't happen.

A step to the right, and more rain. I needed an airway. I pry his mouth open and shuffle his enlarged tongue to the left, hoping to get an easy glimpse of his epiglottis and vocal chords, landmarks needed to confidently intubate people. I shove my blade in his mouth, see the epiglottis, lift it out of the way and what am I greeted with? Chunks of white, rubbery fat. It seemed as if someone had cut the fat off of a steak and shoved it into his airway. I try to suction it out. But, it's like trying to vacuum a bowling ball with the quickie-wash vacuum hose. I try, my partner tries, and then I try again. No luck. Missing tubes is no good feeling.

I step back, the cloud follows, and he dies. Time of death, 20:26.

Comments

DW said…
Little Abner, It's rained on us all.

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