I watched a man die tonight.
I watched a man die tonight. Before my very own eyes.
Sure, he was sick. He had lost a lot of weight over the last few weeks and his family had noticed a sharp decline in his health recently. He hadn’t been eating, had not been truthful with family about his medical problems, and was convinced that the hospital was out to kill him. So was his younger, bigger brother, who, luckily (if you want to call it that) had some premonition to check up on his sibling tonight.
He was sick, that’s all there is to it. But not sick enough to where he thought he may die. Especially tonight. He realized something was wrong, but neither he, nor me, had any forethought that in 30 minutes he would be dead. In the back of the ambulance he was stable. Although sick, he was stable.
I could tell you what the hospital did, or didn’t do. But, that’s a waste of time.
I stood in the corner of the ED room. White tile and linoleum decorated the room with bright cumbersome lights attached to scopes on the ceiling. The metal bed with the black mattress held the 120 pound man, contained him as he struggled to breathe. His respiratory rate decreased and his effort increased. His body began using every muscle in attempts to oxygenate his body, his heart, his mind. His stomach bulged in and out. The muscles on his shoulders and between his clavicles squeezed every last fiber to help his chest rise and fall. The depth of his respirations gradually decreased, as if he were drowning. Like a fish out of water. He kicked his leg off the bed. The MD allowed this. “Whatever makes him comfortable”, he said.
The man I was just talking to, the one who had no idea that this was the night, that this was the hour. The one who walked up some stairs and onto my bed and was concerned about locking his house. The man, who was dying in front of my eyes.
“Intubate him! Intubate him!” my head screamed like a broken record.
His eyes were now bulging from the sockets. He was swinging his arms, fighting for his survival. His respiratory rate plummeting like soap suds down the drain. He stopped fighting. He couldn’t hold his head up and it fell to the side, his eyes still open. His heart still beating. He was exhausted, his body was done. It could do no more to oxygenate his body.
They finally intubated him. But the damage was done. His heart rate began to fall because of the lack of oxygen it had received over the last half hour. The heart is a muscle, too. And it, also, was tired. 40, 30 12, 0. It fluttered in shock. It had a meltdown, going into chaotic, nonviable rhythms. They crushed his chest with every compression. The broken ribs crackled as each pump attempted to circulate oxygen into the heart and throughout the body. His lifeless body stared at the bright telescoping light as these people attempted to remedy the situation. It didn’t work.
I don’t think he should have died. It was destined, especially with his medical problems. But not tonight. It saddens me that healthcare is like a roulette table in Vegas. You never know when your numbers going to come up. And even though you can stack your odds, in the end, it’s a game of luck. If you throw lucky 7’s, you get the smart MD, the right RN, and the “A” team. If you throw craps, well, then your lucks up.
And you die.
Sure, he was sick. He had lost a lot of weight over the last few weeks and his family had noticed a sharp decline in his health recently. He hadn’t been eating, had not been truthful with family about his medical problems, and was convinced that the hospital was out to kill him. So was his younger, bigger brother, who, luckily (if you want to call it that) had some premonition to check up on his sibling tonight.
He was sick, that’s all there is to it. But not sick enough to where he thought he may die. Especially tonight. He realized something was wrong, but neither he, nor me, had any forethought that in 30 minutes he would be dead. In the back of the ambulance he was stable. Although sick, he was stable.
I could tell you what the hospital did, or didn’t do. But, that’s a waste of time.
I stood in the corner of the ED room. White tile and linoleum decorated the room with bright cumbersome lights attached to scopes on the ceiling. The metal bed with the black mattress held the 120 pound man, contained him as he struggled to breathe. His respiratory rate decreased and his effort increased. His body began using every muscle in attempts to oxygenate his body, his heart, his mind. His stomach bulged in and out. The muscles on his shoulders and between his clavicles squeezed every last fiber to help his chest rise and fall. The depth of his respirations gradually decreased, as if he were drowning. Like a fish out of water. He kicked his leg off the bed. The MD allowed this. “Whatever makes him comfortable”, he said.
The man I was just talking to, the one who had no idea that this was the night, that this was the hour. The one who walked up some stairs and onto my bed and was concerned about locking his house. The man, who was dying in front of my eyes.
“Intubate him! Intubate him!” my head screamed like a broken record.
His eyes were now bulging from the sockets. He was swinging his arms, fighting for his survival. His respiratory rate plummeting like soap suds down the drain. He stopped fighting. He couldn’t hold his head up and it fell to the side, his eyes still open. His heart still beating. He was exhausted, his body was done. It could do no more to oxygenate his body.
They finally intubated him. But the damage was done. His heart rate began to fall because of the lack of oxygen it had received over the last half hour. The heart is a muscle, too. And it, also, was tired. 40, 30 12, 0. It fluttered in shock. It had a meltdown, going into chaotic, nonviable rhythms. They crushed his chest with every compression. The broken ribs crackled as each pump attempted to circulate oxygen into the heart and throughout the body. His lifeless body stared at the bright telescoping light as these people attempted to remedy the situation. It didn’t work.
I don’t think he should have died. It was destined, especially with his medical problems. But not tonight. It saddens me that healthcare is like a roulette table in Vegas. You never know when your numbers going to come up. And even though you can stack your odds, in the end, it’s a game of luck. If you throw lucky 7’s, you get the smart MD, the right RN, and the “A” team. If you throw craps, well, then your lucks up.
And you die.
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