Around 2:00 pm, I was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall with my computer. I was getting ready to discharge my patient, the most adorable older man with an infectious smile and a great sense of humor. I was sad to see him go but happy that I had the privilege of sending him off. 2:30 pm — the end of my 8-hour shift — was right around the corner, and I was more than ready to start my weekend.
All I needed to do was go over the discharge instructions and remove his IV.
And then I heard it — faintly, then louder. “Code blue, room [ — ], code blue, room [ — ].” Immediately, I realized it was on my unit, just a couple of doors down from where I was standing.
I pushed my computer out of the way and sprinted down the hallway, faster than I had ever run in the hospital. I was the second nurse to arrive — the first to respond to the nurse who had initially found the patient unresponsive. I don’t know what I was expecting when I got to the room, but maybe I wasn’t expecting to find a patient who looked so bad, so distinctly hypoxic.
At that instant, it was as if something inside of me switched. A minute ago, I had been preparing to do some patient education, excited that in half an hour, I would be finally finishing my fourth consecutive shift. The next minute, I had to channel every life-saving fiber within me, as my body inherently flipped into fight-or-flight mode.
I ripped off the patient’s gown and began chest compressions. I had never done compressions on a real person before. I had only done them on half-bodied, plasticky mannequins who were certainly not on the brink of death.
Push hard and fast. Compress the chest at least 2 inches. At least 100 times a minute. The mantras from all my BLS classes were becoming a reality.
My only focus was on saving this man’s life.
15 or so seconds later, the patient started to become responsive, right as someone pushed me out of the way to continue compressions. By then, there were at least 10 or 15 people who had streamed into the room — other nurses, nursing assistants, anesthesiologists, fellows, residents, interns, and medical students. I was squeezing in between the Dynamap and the IV pole and ducking under wires. I wasn’t sure of my role, but I did everything I was capable of to help. I shouted to the nursing assistant to get the EKG machine. I hung a bag of normal saline and primed tubing and tried several times to get a blood pressure reading. I helped a doctor who was unfamiliar with the EKG machine. I tried not to add to the noise that had engulfed the room.
Finally, after additional IV access was established, magnesium and amiodarone and oxygen were administered, and a shaky EKG and some vitals were retrieved, the patient was transferred to the ICU.
It all ended just as quickly as it had begun. When I returned to the room, it looked reminiscent of a deserted hospital war zone—a gigantic space in the middle where the bed used to be, saline flushes on the floor, and equipment on chairs and in corners.
I walked back down the hall. I picked up my discharge right where I left off. Sweaty and with my hair probably looking like it had seen better days, I rushed into the patient’s room, profusely apologizing for the delay. I explained that there had been a code, even though I was sure they had probably heard the announcement and seen the barrage of people running down the hall. I could still feel my heart beating fast and hear the camouflaged tension in my voice, the adrenaline that had been coursing through my veins only beginning to subside.
The wife smiled empathetically. “Honey, it’s okay,” she said. “Take a deep breath. We’re retired; we don’t have anywhere to go.”
At that moment, I had never appreciated a demonstration of kindness and compassion more. I smiled back.
“Thank you for understanding,” I replied. “Thank you.”
Almost an hour and a half after the intended discharge time, I finally said a bittersweet goodbye to my patient. I wheeled him down to the pharmacy to pick up his medications, then out to the front of the hospital, where I sent him off with a hug.
“Even though you’re so sweet, I hope I never see you again!” I joked, as I waved goodbye.
I was struck by the juxtaposition of these two events — one a frantic race against time to bring a human being back to life, the other a joyful, smile-filled farewell to someone returning home. It was surreal to me that I somehow transitioned from pounding on someone’s chest to discussing ciprofloxacin and clopidogrel.
But this is because I am a nurse. This is what I do. This is what nurses do. We will do everything in our capacity to save your life, should you require and want it. We can launch into crisis mode at anytime; we are trained in the art of expecting the unexpected. We excel at delivering excellent chest compressions and sticking you with needles and giving you oxygen and medications.
But we also are also skilled in the intangible. We can talk to you about your antibiotics in language that you can understand. We can connect with you in ways that other healthcare professionals cannot because we see you 8 or 12 hours a day, sometimes multiple days in a row. Often, we speak to you not in words but in hands that are held and bodies that are embraced.
And sometimes, we do it all in the same day.
Ephesians 2:10
