Sunday, March 4, 2001:
Feeling : Burning out.
Hat-less Bald Man Index (Little Deaths): 20 (+1).
Inevitability Index (Big Deaths): 35 (+1).
Last Movie Seen : Chunhyang ... ah, lovely
chaste courtesan's daughter Chunhyang.
EYE OPENER
7:03 a.m. at work (not today though):
"Here’s the pager. By the way, they just paged me for an expiration in room ####."
"Thanks," and I headed downstairs.
The Oncology floors. They smell different. Not like the usual bodily dysfunctional smell, but more of -- just what you would expect -- doom. I presume it was the son on the phone when I walked in. His mother was clearly gone.
"Yeah … the Lord took her … she’s gone," I overheard him say.
I opened her ancient eyes. Windows to the soul. Lackluster old ivory, swollen like fishy things. White strings floated behind the lens like ghosts and cobwebs. Soul far gone.
I talked briefly with the son about formalities (autopsy? funeral home?) and left. It wouldn't be long until one of the grey-covered gurneys would be picking her up.
Not a few minutes later, paged again. Breathing problems on another floor.
ME : "Do you have a catheter in?"
HUFFER : "No … *huff* … I haven’t been able to pee."
ME : "We can make you pee."
HUFFER : "No, I haven’t … *huff* … in 3 years."
I look at him again, older, smooth almost shiny dark skin. Fragile like the charcoal remains of a campfire.
ME : "Hemodialysis?"
HUFFER : "Yeah."
I get called again before I could finish writing his orders.
"We’ve got a sick one here. I can barely get his pulse. Blood pressure isn’t picking up."
"Shouldn’t you call the CPR team?"
"He’s a NO CPR."
"I’ve got an emergent patient right here. Give me a minute. Try calling this other number for now."
Paged again to same floor twenty seconds later.
ME : "Did you get a hold of that other doc?"
NURSE ON PHONE : "I think the patient’s dead now."
Yep, he was dead alright. But so recently, I had to make extra sure. Still warm, I kept looking and listening to him to convince myself he was gone.
It took some effort not to start pounding on his chest and reciting one of several CPR pathways / stances in my mind – oxygen, monitor, fluids, Epi, atropine, dopamine, levofed.
<STANCE CHANGE>
It’s occurred to me since my days as a resident that the various pathways of the CPR protocol are akin to various martial arts stances or kung fu styles. A true master has to have in-depth knowledge of each movement (drug) of each stance (pathway), and know when to change stances to better defeat the Final Boss (death). Defeating the Final Boss is far easier in the video games than in real life though, even on ultra-hard level.
</STANCE CHANGE>
It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of a CODE. Still, some aspects of running a CPR are like riding a bicycle … on a tightrope … over Prometheus’ Pit … with the seat missing.
The next call was to see a man who "fell out of bed."
Hardly, he just slipped off the side and sat on the floor. Just like he had done everyday at this time for the past three days. It’s part of his morning wake ritual.
Maybe for these people they should just put the bed mattresses on the floor (like in Korea). Then he could roll out of bed onto the floor, then roll back onto the bed (like a drunken Korean man).
<conspiracy theory>
Who’s idea was it to make beds three feet off the floor anyways? Are the neurosurgeons trying to drum up business? (Kidding! Neurosurgeons are great. I love the punk-ass haircuts they give their patients. And besides, three feet is only ORTHOPEDIC injury height. Four feet is NEUROSURGICAL.)
</conspiracy theory>
That was the first hour of my day. The rest was more manageable. Two live ones and two dead ones. I'll quit while I'm even. (At least for this journal.)
DEATH VIRGINS
I was reminded recently that some people have never actually seen a dead person.
This realization almost stunned me. My reality must seem quite skewed to some of those people. (Or maybe just I'M skewed.)
I can barely keep track of the number I've known who have died (a.k.a the Inevitability Index), let alone the number I've seen or personally pronounced who I hadn't known before (not counted in the Index count).
Someone once asked how Amy and I must see the world after dealing with life-and-death on a daily matter-of-fact basis.
I can't really say. I appreciate the fact that some 80-year olds can get around without a tube in their throat and/or stomach. I appreciate the fact that a healthy 20 or 30-year old is for all purposes a walking god or goddess on this mortal earth.
I realize that life itself is not always a gift or worth the relentless pain it can force on the helpless spirit. But I never want to be the person to decide when is enough.
I can tell you that whatever fascination one might have had with Death or morbid things in general will itself die after your fourth of fifth corpse, if not sooner.
And I definitely appreciate the softness in a woman's cheek ... and the warmth and sweet scent behind a lover's* ear as the last thing you remember before saying goodbye to your life that day.
(* Amy likes calling us that now ... "lovers.")
Which makes me wonder, why the hell am I still up now?
Good night.
And yes, Iain (in reference to my previous entry), Smurfette did indeed have nipples in that cartoon. You just had to look at her with your eyes closed, like I did :-).
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