My Day
Excuse me for butting in. I know I haven’t been here in a while but I need to get this day out of my system and I can’t think of any other way.
I was house supervisor today and was forewarned it was to be a rough shift. A heavy surgery schedule. A slew of direct admissions. A bunch of the team leaders in training. Several key peers on vacation. Some VIPs that needed schmoozing. And more.
The few troops left in charge gather in my office for my morning “Combat” meeting. I suppose it’s called that because it’s where we plan on how we’ll attack the day. We strategize. It seems doable.
Phone calls come non-stop. “Yes, of course, I’ll take care of it.” “Your patient has the tiniest veins ever? I’ll come try to start the IV.” “You have a migraine? I’ll find a replacement.” “Your patient is climbing out of bed? I’ll get a sitter.” “yes, I’ll find a menu in Bosnian.” Then I get the call that makes me slow down. The call from someone that didn’t know who to ask for help. I sit at my desk and log on to the electronic medical record system. I nod to my Bed Board Coordinator to take my calls. I listen while he tells me his concerns. They are many. I listen to see what he wants. Thinking he’ll get there eventually. Out it comes. His story. How this was so sudden. Unexpected. How could it be? Was it true, what they were telling him? “But I just lost my Dad.” He meanders around the details. Asking questions about small things. Hoping they’d add up to something different than the answers he’d already been given. But they don’t. I give him time and honesty and tried to give him comfort. He asked my name and then thanked me by it.
Catch up time. My coordinator has handled the things she could and efficiently triaged the tasks left for me. I tackle them using my cell as I walk to get my second cup of coffee. I get a call that necessitates my computer and sprint back to my desk. I fix the manager’s “computer problem” which was an easy fix. But he would rather call me to handle it than take five minutes to suss it out for himself. I press the receiver button just long enough to answer the call-waiting. Something I do probably a hundred times a day. I see it’s the maternity ward. The nurse on the other end is shaken but retains her composure. I know this voice. Not who she is, but what it means. Something tragic has happened. Deep breath and listen. “I need you to meet me at the morgue.” “I’ll be right there.” I grab my keys and head down the hall. The walk is long enough to think about what this means. I am a mommy. I push away the thoughts of this baby’s parents. It’s too much. I can’t slow down for that. Regroup. Get it together. This happens. A lot. The double doors swing wide and the nurse comes into view. The white plastic bag in her arms has a hospital baby blanket wrapped around it. If you didn’t know, you’d think it was just a swaddled newborn. She was singing to her. A soft lullaby as she patted the tiny bottom in that rhythmic way that comes naturally when holding a sleeping infant. She hands her to me with the paperwork that requests the pathologist to figure out what went wrong and turns to go.
I unlock the door and go in. I walk over to the counter and sign her in. Date, time, my name, her name. Her name. I don’t want to look. I look up at the wall blankly. Then I realize I’m bouncing. Doing that Mommy dance. Soothing, swaying, rocking her. I wondered when I started. I flip to the second page to look for her name. “Baby girl” is all it says. Good. That somehow makes it easier. Okay, it’s time to let her go. Open the cooler door and just do it. The cold smacks my face and I pull her to my chest. It’s so cold. She’s still warm. How can I leave her there. She clearly doesn’t belong. She’s a baby. The other occupants are big and old. They fill out their adult sized body bags. I know their names and stories. They make sense. This tiny girl in my arms doesn’t belong with them. The tears start as I think about her mother. Knowing she’s two floors up and hoping she’s not thinking about what I’m doing. It’s so unnatural. I have to do it though. I open the container we use and gently nest her inside. Pat her one more time and say “bye bye baby” as I close the lid quietly. I walk back to my office with the feeling of emptiness lingering in my arms.
I tackle my missed calls and am on the phone when my coordinator answers her personal cell phone at her desk. She never does that. But it’s her son’s school. He’s been in a fight. Suspended. She has to leave immediately. It’s okay. Go. I can cover you. A phone call from my best friend serves as a mini escape. I even laugh. I needed that so much. Somewhat restored, but still aching, I start again.
Now I start to tread water. No hope of getting anything substantiative done. Just do what must be done to keep everyone safe.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. It just won’t stop. The desk phone. My work cell. The transfer line. The bed board line. The very special answer this right away or else line. Oh? Your tech is doing what? Sleeping in an empty room. I’ll be right there. No. I don’t want to hear why you’re tired. If you aren’t acutely ill you’re fired. You’re not? Okay. I need your badge. Call human resources in the morning. Do I need to call security? No? Thank you. Good luck.
Ring. Yes, I’m going to have the afternoon staffing meeting even though the coordinator is gone. How else will it get done?
ATTENTION PLEASE.
ATTENTION PLEASE.
ATTENTION PLEASE.
CODE BLUE TWO WEST.
CODE BLUE TWO WEST HALLWAY.
Don’t think. Just run. Control your breathing. Center. Algorithms run through my mind. She’s not a patient. A family member. Sprawled out in the corridor. So many bystanders. Goodness. Step back please. Please step back. She’s breathing. Good perfusing pulse. Good. Roll her onto the gurney. Let’s go.
Back to the office. I cant do it all. Staffing. I have to do that. Okay. I’m sorry, the census has dropped on your unit. I have to cancel you. Yes, I know you have bills. I’m so sorry. I’ll call you in if we admit three more patients. I know. I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll remember. Yes. Okay. Repeat times four.
Report time. My relief walks in. I haven’t even started my shift report email. The one that goes out to all the important people. The one that better be spot on or I’ll get a phone call within five minutes. I hurry through it as quickly as I can. Why? Because I have plans. Plans for right after work.
I head out. Going to see my long time friend. We have kids the same age. They’ve grown up together. Her husband coached my boys for many seasons. We aren’t close. Our bond is strong because of the children. Years together at the ball park will do that. I pull in to the driveway. And walk up. I stop at the nurses’ station, “Can I see her?” “I’m sorry. We just gave her morphine.” I slip down the hallway and speak to her husband as he’s returning from somewhere else in the hospice center. We’re fine. She’s doing well. The kids are amazing. Thank you for coming. I’m sure she’d be sorry she missed you. We hug and I turn to go. I reach my car without thinking. Drive home and take a bath while I think about her dying and how weird that is. I can’t think about the kids tonight. That’ll have to wait. I need to head to bed. My next shift starts in eight hours.
