11 PM Sunday night. I was there. There in a room full of doctors and nurses as we pumped, pushed and pounded on the chest of a four year boy. For nine minutes.
I watched while he never took a breath. For nine whole minutes. It felt like a blink. He didn’t come back. He was never there.
A previously healthy four year old boy.
A boy.
I’ve tried to think about what I should say about it, how much I should say. When the doctor called time of death and we all stopped working on him, stopped trying to save his life, and everything was quiet, all I could do when we walked away — was cry. It was my first one.
My first death as a nurse. The death of a child. And I was there.
It was terrible. Utterly, most heinously, unbelievably terrible. And shockingly poignant.
It’s not the same as losing a grown person. It’s not the same as a sick person, or a baby before it’s born. It’s not the same as anything.
I can’t describe it to you, unless you’ve been there. It was unlike anything I imagined it would be. It was hideous, overwhelming, and breathtakingly still. It was also beautiful.
Beautiful only in the sense that I was there in this moment that will carry on forever in another mother’s heart. A moment when a beautiful life just stopped. A moment that doesn’t make sense on any level, a moment so precious and private, and unbelievably unexpected. And I got to be there. I was there. I was THERE when it was all over, and he was gone.
What an awesome moment that is. What an amazing responsibility I have and a gift for me to be a nurse. To be given an opportunity to heal the sick, care for the hurt and tend to the dying.
In the end all I can do is walk away with a little piece of it tucked into my brain, my heart, a piece I will never, ever forget. I can revel in the joy of my sweet baby’s giggles, breathe in the scent of her soft blond curls and curl up at night next to the warm curve of my husband’s back. I can drive to work every night, ready. Prepared. Dedicated to do my very best. Heal who I can heal, teach who I can teach, save who I can save and every now and then be present for a few of the worst moments of someone else’s life. My job is a privilege. I am lucky to do what I do, and love it.
I was there.
Incredible.
You are also responsible… responsible to be the compassionate loving individual that those of us who know you, know you are; but now, you get to show that to people who may not otherwise see a friendly face, a loving tender touch or a sense of compassion both during those horrible, life altering moments, but also, for those wonderful ones when the parents do get to take the babies home, with a semi sigh of relief. Bless you… may others see the beauty in your commitment! I am so proud of you!
I once thought I wanted to work in the NICU but soon realized that I wouldn’t be able to handle the crushing blows that come with that job. It takes a special person to be able to work with kids and be able to process all that comes with it.
You should be proud of yourself.
Wow. I can’t even imagine.
[...] Comments « I was there. [...]
I couldn’t do it. No way.
It definitely takes a special person to be able to witness that horror, to process it, learn from it, and walk away. But to not walk away hardened…still someone who longs to help, whose heart is open, who will go through it again, and hurt again, and heal again, and help others heal again.
Because I know others don’t remember to thank you….thanks.