I QUIT....and then...
I ran through the door at 3pm, a few minutes late. The hallway was filled with stretchers and wheelchairs holding patients that had been waiting for hours. The air was warm and thick; the air conditioner had apparently malfunctioned again. I swallowed my urge to run out the door into the fresh air and weaved through numerous EMTs/Medics and ER staff to read my assignment.
On this day, I was placed in a smaller section of the ER. It has a wall that blocks off much of the chaos in the surrounding department. I sighed with relief when I entered and saw it looked somewhat manageable, at least for the moment. Plastering on a smile, I forced myself to believe that today was going to be a good day.
It did not start that way. Right away, I felt my body tense with the pressure of many tasks. One admitted patient had a low blood pressure. Another needed treatment for chest pain. Yet a third need to go to the bathroom. Within minutes, my smile was gone. I wanted to throw my hands in the air and quit, but I didn't. I trudged through, as best I could, knowing that everyone in the department felt the same way: frustrated.
And then, a hush fell over the department. The only thing that could be heard were the muffled words of a paramedic via our radio system. Everything stopped for one split second. The charge nurse then rolled into action and prepared the trauma room for a pediatric cardiac arrest. The most senior nurses were pulled into action. I was one of them.
Over the years, for one reason or another, I have managed to avoid such a situation. So, here I was, an experienced nurse, doing something for the first time. Everyone prepared for the worst case scenario, because when when the medics are busy working on the patient and don't have time to give a full report, we don't get a lot of information. So, we get every possible piece of equipment ready, just in case.
I wasn't nervous; I was ready. (I think that's the bonus of experience.) When the child arrived, everyone jumped into their designated role. The team was a well oiled machine, working on a tiny patient who never really had the chance to live.
After all efforts were exhausted, the pediatrician called the end of the code. The family was brought over to the bedside.
Piece by piece the equipment was put away. Paperwork was completed. The trauma room emptied out. I took a deep breath and returned to my assigned patients with damp eyes and a heavy heart.
As I rounded the corner, pats on the shoulder and words of encouragement gave me strength. I couldn't help the child, but I could help those who lay in the beds nearby. So I took a deep breath and smiled.
"What do you think of that book you're reading?" I asked the patient who had been irritable just prior to the event.
She began talking. By the time she left, she was happily thanking me for the great care she had been given. Even the patient next to her thanked me a million times after discharge.
I don't know if the knew what transpired in the trauma room; I doubt it, because they didn't ask me about it, as patients frequently do. But they certainly responded to my change in demeanor.
And that's when I realized why I haven't yet thrown up my hands and quit. I love what I do. So many departmental changes have left me frustrated. Overcrowding in our ER has taken its toll, but I can't yet walk away. I have to believe there is hope, especially in the face of tragedy.