When it’s time…

Posted: January 26, 2012 in Work
Tags: , , ,

A collapse, simple job, check the patient over and maybe send him in for a check up…

As we speed along the dual carriageway, an update over the radio “patient is in cardiac arrest, no CPR being carried out”.

The car suddenly speeds up as my mentor jams the pedal to the floor, wheels squealing as we tear round roundabouts and corners, through junctions and over bridges to get there even faster.

We arrive on scene, leave the lights running, grab our bags and jog into your house, following the screams and hysterical crying into the living room. One look and we can tell your husband isn’t breathing, his lips and ears blue, eyes lifeless. We pull him out of the corner, rip his shirt open and I start on chest compressions as my mentor starts breathing for him. Counting under my breath “28…29…30”. We slap the pads on his chest, look at the monitor to see the crazy lines of his heart quivering in ventricular fibrillation (VF). Charge the defibrillator and shock him, energy coursing through his chest, making his limp body stiffen for less than a second, and then back to pounding away on his chest, feeling ribs crack under my palms, feeling his chest give way.

A crew arrive to back us up, and he is cannulated, adrenalin, amiodarone and fluids all coursing through his body, desperately trying to start his heart again. You’re in the kitchen, crying with your daughter and son-in-law, as we desperately fight to save the life of your husband. We scoop him onto a stretcher and run out to the ambulance, and I’m grabbed into the back and we accelerate off, flying over bridges so fast I swear the wheels and my feet leave the ground, as I desperately try to keep his blood moving around his body.

We arrive at hospital, shock you once more, and a doctor tells us to stop…he listens to the chest, looks at the screen, and decides to call it. As we tidy up, you arrive with your family in my mentor’s car and you’re taken inside to talk to the doctor. I get out, go and get my lunch that was bought just before we got the job, and sit down with a cup of tea. My mentor comes out, gives me a grin, and we head back to station to tidy up and re-stock.

I’m sorry we came running into your house.

I’m sorry I didn’t ask your name.

I’m sorry we couldn’t save him, your toyboy, after you’d been married almost 60 years.

And I’m sorry that it’s only just hit me, and made me think.

We did everything we could, tried everything possible, and fought the only way we know how to save his life.

Advertisements
Comments
  1. […] an eye opener, and an experience that will probably stay with me the rest of my career, just as my first cardiac arrest will. Though this will stay with me, not because I saved a life, not because it was a massive RTC, […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s