I’m sitting at my desk, trying to get through some paperwork. The clinic isn’t too busy – it’s just after New Year’s and the last few days have been a bit slow.  It’s a nice reprieve from the usual busyness.

Someone comes to my office door and says, “The first responders are bringing a patient up – he’s not breathing!” All the nurses spring into action; we prepare the ER for what sounds like a full cardiac arrest.

We prep IV lines, pull out meds, get the Lifepak ready and quickly review each other’s roles. Who’s the team lead? Who’s starting CPR? Who will document? Who’s starting the IV and pushing meds? Do we have the cardiac protocols ready? Who’s calling the doctor in case we need help? There are only four nurses in our station and we are lucky as most stations only have two.

We hear the sirens scream and see the ambulance lights flashing. The first responders are here and it’s up to the nurses to take over care. 

The patient is wheeled in and quickly transferred to our stretcher. He’s not breathing and has no pulse.  Even though we all know what to do, we are all scared.  There is no doctor on site. This man is in full cardiac arrest.  We have limited supplies, limited equipment and limited means to intervene. We are four outpost nurses, ready to try and save a man’s life.  Along with the first responders, we’ll get to work and do our best.

After 30 minutes of chest compressions, three rounds of epinephrine and zero signs of life, we call it: time of death is 3:45pm.

There is family at the bedside and even more lining the halls. As soon as we call it, and stop all interventions, I hear a voice say, “You’re giving up?  No... No... No... No!”  Tears, grief and wailing soon follow. Sadness and shock are so heavy I can feel it hanging over us in the room. Yesterday, this man was walking, talking, smiling and living life. Now he’s gone.

I stay late that night, along with one of the other nurses, so we can be there to support the family. We wait for the RCMP and the coroner: we help prepare the body for transfer. I talk to the family and learn about their wishes. I make sure the body leaves through the doors feet first so he is not left looking back, making it harder for him to move on. These small acts, I think... I hope... bring some peace to the family.

After he’s gone, and the family has left the clinic, I stay to clean up the ER.  As I put things away and prepare the space so it’s ready for the next emergency, I stop to think.  Was it only two years ago that I stood in this very spot and witnessed one person’s life begin? And today I stood in this same spot and witnessed another person’s life end.