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.
It is truly a profound experience to witness the cycle of life – from
beginning to end – all in the same room. I am honored to support families
through the hardest and most beautiful times.
(Wilfred Campbell, 77 years old. 50+ years as a logger, still falling
trees. Loved the bush and loved being on the sea.)