She was a new mother.
She gave birth this day.
Post-partum hemorrhage.
Ten units given.
Bleeding controlled.
Transfer to ICU.
I go to meet my patient.
She is intubated to help her
breathe.
Her pulses are thready, almost
imperceptible.
A pool of blood escapes her legs.
She is bleeding again.
We call for OB.
We start fluids.
More blood.
A central line.
Check for pulses.
They are gone.
First Code.
Resident starts chest compressions.
Attending leads.
I check pulses.
2 minutes.
My turn.
I stand on a stepping stool.
Put my hands on her chest.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Compressions.
2” deep.
The rubber of her chest contracts
beneath me.
Up.
Down.
Are her ribs broken?
Up.
Down.
1 1/2 minutes pass.
Up.
Down.
100 times a minute.
I’m getting tired.
Up.
Down.
2 minutes are up.
I switch positions.
Code continues.
I watch the up and down.
We are her beating heart.
Can we save a life tonight?
Up.
Down.
Pulses restored.
Pressors are running.
More blood.
Transfusion stat.
Fluid bolus.
Emergent hysterectomy.
Rush to OR.
New admit.
I leave to meet my next patient.
I finish my admission.
Tidy up my notes.
No update yet from OR.
It’s late.
Time for home.
I leave the ICU.
I recognize him.
I saw him say goodbye to his wife,
my patient.
I saw him say goodbye as we left for
the OR.
I walk past him.
He is in that space between patient
and stranger.
We have not met.
I have not had an update.
I double back.
Eye contact.
Mr. Morrison?
Yes.
I was following your wife in the ICU.
Do you have an update?
How is she?
She’s dead.
It hits like ice to my chest.
I gasp.
My hands rush to cover my mouth.
His hands rush to cover his own.
Somewhere between patient and
stranger.
For that minute we stand.
Somewhere between doctor and
stranger.
We look into each other’s eyes.
Somewhere in between new life
struck death.
Now simultaneously we embrace.
We hold on.
The minutes pass.
Somewhere between patient and
stranger.
Somewhere between doctor and
stranger.
Somewhere new father now
widower.
I don’t know why these things
happen I tell him.
I don’t know he says.
And we let go.
My tears are pouring.
Do you need someone?
My friends are here.
Thank you.
And we walk away.
New city.
New hospital.
New halls.
The tears don’t stop.
New life.
Fresh death.
Her pulses were thready, almost
imperceptible.
Was I wrong?
Compressions.
2” deep.
The rubber of her chest.
I was her beating heart.
I could not make it beat.
First Code.
