I vividly remember my first code blue. I was a new nurse, scared stiff to mess up, yet intrigued by all the action around me. I opted to pull medications for this particular situation, and I could feel my adrenaline pumping as I silently urged my hands not to shake while readying the epinephrine.
I can recall being that weird kind of frightened/excited ball of emotions, but then I also remember my feelings at the end. I can remember hearing “he’s only 42,” and the way his large stomach jerked violently with each and every furiously executed compression. Then I can remember the physician asking the team, “does anyone have any other ideas?”
It was at that point, while chest compressions continued, as I saw the downcast face of the seasoned nurses around me, that I realized we were not going to get this man back. His bulbous belly rocked violently and I heard a voice say quietly, “I think his son just arrived.”
I can also recall my last code blue, twelve years later from the first, yet the latter just as clear. In the last I had recorded the medicines and pulse checks as they were performed, a not quite so exciting task, but one that left me open to record mentally the actions and reactions of those around me.
How the cardiologist’s grim expression told the outcome before we had even begun, or how the eyes of each person present visually begged the monitor to give us something good.
Or how we all looked defeated when time of death was finally called.
What I couldn’t forget was the way the husband cried like a small child, bawling in a collapsed heap when he heard his bride had left this world without him. I remember wanting to say something profound and beautiful, but my tongue being stuck to the roof of my mouth, powerless to offer even a meager attempt at sympathy.
I remember the patient I didn’t code. The one whose family finally made the difficult decision to let mom go. I can recall hugging the daughter, surprising myself when I cried right along with her, feeling all too well the pain of her loss like it was my own.
I can remember that helpless feeling of wanting to do something. I either needed to fight for her with all I had in me, or I needed someone to say, “let’s just keep her pain free.” I didn’t want any of that idle business in between.
I just remember praying that God would take her on home. And when they finally said, “let’s turn the machines off,” I think we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Sometimes I think of all the things I’ve seen in between, and I wonder how. How do I continue to be a nurse?
I look at my infant daughter sometimes, so small and fragile, and all the knowledge I have comes to mind. All the thoughts of how fleeting life can be threatens to rock me to the core while I rock my precious cargo, and I have to push every reality of it from me before I succumb to that awful thing called fear.
Then I can recall the first time I saved a life. I can easily remember the hugs, the high fives, and the way my breath seemed all hung up in my throat, blocked there by the disbelief that I had been a part of something so wonderful.
I can’t recall the first time I caught an error that helped make a patient better, or the first time I suggested that one little thing that turned a life around for the better, but I know it happened. Many times.
I can remember the first time a patient’s family member thanked me for my care, and especially what an impact I had on the fella and his wife who stopped me at the grocery store to tell me so.
I can remember being proud of myself last week for successfully starting that difficult IV, or how good I felt after spending the extra time with my patient to listen to his fears about his upcoming surgery.
I can remember those precious moments of much needed pride in myself and my field that rescue me from despair at just the right moment.
I remember them now.
I try to cling to that. I try to hold onto the smiles, the hearty handshakes, and the people I leave better than I found them. And when I’m able to do that I keep going, despite all the rest.
Stephen says
Back in the late 60’s I chose nursing because it seemed to call to me. Something in me felt drawn to help others in their time of need. Nursing, as hard as it is, can be the most rewarding profession on earth. I didn’t make a lot of money. I didn’t wield much authority. All I did was make a difference in my patient’s lives. After 17 years of NICU and 10 years of Peds, I realize that what I did may have affects maybe 1oo years into the future. There is no amount of money that can make me feel better than when I am out shopping and a mother drags some 12 year old girl up to me and starts thanking me for saving her daughter’s life. As she starts talking, I suddenly realize, this girl was the 24 weeker I worked over for 4 months to get her well enough to go home to her family.
When my time comes, and the Lord calls me home, I will know in my heart that I have made this world a better place for having cared for those that needed my gentle touch. There is nothing on earth that is a better feeling. No amount of money or power can be better than that feeling. I was blessed to have been given the opportunity to be a nurse.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much for sharing.
Sondra Tidwell says
If.I.ever could be a nurse I.would want ro be just like u!! I have a heart of gold,love caring.for people taking.care.of.my Mom for.those years,my Daddy always told me I.needed to b a nurse never made it I did get to become a NATIONAL.CERTIFIED MEDICAL ASSISTANT.Will b the closet to.it.. I’ll ever be.. Keep up.the.good work U R.A.HELL OF A LADY,NURSE,FRIEND,MOTHER,DAUGHTER,SISTER,WIFE.PROUD OF U.MY FRIEND!!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you!
Ruthie says
Yes. To all. Simply yes.