He was busy taking care of a disabled family member. As he continued helping her out, I could see the hidden grief etched in his eyes. He was focused onward. He had to help that relative, regardless of what had just happened. Her needs didn't end just because his wife's life did. He just had to get through the next several tasks. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let the reality of the situation sink in.
Alone in the room with the patient, we backed away from the compressions. The paramedic pointed out to me the signs of death—it was obvious that we had gotten there too late. Increasing cyanosis, mottling, a cool core body temperature, and possibly even livor mortis were all present. That, combined with asystole, was enough to convince the doctors in the hospital to tell us to discontinue resuscitation efforts. Our faces were solemn as we drew the sheet over the woman's head. Meanwhile, a paramedic went through her medications to compile the list we would need to enter into the reports. We talked back and forth with the 9-1-1 center and we carried our equipment outside. The woman's son drove up, having received the phone call from his dad. Sorrow was broadcasted across his face as everything he knew came crashing down. This was not a patient to him—it was his mom. The person who had raised him, loved him, taught him his values, wiped his nose when he was a child. He drew in shaky breaths, somehow managing to hold it all together for the sake of his family and so he could answer the questions the police and the coroner asked. I could nearly see the memories flashing across his mind as he talked to us. Outside, we finished speaking with the coroner and the police officers and then we told the dispatchers that we were available. We went back to our station to finish our lukewarm breakfast, completed the paperwork, and went on with our day. The only thing I notice now, later in the day as I write this, is sore shoulders from doing CPR and an odd sense of wanting to write about that 9-1-1 call. It's not that their grief meant nothing to us. It's not that we don't care about people. It's just part of the job. The end of the world for you is just a normal day for us. Even so . . . we’ll do everything in our power to keep you or your family from feeling that pain. We’ll administer medications, stop bleeding, give oxygen, or even pump your blood by hand. It’s a normal day in the world, but your pain is real. Your love is real. Your heartbreak is real. But God’s love is also real. Our world is so broken that one person’s grief is a normal day for another person. Taking care of the shattered pieces of peoples’ lives is a normal profession. But there is hope. Another world beyond ours, one where this doesn’t happen. There is no need for CPR—all are alive forever. And all it takes is accepting a gift—accepting the only thing that can take the brokenness of the world out of you. Jesus took the brokenness into himself—and he died to kill that brokenness. Now death is conquered. The grief in this world isn’t about to stop just because you believe that his gift covers you. But it does promise you that one day, it will all be better. One day, jobs like mine won’t exist.
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About meHi, I'm Rachel. I write adventure stories, but I can't let my characters have all the adventures. Archives
April 2021
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