*Details have been altered to preserve patient confidentiality
Arms are throbbing and sweat trickling down my back. On my way back home, it was raining. Everyone is in a hurry to get back home, its rush hour after all. Each of them preoccupied with their own lives, giving me enough space to reflect.
Walking in the rain without an umbrella, I thought: I did my first actual CPR today. On an actual patient. Whose heart stopped. A heart that couldn't be restarted.
It was a mere twenty minutes between the nurses calling the doctor worrying that her fingers and toes were blue; cold as ice, and when the paramedics closed her eyes shut; preserving her dignity in the light of death. "God bless you," he said as he gently pulled her upper eyelids down. I was there helping the doctor upon the first call. I failed to insert a cannula. But I did help write the patient's details on the blood sample bottles. Between the chaos of oxygen masks and sliding her on a paramedic bed, wheeling her towards the ambulance, her pulse was lost.
I was given the task to call for help. When I got back, chest compressions commenced. Hard, fast, brutal. Shock pads were on her chest. After two minutes, just like clockwork, her heart's rhythm was assessed.
Asystole; a term to describe the absence of any rhythm in the heart. The closest one could get to flatlining. Basically, her heart stopped beating. This tall, muscular paramedic started to fatigue. I mean, he was a big man. He did CPR with one hand at times. I volunteered to take over. Up till now, the only practice I had was on dummies so I don't really know what possessed me to step forward. Arms throbbing, sweat trickling down my back. I managed 2 minutes before my muscles burnt out and my brain gave up. The big paramedic took over again.
After 8 minutes, the doctor came to us and called it. "After discussing with the medical team, she has signed a DNAR, is everyone ok to stop?" Nods all around. It was a silent agreement to let her pass with any last shreds of peace. Everyone stepped back and she was wheeled back to her bed to be cleaned for the last time.
The doctors thanked us for helping. "Are you sure you're ok?" they asked. We nodded then headed home.
I don't know how I feel. The best way to describe it is numbness. Like an out of body experience. But reeling in my mind like a broken record player is the patient's last words. Loud and clear, I hear her shouting her two final wishes: "let me die" and "please help me."
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