Years of medical training can never prepare you for your role in someone else’s tragedy and its emotional impact The most important part of every night shift is matching your scrub top to your bottoms. Odd shades, bad luck. Match for the best chance of success. I’m full of superstition because fate doesn’t follow conventional rules. I sit, cross-legged comparing until I’m satisfied with my choice. I pull my clothes off and my blue scrubs on. Stethoscope, badge and water bottle. Downstairs, grab phone and rush to handover, hoping I’ve remembered my pen. Back of house, but this is no theatre production. A list of jobs to mop up from the day. Twelve wards, the nurse practitioner and me, “Let’s hope they all behave tonight”. First up, fluids. Ward 50 needs a cannula, or two, or three – while I’m there. A couple of bags of normal saline go up and it’s time for me to go down to ward 20 where a lovely woman has slipped off the commode. She’s ever so embarrassed. A check from head to toe, some reassuring words and an offer of a gingernut. Then back to the desk to scribble down the story. The phone rings, again and again, sore foot, chest pain – blood pressures through the floor and in the clouds. A woman sobers up and wants to leave – listening, persuading, assessing and eventually letting her sign the papers to walk out the door, no doubt next week we’ll meet again for the same dance. A warm hand on my shoulder and cup of tea beside my hand. “Do you want some cake doc?” – I want nothing more. The 3am slump is here and sugar is my drug of choice. I sit, and chat – and melt into the ward for a few minutes. An unfamiliar sound from round my neck – I answer, crash call. I drop everything and run. Down two flights of stairs, along the corridor. Turn right. I see a set of anaesthetic greens in front of me. “Bay four, bed six” a voice shouts, we pile in. A man lies on the floor, breathing hard. Oxygen on. Pulse felt. No response to voice, grumbling to pain. Eyes deviating to the left. I grab the notes and start piecing together the history. Mild upper body weakness, query stroke, a head scan showed nothing much. Back to airway, gurgling noises from his throat. A tube down the nose to help get air into the lungs. We take an arm each, one for arterial blood and one for venous. My hands don’t shake. Stabilised, we need imaging and fast. I ring the radiologist, ready to plead my case. “Send him down” she says. The ease of the phonecall doesn’t fill me with hope. My senior house officer grabs the emergency drugs from the crash trolley and a fresh faced nurse clutches the oxygen ready to transport. They follow him down. The ward becomes quiet. I flick through a thin set of notes to try and build a picture. Lives with a loving wife. Walks his dog every day. Gave up smoking years ago – drinks a couple of pints on a Friday. Not too bad for a man in his 70s. Children and grandchildren. A bed slides through the doors and he returns, the report is back. Large bleed. Blood pushing the brain against the skull. Neurosurgical opinion advised. My registrar arrives, talking fast to someone. I hear “grave”, I hear “imminent”. The bleed is too big and his brain is crushed. There is nothing we can do. Keep him conscious, keep him comfortable, next of kin. The newly qualified nurse goes white. The notes are in my hand. “I’ll call,” the words leave my mouth before my lips move. A 4am phonecall to a telephone number. A quiet voice answers. She only left at 11pm, the nurses say. “I’m calling from the ward, about your husband, things have changed and I think you need to be here”. She’ll be here as soon as she can. Panic seeps through the phone and into my hand. “Will I make it?” her voice cracks. “Will I see him before he dies?”. “Call me as soon as she arrives” my registrar says. I nod. She leaves. I stay, breathe in, walk around the corner, shut myself in the clean utility and put two hands up to my wet face. These aren’t my tears to cry but they still come. I push them all back in. Professional. Years of training do not prepare you for this. Nothing prepares you for your role in someone else’s tragedy. I will leave the hospital in four hours and his wife will still be clinging to his hand. I will come back in 16 hours and they will both be gone. A new name earmarked for his bed. Another story that might end a different way. The phone rings, and someone needs something. A temperature, a catheter and some laxatives. I glance down at my trousers. They were a perfect match. Source
