You know, while you're waiting for the news to be over so that you can watch the Olympics.
Actually, the Olympics are pissing me off. Indianapolis too closely resembles Russia (Siberia) these days. Yesterday, we hit the snowiest day in the history of mankind in Indianapolis.
Do me proud, Indy! Our freaking snowblower broke during the "freak" blizzard of January 5-6, when it was -40 degrees. The first time. Jack and I reasoned, "Hey! We live in Indy now! This was a once-in-a-hundred-years storm!"
The first time.
We should have fixed that #*@&^#&! snowblower! I'm still sore from shoveling the other night.
I'll admit it...I'm over it. Like, forever. If I ever complain even once about 93 and humid this summer, you can dump my margarita over my head. And then roll me into an ant hill.
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I started the above post a few days ago, meaning to return. If it helps, it's now 65 degrees, the snow melted in a scant 30 hours, things are flooding, and oh, now we have a tornado watch. Why not!?
So today was easily in the top 10 of worst days ever. Raging weather-related migraine aside, I lost my first patient. Well, my first real patient. We have lost a few patients but their deaths were a result of last-ditch efforts or hospice care that eased them peacefully into the next life.
This one was an outpatient. She was walking and talking when she arrived. She did not go home.
At the time of the Code Blue, I was standing in one of the main hallways. We always freeze when we hear "Code Blue" paged overhead. Especially when we hear "Code Blue, Outpatient Services," there is a 95% chance it's my department. I stand there like a mime, waiting for the shoe to drop, so I can dash off in the right direction of the Code.
This time, it was "Code Blue, Outpatient Services, CT Scan."
Off we went.
I arrived about 20 seconds after the Code was called and saw my staff already initiating chest compressions to restart the patient's heart until the ER team arrived to help. I'm not at liberty of sharing any more details since the case is going to formal review, but many silver linings came out of this one.
The team responded so gracefully. These radiology staff are not trained in emergency or trauma medicine. They are not used to seeing projectile bleeding (well, for that matter, neither am I). They're not used to physically feeling a patient grow cold, knowing that individual is dying in their arms. They've never witnessed repeated, unsuccessful attempts at shocking a patient to restart their heart. It's tough stuff and no amount of training prepares you.
Another first for me today, I had to go with the ER doctor to talk to the family. They had no idea things had turned so grim. When I spoke, someone else's voice came out of me. She sounded calm, professional, and together. I felt a big disconnect because inside, I was shaking like a leaf.
After the incident cleared and the staff cleaned the patient up so that the family could visit her one last time, I called a formal debriefing (more of a de-stressing). One of my colleagues is a trained debriefing professional and I knew I needed a pro for this one. In a group setting, she asked everyone how they were and what they were feeling. It was the first time many, even the ER nurses, had a debrief. While I don't want to have too many Code Blue's in Radiology, I will definitely continue that practice.
It's so hard to see my staff struggling with this. And I realized, driving home, that I felt a growing heaviness on my own heart. While we had no negligence in this case, it's my job to keep patients safe. It's my job to make sure that when they walk in, they are able to walk out. I felt a deep stabbing of yuckiness at the terrible direction this one case took. It wasn't our fault and still, we were helpless in changing that patient's end.
I kept hearing the phrase "Maybe God needed her more than we did" come out of my mouth. I'm not really sure what that means but I think it was me, trying to make some sense out of a terrible situation.
The upshot to this was the intense teamwork I saw, not just in Radiology, but across hospital management. People came out of the woodwork to support me and help me make calls (when you have an unexpected death in a hospital, there's a ton of paperwork and phone calls. You have to notify everyone from the CEO to Risk Management to Public Relations - in case someone starts a media firestorm). When I finally stumbled back to my office, several directors had left voicemails, offering to help me. Once word started to spread, some took it upon themselves to help me notify the necessary individuals.
I felt like they were angels, swooping in to take some of the burden off of these weary shoulders.
So while the outcome of one of our procedures today was awful and totally unexpected, I found solace in the fact that our team did the very best they could. And that I'm really not alone out there; that in the moments when I most need support, there are angels hiding in the wings to come to my assistance.
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