One of the worst things about this job is coming in to discover that a patient that you least expected to run into problems, died overnight.  You backtrack through the chart notes reading what happened while you were off, seeing the whirlpool unfold, sucking in more physicians, tests, data, as the lab numbers and vital signs paint increasingly grimmer pictures until the abrupt end, often with a description of how long the CODE BLUE lasted and who was notified.

You go over the trail again and again wondering what you could have missed or done differently with your retroscopic time machine.  Even if you come to some sort of peace with your decision path, lesson learned, disdain for textbook arrogance, or acceptance of universal entropy, there’s still the more important matter of those most affected – the family.

Grown children.  Angry husband.  For them, the world has been torn in half.  Quickly, unexpectedly.  How could they not want justice, revenge, or equalization of such devastation.

“The husband was freaking out, understandably, but seemed better after things got better,” my night colleague informed me.  Of course, then things got bad again and again.  Five CPR CODES in one night might not be a record, but it’s got to be close to it.  Sometimes the body can be quite persistent in its attempts to die.

“I’ve looked at everything.  I don’t know what we could have done differently,” I say over the phone, rubbing my forehead.

“I don’t know either.  But this is probably not over,” my colleague adds.

I drag my feet all day, nothing compared to what her loved ones will be feeling for years to come.  Should I call?  He’s probably still mad, or making funeral arrangements.

Some nights my baby girl asks if she can listen to my heart with one of my spare stethoscopes.  If she asks tonight, I may have to refuse.  I don’t think she’d like what it had to say.