The Thin Flat Line Between Life and Death

Illustration by Jennifer Rodgers.

A patient has died. His nurse begins postmortem care.

“I tell myself the things I always do—it was his time, we did everything we could. I can hear someone crying outside the room.”

In this month’s Reflections essay, author Kassandra August-Marcucio shares her feelings as she performs the steps of this protocol after a failed resuscitation attempt. We are reminded of each task, of the feelings of guilt that can arise (“I was his nurse and he died!), of the last contacts with the patient’s family.

“The exaggerated zip of the bag is final.”

Almost every nurse has cared for a patient after the patient dies. Sometimes the nurse and patient have barely met; sometimes the patient is well-known to the staff. Many nurses (most, I hope), whatever their religious or spiritual beliefs, approach postmortem care with some sense of the gravity of the moment of someone’s passing. The “routine” tasks involved take on a slightly different aura than the other tasks of our days. Still, it’s hard not to rush through postmortem care to attend to the pressing needs of other patients.

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2018-06-28T10:04:41-04:00June 27th, 2018|narratives, Nursing|3 Comments

The Underlying Connection Is Nursing

Angel sculpture on grave marker photo by author

Marcy Phipps, BSN, RN, CCRN, ATCN, TNCC, an ICU nurse who recently took up flight nursing, is an occasional contributor to this blog.

I recently experienced a series of events that seemed interconnected and orchestrated.

It started with my usual morning run. I was jogging out of my neighborhood, already sweating in the summer heat and absorbed—coincidentally—in an audio podcast about trauma care, when I came upon a man sprawled in the middle of a usually very busy thoroughfare. His motorcycle, badly damaged, was lying on its side next to a car with a crumpled door panel. The accident had clearly just occurred—traffic hadn’t yet backed up and no sirens could be heard heralding imminent assistance.

I had the weird sensation that I’d been running to the accident all along. I held his C-spine and monitored his neuro status while an off-duty paramedic managed the scene. Unexpectedly, a cardiologist I sometimes work with emerged from a nearby café and held his fingers to the man’s radial pulse, and then several more off-duty paramedics arrived.

It seemed fortuitous to me at the time—not the accident, of course, but the proximity of medical personnel who were so quickly available. And I had the impression that, despite not having worn a helmet, the motorcycle rider would be okay. […]

Intensive Care of a Different Ilk

MayReflectionsIllustrationThis month’s Reflections essay (“Intensive Care”) is by John Fiddler, an NP who describes his work as an inpatient hospice nurse in New York City as being “as close to the ideal of nursing as I have ever been.”

This is a big claim—but if you read Fiddler’s brief, artful summary of the evolution of his nursing career, which started in an actual ICU, and then his description of what he found when he went to work in a hospice, you might find that he makes a pretty good case.

Here’s a small excerpt:

Inpatient hospice to me was the room at the end of the palliative care corridor that I had never bothered to visit. I had pictured it as a quiet haven for the dying, where birds chirp outside and music is heard playing through open windows as patients calmly drift off and up into dusty shafts of sunlight.

Not quite.

Instead, picture a unit where patients arrive on stretchers in extreme pain and distress, afraid, breathless—usually with families trailing behind, holding on to as much emotional and personal baggage as they can carry. Often these patients bear the physical and psychic bruises of a prolonged ICU stay.

And this is what happens here…

Maybe the author will someday find another ideal of nursing care, or maybe he won’t, but it’s worth reading his account of the current one. Reflections essays are open access. (Click through to the PDF […]

The Hospital as Foreign Country

Capture“A Foreign Place,” the February Reflections essay by Barbara Sosman, delves into one patient’s experience of the sometimes inscrutable, sometimes terrifying, sometimes humorous events and encounters in one small corner of a hospital.

Below are the first two paragraphs, but as always, it’s worth clicking through and reading the entire essay (the PDF version is best). This one would be particularly hard to summarize; it takes us to unexpected places.—Jacob Molyneux, senior editor

The flow of life and death in a hospital is mysterious, like the sound of a foreign language, and the mysteries that bring us here are profound. Stretched out in an unfamiliar hospital bed, I suppress realities, aware that tomorrow a scalpel will remove an enlarged node for a biopsy. The biopsy will show what I sense, a cellular chaos that threatens my life. Soon my disease will be presented like an offering. What will I do with it?

A room can become a universe and time there an infinity. This room is inhabited by women, of whom I am the youngest by decades  . . .

As always, comments are welcome.

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