Not at 5, suprisingly

You gotta love a day that starts out with a full blown code. Most hospitals have "pre-code" teams, the kind you call when your patient is starting to look like they are trying to die on you. Or not try, but succeeding to. However you want to look at it. Anyhow, not my patient was looking like crap. The wrong shade of yellow. And he couldn't breath. But that was the least of his problems. Long story short, he got himself to the ICU and promptly died. Not a good day for the man. I almost joke in my head that if he was going to get sick and die, it was a good thing he was already in the hospital! But then I think, if I am about to die, I certainly do not want to be in the hospital.
His last words were, "I can't breathe. Help me." That was at 9. I think they pronounced him by 11. It got me thinking, what do I want the last words on my lips to be? "Watch this!" "Betcha I can!" "Woooooo-hoooooooo!!!!!!" or "I love you!" I plan to live to be 122, so I guess I have a while to figure it out. Of course, if God decides to take me sooner, that's fine too.
It was invigorating and reaffirming to have a code though, all jokes aside. I feel my heart tighten as the distinctive beeping overhead starts and hold my breath waiting for the room number to be called. Sometimes you already know what number they are going to say. I did this time.
Calling out for more glove, a flush, suction, it makes me feel so alive, part of something bigger than me, like I am doing exactly what I have been primed to do. Amidst all the chaos, there becomes a synergy of focus between the doctors, rt's, and nurses in the code. Funny how for a quick moment, you don't hear anything. The more codes you are at, the more your hearing improves and soon you notice every beep, order yelled across the room, even the ripping of the plastic around the flush.
The first time I did chest compressions, I cringed at how with the first compression, 3 ribs snapped under my palms, and the jerky grinding of the edges of broken ribs against each other was just so unnatural. So is the resistance the body gives against each compression. By the end of a day after giving compressions, you feel muscles you never knew you had, and you are sore for the next 2 days. A strange reminder of how delicate life can be.
I did not do compressions today, I did not hardly do anything with him, once the code started. He was pretty much doomed from the get-go. But it still felt good to be part of the team. In oncology, we do not usually fight death so physically. Usually it is slowly dragged out over days and hours before finally slipping in. I am okay with it though. And again, I am reminded of how lucky I am to be able to leave this place at 7 and go home. Tomorrow I will go hiking to celebrate. It is good to be me.