My First Kicked Bucket
So, we all know I work in a hospital, and maybe even that I work in the Cardiac ICU (read: heart attack central, Capital of Angina, the Ground Zero of Cardiomyopathy, or the ER's little brother). It's a reasonably stressful place to work at times, when people are on vacation and I'm left with 4 paralyzed or hemiparetic patients to care for in most imaginable ways (that is, the basic bodily functions tend to be my area of responsibility; eating, drinking, washing, defecating, urinating, exercising, plus controlling all their vitals). Even though we see our fair share of pretty critical patients, action and drama like what's seen in TV's "ER" is rarely on the menu. Yesterday, though, my medical horizon was broadened thanks to the nature of my workplace. Yesterday I met my first dead body.Patient X was alive and well in the morning, experiencing some blunt feeling pressure and pain in his chest and left shoulder. He was 92 years old, tall and fit. Yet, without knowing it, his number was up and he was only hours away from that final farewell. Patient X felt okay considering the circumstances when arriving in the ER, so after receiving some oxygen and nitroglycerin (yay for nitro, the quick-fix), and some other vital drugs, he was wheeled up to the 3rd floor and my department, the Cardiac ICU. He was suddenly feeling dizzy and tired, and was wheeled into one of the emergency rooms. Once inside the door, the big one struck: a clot loosened off of one of his arteries, got stuck in one of the heart's own arteries, and blocked half the heart's blood flow. Patient X had coded, and before anyone could do anything, he was gone.
Considering the patient's age (92), the previous story might not have been that surprising (we all have to die from something at one point). I did, though, see the possibility of a learning experience, and volunteered to help prep the old man for his next stop (zee eerie cooler). I never actually saw the man while he was alive, but now I felt there was something to be learned from his death. The first thing that met me when I entered the emergency room where he'd been (technically his body was still there, but of course religion will explain why I don't believe he was), was the lone bed in the middle of the room, with a male body covered to his chest by a blanket in it. He was pale, very pale, and his eyes were closed. Weird thing was, as I was standing there, alone, I kept thinking this was when he'd quickly open his eyes and start screaming or moving. But, of course, that never happened. The seriousness of his situation (the whole deadness thing) really hit me when I focused on his chest, which wasn't moving or expanding. There was no visible pulse on his neck, no blinking or trembling of the eyelids, and no sound whatsoever. No breathing, no coughing, sighing, or laughing. Nothing. Just a lifeless, cold, pale body in a bed. Maybe it was the fact that I'd never seen the man alive that made it so hard to connect the shape in the bed to an actual human being, because after a while it started reminding me of those plastic ResusciAnn manikins that we use for practicing CPR, and that made it increasingly hard for me to feel anything about the soul's former vessel in the bed.
Patient X was probably a remarkable human being, a remarkable man. We all are, in some way. Knowing what TV-shows he liked and what his hobbies were would probably have added the necessary emotion to the event of his passing for me, but I think my relationship to the dead body would have remained the same. The instant we draw our last breath on this planet, our inherent union separates through a process best described as the mother of all schizophrenic episodes, leaving the water and carbon based bag of bones behind. For the few days after a death the body might serve a function as the relatives' anchor point to the person on this earth, but after this it is ultimately (and cruelly, considering how many acts of love and kindness have been conveyed through this medium) returned to the soil to start a new cycle of living things. But there is no soul in the soil. This, the actual life of our liveliness, has long since parted ways and is now comfortably finding its place above the clouds. A body is therefore just a body; no person, no life, and no personality can be found within the body's confines after its contract has been terminated. And I know you agree with me on some level, no matter what religion you belong to.
There is no soul in your salami, right?
Labels: Medical, Philosophy, Ponderings, Religion, Work
posted by CK @ 15:00
