She Was Sick. Really Sick.

She came in sick. They all do. But her? She was a particularly sick child. She came in sick, getting worse by the minute. Her parents brought her in at a good time, they didn't wait too long. It wasn't their fault. She was just a sick, sick kid. 

When we get an admission on our unit (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit), it's like a well practiced routine. Vitals, report, plan of action. We got her vitals, listened to her report, and the brainstorming began. Fluids were given, meds were pushed. I was new, the health care team wasn't. I watched, waited, listened, and did. 

Vein after vein, I.V lines were attempted. A special line to give medication straight to the heart was successfully placed after a couple of tries. We spent hours in that tiny room, crouched over her crib. 

Fluids, meds, ultrasounds, scans, sterile procedures. We tried it all. Because that's what we do. You try what is best, and if that doesn't work you try something new. We. Don't. Give. Up. There's a part of everyone who works in health care that's the same, the part that refuses to give up. Maybe we love a little too hard, and hope a little too much. We get attached-it's inevitable. We see someone hurting, someone sick, and we have to get involved. It's a part of us that you just can't strip away. It's a part of our identity. It's who we are, and why we do it. And it's why we keep doing it, even after the pain, and the loss.

The code alarm went off that afternoon. The sound that makes everyone drop what they are doing and sprint towards a room. The sound that gave me nightmares for the first few months. The sound that means to expect the worst. 

And so I sprinted. We were ready. We've done it hundreds of times. Each of us has a role, we all know it, we all start it. I'm new, but the team isn't. The doctor takes the lead, making orders, ensuring everything is being done. A nurse to push the meds, a nurse to feel the pulse. A pharmacist drawing up medicine, the respiratory therapist bagging the child. One tech drawing labs, another performing chest compressions. And me, standing next in line for compressions. 

I've practiced it dozens of times, been trained over and over on the technique. But there is no way to really be prepared for physically putting your hands on the chest of a person and forcing their heart to beat. Two minutes was up and it was my turn. We switched on a pulse check, and the second they said, "No pulse, continue compressions," my body moved into autopilot and I started my role. The other tech was coaching me, commenting on my recoil and depth, making sure I was going fast enough. Training took over and I did what I had to do. Two minutes later we switched again. 

It's hard. You can't think about it. You have to focus on your job until it's done. And so, while I waited, I watched, focusing on the technique and pace, making sure I was ready to imitate when it was my turn. And then it was and I let my training take over once again. I watch my hands, memorizing their movement, because the second I look away, I'm going to look at the face and you can't look at their face while you are doing chest compressions. You just can't. 

It was during that round of compressions that the doctor turned to talk to the parents. To tell them that there was nothing more we could do. It was then that we were told to stop everything, and the time of death was called. It was then that the parents' hearts were crushed as they fell to the floor in pain. It was then that I have heard some of the most painful cries I've ever heard. 

We quickly and quietly moved our things to let the parents have some time. The strange thing about after a code, is that we don't have time to stop and think about what just happened. There are still sick people and we still have to do our jobs. And doing my job was the only thing that kept me from crying at work that day. Everyone checks on you after a code, because no matter how long you knew the child, or how long the code took or how it went-it. is. hard. It's hard to know that despite the teams best efforts, a child still died. It's hard to know that your hands were the beating heart for a child that is no longer alive. It's hard, and it sucks. It really sucks. For the parents, for the family, for us. 

I sat in my car and cried that day for a long time. I cried for the child, for the loss, and for the pain of that family. I cried for all of us that spent so much time trying to save that child, and I cried for myself, and for the very real pain that I was feeling that day. I learned more lessons about life in that one day that I ever have before. And every time I put my hands on a person and am their beating heart, every time I walk past a room where a person is about to die, every time I come to work and hear of a child that has passed away, I cry. It might not be a lot, but it's what I do. It's how I feel and how I care. It's who I am. No matter how long I've known them, no matter my role in their life, I hurt, and that's okay. 


This article was featured on the website, Love What Matters, along with the article "I'm More than Just a CNA."

http://www.lovewhatmatters.com/its-hard-to-know-your-hands-were-the-beating-heart-for-a-child-who-is-no-longer-alive/

http://www.lovewhatmatters.com/13-31-thats-how-much-i-make-an-hour-because-im-just-a-certified-nursing-assistant/

More than JUST a CNA

"Push a little deeper...watch your recoil...1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and...good pace, good rhythm...pusle check hold compressions...no pulse continue compressions...switch on 3, go a little faster and a little deeper....good waveform... not an ecmo candidate...pulse check hold compressions...no pulse, talking to parents, resume compressions...stop compressions, time of death: 1430." I was there. I worked with all the others, being your child's beating heart for an hour, praying so hard they would come back just to hear those 3 words that would crush your world.

$13.31. That's how much I make an hour. Because I'm "just a CNA."

But I am so much more than JUST a CNA. I'm more than just someone who changes briefs and feeds people. I'm more than just the stuff getter and the linen stocker. I've done moret things than you can imagine, loved more ways than you know, smiled more than I can count, helped more, hoped more, cheered more, worked more, healed more. I've done all the things no one wants to do, so people can heal again, love again, live again.

I've helped strangers relearn to walk, taking each painful and slow step right by their side. I've cheered them on when they surpassed their goals, walked these now friends to their cars to never see them again.

I've changed dirty brief after dirty brief for hours and days just to make sure my sweet old people are well taken care of. I've held their hands when they hurt, hugged when all feels lost, rubbed backs, sung songs, listened to the same story day after day after day. I've learned love and patience and humility from these people whose story they allow me to hear. I've been family on holidays when they had no other. I've combed their matted, smarled hair so they can look beautiful one last time before they pass. I've sung songs, told stories, held hands so they didn't die alone. I've learned love and then watched it die over and over and over again.

I've been the force that makes people's heart beat while doctors and nurses try endlessly to save them, doing chest compressions for minutes and hours. I've watched parents fall down in grief knowing their child was dead, keeping my composure together while knowing the dear child I've grown to love is no longer here. I've watched people take their last breath, done chest compressions so much my arms are shaking and sore, helped with procedures while knowing they probably won't make it. I've held heads while doctors drilled into them, helped with sterile procedures, drawn blood vile after blood vile for necessary labs,  and watched slowly as all our effors were in vain.

I've changed linens, washed bodies, and shaved faces. I've combed hair, pushed wheelchairs, and brushed teeth. I've laughed time and time again, heard hundreds of life stories, grown to love thousands of people, sobbed with patients and families, gone home and cried alone for the life's I've known and lost. I've rubbed backs, massaged muscle cramps, held hands, and been cried on. I've calmed babies, holding their small bodies for hours, I've comforted the middle aged woman whose father just passed, and I've been the last face the your grandmother would see.

I'm what you don't see. Serving, helping, learning, loving. I'm running for 12 hours straight and coming back the next day for another shift. I've worked through the night, and every weekend. I've given up countless holidays with my family so that one day you might spend them with yours again. I've had my heart grow hundreds of times taking care of people and had it break hundreds more when people die. I can't tell you the amount of miracles I've seen or the amount if times my life has been touches and changed. I see life differently. Life is something precious, something we are never guaranteed. I've learned to charish moments and to savor the love, because one day it might not come anymore. I've seen and gone though things most people couldn't handle. And I'd do it all again if I could. I love, and learn, and grow, and try as hard as I can every time, because I've seen life. I've known death. And I am here.

I am so very much more than JUST a CNA. I AM a CNA.