The Stethoscope -III

I felt my holder’s shoulders tense as they rolled you into the room. The paramedic pumping against your chest barely pauses as your body is lifted onto the stretcher. Dark curls frame your face. It is a young face. Too young.

The angry mark around your neck tells a story too painful to comprehend. My holder’s hands move to your IV, flushing saline through the line to be certain it works, before pulling open the drawer of the red cart beside you.

“1 mg of epi,” the doctor says.

There is a barely audible gasp at the door to the room. My holder pushes the epinephrine into your veins, then turns to the sound. It is a woman. Her eyes are red and swollen and her cheeks are stained with tears.

She is your mother.

My holder crosses the room and brings her to your side. Your mother stands by your shoulder, close to my holder and she says your name. She tells you to fight. She asks you why.

My holder speaks quietly to your mother, while preparing the next dose of medication. I feel muscles tense beneath me as the doctor tilts your head back and slides a tube into your mouth. I am lifted from my perch and placed over your stomach. “No air over epigastrum,” my holder says and then slides me to your left, then right chest. “Bilateral breath sounds present.”

“Positive color change,” the respiratory therapist says.

My holder turns to your mother. “That means the tube is where it needs to be.”

Hands return to your chest, once again pressing against it, pumping the blood from your heart to your lungs and brain. Your chest rises as the respiratory therapist forces air into your lungs. Your mother whispers to you, telling you that you are strong. I am returned to my holder’s shoulder and I can feel that the tension has spread. I can feel the cry that wants to burst forth. But my holder’s hands keep moving. They prepare the next dose of epinephrine and push it into your veins.

“Are you having any difficulty ventilating?” the doctor asks.

“No difficulty,” the respiratory therapist replies.

The stretcher creaks softly as your chest is compressed.

The air moves in and out of your lungs with a soft whoosh, whoosh.

Your mother whispers your name. Her tears fall to the mattress beside your head.

Time seems to stand still as the team around you continues their battle with death.

Until…

“Hold compressions,” the doctor says.

All eyes turn to the flat line that makes its way across the monitor. A sob escapes your mother’s lips.

The doctor reaches out to my holder, eyes on me. I am handed across you and once again I find myself resting on your chest. I will myself to send a sound to the doctor’s ears. Any sound.

But there is only silence.

Tears fill the doctor’s eyes as they find your mother’s face. “I’m sorry, your child is gone.”

The respiratory therapist disconnects the bag that forced air into your lungs, then steps back.

The paramedic that stayed to continue your chest compression, looks down at the floor, then leaves the room in silence.

The doctor sets me on the counter and leaves the room.

The only people at your side are my holder and your mother. My holder rests a hand on your mother’s arm and asks if she wants anyone else here.

Your mother nods, the words are barely perceptible through her sob, but my holder understands and leaves the room. Now it is only you and your mother. She runs her fingers through your hair. She leans down and kisses your forehead. She wipes her tear off your cheek. She doesn’t speak. She has no words.

My holder returns with a man. He is your father. Your mother turns to him and he holds her as they cry. Together they turn to you.

My holder slips to the back of the room where I lay and picks me up.

“You okay?” the charge nurse asks.

My holder nods.

“It’s blowing up out here. Can you take a patient with abdominal pain in 6 and another with a headache in 4.”
My holder nods, but pauses for a deep breath before stepping into the first room. “Hi, I’m going to be your nurse,” my holder says. “I’m sorry if you’ve had to wait.”

I am proud to be a nurse’s stethoscope.IMG_9580

Note: As the holidays approach us, please remember that there are people around you who are alone and hurting. Some from a loss, but others because they don’t feel like they fit into this world.  Guard your words, because they carry a power that you cannot imagine. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes of the people you interact with…the sales girl who fumbles your order, the man that almost ran you over in the parking lot, or the nurse that finally enters your room after you’ve waited for hours in the ER…..

Teri Lee is an ER nurse working throughout the US and the author of Troubled Spirits, a YA paranormal novel.

 

The Stethoscope – Part 2

Your chest is so tiny that when I am placed upon it, I feel like a cumbersome giant. Your skin is hot and dry and you lay still, too still.

I send the sound of your heart, fluttering beneath your ribs like the wings of a frantic bird to the ears of my holder. When I am lifted away, I notice that it takes several seconds for the color to return to the place where I rested.

Today, there are others in the room with my holder. This is usually the case when tiny people come to the ER. Their voices are quiet, but still,  I can sense their concern.

Wires are placed on your chest as my holder cuts a blue tourniquet in half and then tightens it around your arm. Your mother’s hand is on your head and tears fill her eyes as my holder slides the needle through your tender skin.

You do not cry and my holder’s eyes meet those of the doctor’s and I see the silent message that passes between them. They would rather you had cried.

The needle is withdrawn and my holder whispers an apology to you then moves the blue band to your other arm. I feel a stillness in my holder’s chest as the needle hovers over a vein so tiny, that I cannot imagine it will find its mark. But my holder’s breathe releases slowly as the catheter slides forward and is quickly secured to your hand.

“Thank you,” your mother whispers.

As fluid flows into your veins, I once again find myself pressed against you. But this time I rest against your round belly. I feel its firmness beneath me as I am moved across the four quadrants of your abdomen. There are no sounds to send to my holder. Once again, I am pulled away.

A mechanical whir of wheels signals the arrival of the portable X-ray machine and you are lifted from the stretcher then placed on the firm black plate.

The bolus of fluid finishes as the doctor returns to the room. You are more alert and I am once again pressed to your chest. Your heart still flutters beneath me, but it is no longer frantic. And as I am pulled away, I notice the brisk return of color to your skin. My holder smiles. The doctor tells your mother you are doing better, but you need the specialty services of a pediatric surgeon. She has already spoken with the surgeon and arrangements have been made to transfer you to a larger hospital. As she speaks, the paramedics arrive.

Once again, you are lifted from the stretcher. You cry as you are strapped into your seat. Your mother comforts you.

My holder steps back, knowing you will be well cared for by the paramedics who have now assumed your care.

Hours later, my holder returns the phone to the receiver and smiles. You are recovering from your surgery. As I rest on my holder’s shoulder, I am proud.

I aIMG_9580m a nurse’s stethoscope.

Teri Lee is the author of Troubled Spirits, a young adult paranormal novel, but she is also an ER nurse. This post is second in a series written to increase awareness and respect for nurses everywhere.

The stethoscope

I press against your chest. Your skin is cold and moist and I feel your muscles struggle beneath me as you fight for every breath. I send the sound of the wet crackles amidst the barely discernable movement of air to the ears that are listening.

I am pulled away from you and slung across my holder’s neck. The hands of my holder move quickly placing you in the bed, pressing the call light attached to the rail, fitting an oxygen mask to your face. A blood pressure cuff is fitted to one arm and blue tourniquet is pulled tight around the other. In less than a minute an IV catheter has been placed in your vein and your breathing is maybe a little easier.

A voice echoes over the intercom asking what you need. My holder’s voice is calm, yet firm. “I need a provider in room 5 for respiratory distress. And page respiratory. We’re going to need bipap.” The hands place stickers on your chest and attach them to wires. Your heart rhythm appears on the screen, fast and frantic.

The Emergency Department doctor arrives in seconds and begins to give orders for oxygen and IVs then stops, seeing these things are already done. A respiratory therapist pushes the bipap machine into the room as the provider states, “page—” then notices the therapist and looks to my holder and says, “Thank you.”

“Blood pressures 182/56,” my holder states briskly. “Do you want nitro?”

My holder’s hands are already pushing the spike into the glass bottle of medication, hanging it from the pole and sliding the tubing into the pump as the provider gives the order for the medication.

A new mask is fitted to your face, this one is much tighter.

Ten minutes later I once again press against your chest. You skin is warm and dry and your breathing has eased. I send the sounds of the air moving in and out of your lungs to my holder’s ears. The wet crackles are still there, but only at the very bases of your lungs. And the panic is gone from your eyes as you thank my holder with them. As I am flung back up onto my holder’s neck, I am proud.

I am a nurse’s stethoscope.

Teri Lee is the author of Troubled Spirits, a YA paranormal novel, but she is also an ER nurse. This post is written in response to a blatant lack of education demonstrated on The View regarding the role of nurses. Please feel free to share.IMG_9580