Busy, busy!

It's been so crazy around here. Always working, schooling, volunteering, or...well, there's no good one-word gerund for it, but...hanging out with people. I have stories to write, and no time to write them! Hopefully tomorrow I'll have enough time to sit down and type out some thoughts. We'll see though; thanks for sticking with me.

Go check out Normal Sinus if you have the chance. We're finally up and rolling again; we had a little bit of a lapse in posting because of the fact that the world much prefers to keep us all busy than entertained :( But luckily, Epi has been kind enough to take on posting!

Oh, and when your significant other makes eyes at you from across the ER while holding fat flaps for a doc doing a central line, you know they're good for you. Either that or you're both totally dorky. Okay, maybe both.

Take care out there,
Sam

Socks

I remember the first time I saw a dead body that I knew to be truly dead. I had seen my grandmother right after she died when I was five, but for some reason, I was pretty sure that she wasn't really dead; she was just tricking us all.

But when I was 14 years old, I had the opportunity to go to the National Youth Leadership Forum on Medicine in Houston, Texas. I was all about medicine. Either I was going to be a pediatric radiation oncologist, or a forensic scientist. I quickly realized that being a pediatric radiation oncologist wouldn't help me bring back the two I couldn't save, so I moved onto the goal of forensic science.

"Pick a field visit," our group leader said showing us the list of places we could go. M.D. Anderson and The Texas Heart Institute were just two of the places--big names. Everyone wanted to go to those and didn't care so much about the little hospitals or doctors' offices. One name leaped off the page to me. "Harris County Medical Examiner's Office," I read softly.

"You wanna go there," the leader asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh yeah, definitely, I want to be a forensic scientist."
"Alright. Anyone want to go with Sam to the coroner's office?" She looked around, and everyone stared at their feet.
"Guess it's just me," I sighed.

A few others from different groups decided to go, so there was a group of about seven of us. I was excited and nervous, not knowing what we'd see. We spent some time handling plasticized organs and learning about different diseases that they often saw in their office. We took our lunch break, and knew what was going to happen next.

We suited up in gowns and masks, tying our hair back under flimsy blue caps. Shuffling about, I always get pushed to the back. I'm the smallest, youngest member of the group, and it's very apparent.

We step into the first room, and they're just finishing an autopsy.
"Sorry kids, we're all done." There's a bit of a groan let out from some of the guys.
"Not to worry," our escort says, "we've got one just starting in room two."

We move over to the next room, and there's a black man in his forties lying on the cold steel. He looks like he's asleep--comfortable. I look him over from head to toe. His hair is a mess, a strange smirk dances across his unshaven face. He's not the right color, but I can't figure out what exactly is off about it. His fingernails are dirty and a yellowed towel lies over his groin. My gaze continues, and I see his ankles. Those sock marks that are always on my legs at the end of the day are still on his ankles. It looks like he just took them off a few minutes ago to take a nap.

"Whoa," I sigh.
"'Scuse me," the coroner says as he pushes through the crowd.

I watch intently as they make every incision, explain every organ and ask us some questions. Everything is fascinating to me, but I keep coming back to the sock marks. I wondered how he got them, and what color the socks were. I wondered where the socks were now, and who took them off of him.

"Any questions," the coroner asks looking up from the bone saw.
"I have one," I say as I raise my hand.
"Shoot."
"Do you ever wonder who they were? You know, like before they ended up on your table."
"I used to," he said, "but then it ate me up inside. I've stopped wondering. Sometimes I make up stories about them for myself, though. Happy stories, you know? It's easier when you don't know the truth."
"Yeah."

I still wonder where those socks are now.

Ben

I promise I won't embarrass you, Ben, honestly. Oh, by the way, I've named you "Ben." I know you're reading this, which is...why I'm writing this. So everyone else who's reading it...just go along with my giddy stupidity for a while?

There are very few words, or strings of words, that can compel me to make some sort of involuntary noise. "There's been an accident," is an example. I will almost always gasp, cover my mouth, or say something intelligible.

"We need to talk," is another string of words that makes me sigh or groan. I dread unexpected, awful things like these.

So when you looked at me in the dark, and knitted your brow, pursing your lips, I expected the worst.

"Hey Sam?" Your tone was puzzled, anxious, and it scared me.
"This isn't going to work", or maybe the overused "We need to talk," is what I expected. I don't know why. Maybe I'm just gun shy, after hearing bad things come after that anxious tone.

That's why I bit my lip tentatively before answering you with a simple, "hmmph?"

But then you surprised me. After taking me out to the beach, walking for hours with me in the cold wind, and treating me to dinner, I thought you couldn't get much better. No one does those things anymore, do they? Opening car doors, walking between me and the curb; you do it all. I was surprised, flattered, and impressed.

"Too good to be true," comes to mind. I'm glad it's wrong, though. Ben, it's so wrong.

So when you took my hand and I could feel your radial pulse beating wildly in my arm, I was scared. Why would you hold my hand when you were about to tell me that you were seeing someone else and it was getting serious, or that you just didn't feel for me what you thought you did? I was prepared for it, though. It wouldn't be the first time I had heard it.

But what you said shocked me. I couldn't really speak. All I could do was make that involuntary noise, a little squeak in the back of my throat. I managed to force out the words "of course," before squeaking again.

It was dorky, adorable, heart-warming, and perfect, the way you asked me if I'd be your girlfriend. I wouldn't have it any other way; you know that.

Thank you, Ben, for showing me that they aren't all the same, or maybe that you're just different. Perhaps both. Regardless, I couldn't be happier to be your girlfriend. ...Officially.



And, uh, sorry if I'm embarrassing. It's what I do.

Sometimes I Guess They Do Live

"Swear to God, she's in this tiny little back room, situated on this hospital bed," he continues.
"Isn't that always the case," I ponder, drinking some more pepsi.
"So we go back there, and she's like 'Oh, I don't feel so good,' and we're talking and whatever, and then swear to god, she just...like...dies."
"Well shit," Eric pipes up.
"Yeah. So I'm like dragging her out by her arms and trying to put the backboard behind her somewhere, and she's just doing crazy things on the monitor, y'know?"
"Ooo, what kinds of crazy things!?"
"Things I've never seen before in the field."
"Nice," I exclaim, "go on."
"So I'm doing CPR and while I compress, I'm perfusing her obviously, and she sort of grabs the stretcher and moves and stuff. It's weird. I've never had that happen."
"Happened to me once, but nothing significant," I say.
"Well she was straight up moving and her eyes were fluttering. So anyway, we get her in the back of the medic, and I've already called for Tom to meet us on scene. Well he shows up, and she's AWAKE," he almost yells.
"Wait, what?"
"Yes! Woman is straight up alive. I ask her what hurt, and she says 'nothing, if you'd stop pushing on my chest.'"
"Holy jesus!"
"I know, right? So Tom like...doesn't believe me that she was just in arrest. I ask him to ride it in with me because I'm afraid something's going to happen again, y'know?"
"Right, so did he?"
"Yeah! And sho'nuff, ol' girl goes back into arrest, and Tom is like 'shit!' Yeah, I told you man, she was in arrest. So when I compress, same thing happens. It's surreal. And we get her there, and she's alive again, and in the hospital's hands."
"That's some crazy, crazy stuff there."
"You wanna know what's craziest?"
"Um, sure."
"A few weeks later, I find out that not only did she survive to walk out of the hospital, but I'm EMS provider of the year."
"Whoa, nice job!"
"I'm like...it's not me, it's her and her weird heart stuff."

Eric and I giggle and snap off a little salute.
"To Paramedic Hall," he starts, "the greatest provider in all the lannnnd!"
I try not to choke on my drink as we get some random debris chucked at us.

"You're just mad it's not you!"
"Oh no, no, sir, we could never take that honor away from you, the greatest provider in all the lannnd," I say, echoing Eric.
"Well anyway, like I said, it's not me, it was her. Sometimes I guess they do live."

And Another Thing

I wrote in my post, "Dead," about the way I dealt with a recent code. You all know me; you know how I deal with traumatic events in my life. I am stoic and collected during the crisis, and then break down later. When I'm done with my breakdown, I get my proverbial shit together, and move on with the things I need to do.

I don't really think about the burned children anymore. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, hearing that mother screaming her child's name when she finds out she's died. I look at the house where I run my first code every time I go to the station. I always remember the things I see, I just deal with them as they come and move on.

I got an influx of emails and comments and response posts from what I said in "Dead." I really do appreciate the kind words and the advice. I know that there are some of you out there who have been doing this longer than I've been alive. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me; I have so much to learn from people like you.

But when I was a young girl, I had many people who were close to me die in a relatively short amount of time. I learned that everybody dealt with tragedy different ways. Some laughed, recalling good times they had with the person. Some cried uncontrollably. Some wrote poems. Some didn't do or say anything. And what I find interesting is that not one email or comment seemed to agree on the "right" way to deal. It was actually this interesting pattern I noticed that has sparked me to do my ENGL 410 (Literature of the American South) research paper on the way in which Southern grieving differs from the rest of the nation. I hope to interview a few of you for this paper.

Again, thank you. Please don't think I'm not listening, but you have to know that I'm always going to deal with things my way. The next time I write about a code or a rough call, I'll probably talk about breaking down afterwards in some form or fashion. I'm a tender-hearted girl, and I can't see this kind of devastation without reeling from it later. I've never been one to bottle away my emotions; when I do, my parents and friends probably want to kill me. I'm a seething bottle of bitch. It's not nice.

So I'll always deal with things as they come, and I'll always be hurt by the events that should hurt. Hell, I'll always be hurt by the things that wouldn't affect most people (I cry at...well, everything).

But please, keep sharing the wisdom, experiences, and thoughts with me. I (always) love knowing what you think.

Take care out there,
Sam

Birthday

"I don't think I'm ready for you to go," she says as she stands next to me in the dimly lit kitchen.
"Aw, you'll be okay," I say as I look at my feet.
"But what if you go to college, and some skanky girl tries to spread rumors about me or start a fight?"

I laugh and blink back some tears. I didn't like the idea of her being alone with no one to look after her. I knew she could take care of herself, but I had been there these past few years to make sure no one messed with her.

"You'll do great."
"Aren't you scared, Sam?"

And here I face my dilemma. Do I admit vulnerability for the sake of honesty, or do I bluff to stay strong in her eyes?

"Honestly...I'm terrified."
"I would be too."

She looks up at me with big, sad eyes. My heart breaks.

"Do you think you can come back for my birthday party?"
"I...I don't think I'll have a way to get back."
"Oh. It won't be the same without you."
"I know, I'm sorry."

And then I break down, my tears splashing down my shirt, exploding silently. She takes me in her arms, wrapping herself around me like some sort of comfort blanket.

"Oh, don't cry, Sam, don't cry," she says as her own tears splash into my hair.
"I don't want to go," I sniffle into her shoulder.
"You're going to do so great, you won't miss this at all."
"But I'll be so new and scared and what if no one likes me?"
"Who won't like you!? They're stupid."
"Come visit me?"
"Of course."

And standing there, holding me in my kitchen, she comforts me the way I used to comfort her, and makes me feel like everything is going to be okay, the way I've always tried to do for her.

Happy Birthday, Paula. Sorry I've missed it for the third year in a row. I love you.

Dead

And so he died under my hands, right there on the table.

"Stop, just stop," the doctor said to me softly, pulling the leads off his chest.
"But, I..."
"Just stop, Sam, it's okay."

Twenty-one years old, with his whole life ahead of him, and he's dead. There's no word for how dead he is. Alive, shot, dead.

His memorial tattoo for some relative or friend looks up at me. Twinkling eyes, even in that tattoo, taunt me. "RIP," it says, but now it's for him.

Shot in the femur. Dead.

My compressions do nothing but circulate stale blood through tired veins. The bladder has given up too, and the muscles relax for the first time in twenty-one years.

Dead.

"Time of death, 2213." He was dead before that, but now he's dead in the eyes of the government.

"Good job, everyone." Yeah, right. If it were a good job, he wouldn't be so...dead.

His arm hangs, useless, to his side. Hitting me in the leg during CPR is its final act. I pick it up gently in my hands and put it on top of his stomach.

Dead.

"Somebody get this kid a blanket, extubate him, and call the family into the meditation room."

"This kid." A year and a half older than me, than this kid. I'm just one kid who tried to save another kid's life.

Dead.

I skid on some blood on my way out. Fuck it, I don't care and neither does he.

And then a funny thing happens. I go to the locker room, and call my mom. I've done this after every code I've run. I tell her what happened, feel a little sad, and usually cry.

But tonight, I shed two tiny little tears, hang up the phone, and go back to work. I don't spend the night thinking about him. I don't actively confront my own mortality. I just move on.

It's not that it doesn't hurt--it does. It's just that I don't have time for it to break me down.

And for some reason, this satisfies me. I'm getting stronger, getting better at this. I still feel it; I'm not jaded. I'm just less affected.

But he's no less...

Dead.