Thread by @rn_critcare

I pulled into the hospital parking lot for night shift with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I'd heard on the radio about a bad trauma when I was on my way in to work. Somehow I knew it was going to be a rough one...

After dropping my lunch bag off in the lounge I called to check in at home. My dad is visiting and having a movie night with my kids. Tomorrow is football & he travels 2 hours every week to spend it with us.

I was disappointed to have to work, unsuccessful at trading the shift away. At the main desk where we get our assignments the station was abuzz with chatter about the new trauma. I check, I'm nearby, but not directly assigned. A small mercy. My heart's just not in it tonight

I introduce myself to my patient. A lovely stable independent fella who is ready for transfer out of the ICU. I question why this is my only pt.

"We need you to help with the trauma"

Ugh. That pit in my stomach is back.

I peek in the room, and am surprised to see that they are already removing her breathing tube.

'Can't be that bad' I say to myself.

I do the assessment on my own pt. They can come get me if they need me... I regret not bringing a book, it's going to be a long night

I finish writing my assessment and am about to grab a coffee when a number of family members come in to see the trauma patient, followed by a number of doctors. Grim faces. Shit. Something else is going on...

I'm asked to stand guard at the door, which I notice hasn't been fully closed. It's too stuffy in that room with all the people so they've left it open a bit. The patients husband is visibility upset, I watch him be guided into a chair at the bedside.

The patient is starting to fully wake up. She's asking about her kids. Her mother grabs her hand while the husbandlooks like he is going to faint.

"We're so sorry to inform you..."

The screams and wailing that follow let me know exactly what they've told her.

My role as guard has been upgraded.

I'm now helping transfer the patient, who herself has more fractures than I can count, onto a stretcher.

So we can wheel her to visit her dead children.

The wailing haunts me to this day.

We carefully bring the stretcher up to the bed where her children lay lifeless. Despite the broken bones, she attempts to crawl into bed with them. The pain of the fractures are no match for the pain in her soul.

It's unbearable.

After we get her back in her room we give her & the family some alone time.

We spell each other off for time outs. Mostly to weep. The nurse assigned here tonight has children the same age. I know she's not ok. I also know she will be the very best of us tonight.

We remember that there are other patients to tend to. Evening baths, meds, scans... We scurry about performing our tasks.

Catching our breath between the bouts of wailing from our trauma pt.

We have ceased to speak to each other as we try to absorb some of the grief

Somehow morning comes. We can hear the chatter & giggles of dayshift at the desk until they round the corner & see our faces.

They know & understand these looks.

We know it's not our grief to own, but we carry the weight of it just the same.

Our comrades are ready.

I arrive home, the household is still asleep. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. But oh am I tired. As I change out of my scrubs, I attempt to remove the blanket of sorrow that envelops me.

But I cannot help it... I turn into my pillow to uncontrollably sob myself to sleep.

I wake up hours later to the sound of my children's laughter with my dad. I drag myself out of bed and pour myself a cup of coffee. I notice large bouquets of flowers on the counter, not in a vase, but still in the wrapper.

I look to my dad and offer a sad smile of thanks

"I thought we would take a drive" he says. And without having to say a word about my shift we go to the scene of the accident. A memorial scene is already under way.

We lay the flowers.

And go to football.

And carry on.