At 7pm I slung my bag over my shoulder and wheeled around to the door, ready to sign my patients over to the team of physicians on night duty, my 12 hours of managing complex care completed.
Then the intern’s pager went off: “Patient in room 1032 expired. Family distraught.”
Then the intern’s pager went off: “Patient in room 1032 expired. Family distraught.”
I glanced at the intern. His resident left and he looked alarmed.
“Do you need help?” I asked tiredly.
“What do I have to do?”
“Console the family, pronounce his death, call the organ donation network, write a death note, and enter into the NYC Vital Statistics records.”
“Do you need help?” I asked tiredly.
“What do I have to do?”
“Console the family, pronounce his death, call the organ donation network, write a death note, and enter into the NYC Vital Statistics records.”
Blank stare.
I set my my bag down. “Come. This is what you do when your patient dies.”
We entered the patient’s room. The widow was surrounded by 3 nurses and 5 family members around her. A basin in her lap, a nephew fanning her, a son holding a cup of water.
I set my my bag down. “Come. This is what you do when your patient dies.”
We entered the patient’s room. The widow was surrounded by 3 nurses and 5 family members around her. A basin in her lap, a nephew fanning her, a son holding a cup of water.
The widow sat heaving at his bedside, clutching her husband’s arm.
He was still, mouth slack, teeth prominent, skin stretched tightly across his skull.
The love of her life.
We helped her through a 30-minute panic attack, trying to avoid calling a code on her.
He was still, mouth slack, teeth prominent, skin stretched tightly across his skull.
The love of her life.
We helped her through a 30-minute panic attack, trying to avoid calling a code on her.
I nudged the intern to the patient’s side where he listened ritualistically for an absent heartbeat, heard no breath sounds.
He hissed to me, “when do I announce it?”
Me, exhausted. “You don’t. You note it to yourself. Everyone knows he died.”
He nodded smartly.
He hissed to me, “when do I announce it?”
Me, exhausted. “You don’t. You note it to yourself. Everyone knows he died.”
He nodded smartly.
We murmured condolences and left the widow and family in the capable hands of the nurses who had been bedside for the last 12 hours.
We wrote a death note: death was due to “cardiopulmonary arrest,” the patient had “absent corneal reflexes,” and “emotional support provided.”
We wrote a death note: death was due to “cardiopulmonary arrest,” the patient had “absent corneal reflexes,” and “emotional support provided.”
I watched the intern call the organ donor network and answer routine questions about the patient’s medical condition and death.
He yawned, made mistakes, self-corrected.
And then I overheard him mumble to himself: “the neshama should have an aliya.”
He yawned, made mistakes, self-corrected.
And then I overheard him mumble to himself: “the neshama should have an aliya.”
• • •
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