A Light Rain
"Get some trauma tubing, a pressure bag and four more units. Now." Ding ding ding ding ding. Damn. No pulse. I start chest compressions. "Get the doc in here!"
The other half of my call team walks in. "Bust open the crash cart. Get atropine" My partner, although not a nurse, responds well. He assumes compressions, I push the atropine and grab an ambu-bag. While I check for a pulse, he slaps pads on the patient's chest. Chest compressions. Bicarb. The rest is a blur. Bicarb. Art line. Dopamine. Levophed. Femoral line. Pulse. 94/44. Hang the blood. Pressure bag. More blood. Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding Damn. Chest compressions. Tube him. Vent. 150 joules "Clear!" Bam! Epi. Chest compressions. Sweat on our backs, blood on the floor.
It's strange what you remember during a code. A nurse not knowing how to put blood in a pressure bag. Someone saying "He's not going to make it" and another responding "She's got a sickle in her back pocket." We coded the patient three times. Later, two and a half hours later as I leave, a family sobs in the parking lot. I walk past another ambulance with the rear doors yawning open, an elderly man with an oxygen mask on a gurney inside. It is raining a light rain. I have pork chops on the stove at home.