Code Time

Code time is different. Those of us who work in the health care field know this. When a patient codes, when his breathing stops and his heart beat slows and fades down to nothingness, we, the rescuers, step into a different time zone. This is Code Time, a dimension of paradox.

As rescuers, we slip into a different skin. Our thoughts zoom into keen focus, as we concentrate on all the essentials and only the essentials of our patient’s condition and the effect of our efforts. Wide awake eyes miss not even the smallest movement of a patient’s chest; razor-sharp ears filter out unwanted noise and amplify the sounds of resuscitation. This heightened intensity of awareness pairs with a detached perception, which allows us to keep overview without losing ourselves in the details.

We are at once involved and distant. We see everything, yet we may be unaware of other faces in our surroundings. We run on adrenaline, yet we feel calm and composed. Time flies and yet it stands still as well.

Luckily, someone records everything that happens during a rescue down to the minute. Afterwards, we review the events of the Code, surprised that an hour has passed, that we gave rescue breaths or performed chest compressions for thirty minutes at a time. Or that seven drugs were given during the course of the Code.

We work until circulation and ventilation are restored, until the patient’s heart resumes beating at an acceptable pace and he breathes spontaneously. Or until the doctor decides that our efforts are futile and the patient is dying.

After a rescue, regardless of the outcome, Code Time still lingers for a while. Minutes, perhaps hours pass before reality catches up with us. As if our second skin peeled off only slowly and the paradox had to run its course. We remain split on two levels for a while until we reunite the fragments of our Selves.

Code Time allows us to perform our jobs without hesitation. It lets us deal with danger and death without falling apart. And it helps us not to second-guess ourselves when we make decisions.

Code Time eventually wears off and sadness or doubt may sneak into our tired minds. We are not unaffected by tragedy. When we tell you that we are so sorry we couldn’t revive your loved one, we mean it. We tell you that we did everything we could. And that is also true. We ache when we lose a patient. Like soldiers who see too much death, we struggle with our emotions.

Yet, when we are called to the next rescue, we are again calm, capable and efficient. Code Time, our friend, waits for us and we embrace it eagerly. And we will do everything we can to revive this new patient as well.

Ruby And Celine

Recently, someone asked me, if I had to chose between having a healthy body and the mind of a turnip or a sound mind and disabled body, which would I prefer. Most people I surveyed opted for the sound mind, but I'm not so sure. To clarify things, I wrote the story of Ruby and Celine. Read the options and make up your own mind. Leave comments if you wish.


Ruby And Celine

Celine huddles in her regulation hospital bed and stares at the boring, white ceiling. Her face glistens with salty wetness. The pain medicine has worn off and the giant bedsore on her butt smarts like fire. She’s been lying in a wet diaper for hours and no one has come to check on her. She wants to reach for the call button, but her skinny arms curl against her ribcage in rigid contractions.

She cries, not because of the pain – she’s used to it – but because of how far she has sunk into humiliation and misery.

A careless attendant stomps into her room and she sighs relief.
“What have we here? You made a mess of yourself,” says the girl and Celine retreats into silence.

‘Rub it in,’ she thinks. ‘As if I didn’t know.’

The attendant flips Celine back and forth to change her diaper and slops moisture barrier cream on the raw flesh on her butt. Celine bites her lips to keep from yelling. She knows better than to complain. They always retaliate somehow.

“What’s new in the paper?” she asks the girl, hoping for an intelligent conversation.

“Nothing much,” says the girl, while she wads up the soiled underpad. “They haven’t raised your social security yet.” She backs out of the room, glad to escape. She’s got other patients to tend to. No time for idle talk.

Celine closes her eyes and seeks refuge in her memories, conjuring up a time when she held a degree and taught English and political science at a prestigious college. Everyone loved her then and held her in high esteem. She taught with a rare passion and fired up those young minds like no other.

A different attendant brings her a food tray and jolts her back to reality. Everything on the tray is blended and looks disgusting. The girl raises her up in bed and begins to feed her. She shovels green slop into her mouth at lightning speed and Celine chokes and begins to cough.

“We really need to look into getting you a feeding tube,” says the girl.

*******************

Ruby’s laughter pearls through the air and echoes in the hallways. Ruby, feisty and spirited; Ruby, quick and oh so direct with her words; Ruby who’s arm is still strong and who has lost all her marbles. We all know Ruby well, the unpredictable one whom we watch like hawks on a sunny afternoon. She’s cussed me out a few times and when she swings, I know to duck, because she has quite a right hook for an old lady.

Ruby likes to paint and sculpt. Strange looking artifacts clutter her small room. She happily interprets her artwork for us. We praise her and sometimes we even buy a figurine from her to make her happy.

Ruby tends to run away if we’re not watchful. We have to hunt her down and a couple of times, we’ve had to call the police. Lord knows where she gets money, but somehow she managed to buy a bus ticket once and we caught up with her in San Antonio, where she tried to sign into a hotel on the river walk.

We don’t know much about her history, but neither does she. Ruby has no family that we know of and she doesn’t care. We’re her family. She’s told us more than once. She’s loony and brash, but she’s funny too. And when she’s in a bad mood we tiptoe, because she throws things.

Once in a while, she has a lucid moment and she realizes that her mind is gone. “It’s ok,” she says. “At least I forgot all the bad stuff too.”