jenfir

Today, I hugged a stranger.

And I didn’t know his name.

We had just operated on a young man, probably in his late teens.  He sustained multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen, and was in critical condition.  When he lost pulses in the trauma bay, we cut his chest open and spread his ribs.   His lifeless body laid there as we held his heart in the palm of our hands, and pumped it – over and over again – to mimic life.

We pumped his heart tirelessly, afraid to let go, afraid to give up, afraid to say ‘enough’. And just when we thought we had lost him forever, a flicker of hope jarred us as his heart began to beat again.  We rushed him to the operating room, and a team of anesthesiologists, nurses, and residents met us in the room.  We worked together quietly and efficiently, all too well rehearsed.

“Male in his late teens, multiple gunshot wounds to the thorax and abdomen.  He has a left femoral cordis, and two large bore peripheral IVs.  A resuscitative thoracotomy was performed in the trauma bay.  Aortic cross-clamp time was 2053.”

That was all the information they needed as we worked to put him on the table and prepare his body for surgery.

In two hours, we were not able to control the bleeding.  He was in critical condition.  We packed his chest, and temporarily closed it.  He will need massive resuscitation in order to survive more surgery.

I was unsure if we would save his life.  I was unsure if this young man - in his late teens - will ever grow to get married, have children, or see the colors that form when the rain meets the light.  I left the operating room, defeated.  

And there he was – sobbing in a corner, alone.

He was in his mid-40s, wearing a grey shirt and muddy boots.  Judging by the mud on his soles – remnants of the rain mixed with the Earth - I can tell he worked in construction.  He had a muscular build, and by the smell of his shirt, I can tell he was working all day.  I walked up to him as he held his face in the palm of the hands, and I stared as single tear drops fell onto his worn jeans like summer rain. And I grabbed his head and pulled him into my chest.

I embraced this stranger as he sobbed into my chest, leaving behind small little patches of despair and pain.

Today, I hugged a stranger.

I hugged him with the hope that I can lift some of this pain from his shoulders, with the hope that I can take on some of the burden of his hopelessness.  And I felt my eyes well up with the same pain, as I thought of my patient – a male in his late teens with so much to live.  As I held him, I felt his sobs move to a slow whimper.  I wiped my tears, and walked away without saying one word, without looking at him in his eyes.

I went to a nearby bathroom, and sat on the floor.  I needed time to think, to feel, to gather myself.  After a few minutes, I washed my hands, washed my face, and walked back to the operating room to check on the patient.   The chief resident on the team had re-opened his chest, and was massaging his heart.

“He lost pulses,” she said, as she motioned me to take over compressions.

I pumped his heart in the palm of my hands – over and over again – to mimic life, but his heart laid still.

Everyone went quiet.  

We bowed our heads in understanding.

____________________________________________________

I stood behind as the team left to prepare for new cases.   The air was warm and thick in the operating room as I cleaned his motionless body of blood.  The nurse and I moved his body onto a stretcher – his bloody Tommy Hilfiger boxers remained on the operating room table.  We worked together quietly and efficiently, all too well rehearsed.

The phone rang – like an old, nasty alarm clock – and pierced through the thick air.  It was another nurse on the line telling us that the family has arrived, and wanted to see the body.

We wheeled him to the recovery unit, and the nurses prepared the room with boxes of tissues and cups of water.  I took one last look at him before I departed, and felt my eyes well up with indignant pain – another young victim of gun violence, taken too soon.

As I leave the room, there he was walking toward me – in his grey shirt and muddy boots.

He took one look at my eyes, and embraced me.  He pulled my head into his chest, and by the smell of my scrubs, he could tell that I was working all day. He embraced me as I sobbed into his chest, leaving behind small patches of hopelessness and pain.

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