A patient I’d been taking care of all month died today. Like before, I wished I could join the family in their mourning, but that wouldn’t be right. I’m not really part of it, and they need their space. I didn’t know him when he was alive and a person, only when he was living on a ventilator with us sticking needles at him all the time. I didn’t even know any good words to say at all. “I’m sorry” – but you can’t go repeating that forever, and I couldn’t think of much else. I’m sorry, I tried to stop him leaving; I’m sorry, if I could undo this I would; I’m sorry, we’re not miracle workers after all.
Failing that, I wanted to go sit in a corner and not talk to anyone else. Talking to the coroner, always so businesslike, not high on my list. But you have to. And then there were all the other patients who needed to be paid attention to, and just because one person died is no reason to go neglecting or ignoring the others. So I went and did all the appropriate procedures, and they weren’t much fun. A needle here or there. . . but I couldn’t save the one guy who really needed help.
I don’t know which was worse, talking a family through their loved one’s death, when I’d only seen the patient for five minutes beforehand, and we only had an hour to work through it (like yesterday), or handling it after a month of struggling together, like today. Strangers or long-term acquaintances, it doesn’t get easier.
I’ve been calculating all month, and I work out my prospects for the rest of the year as follows: nearly all the second year rotations are unpleasant, and nearly all of them last for more than one month. So the chances of September being even more miserable than August are at least 70%. This is not good. Without hope, things fall apart.