Escape Artist
The Left Atrium The attending psychiatrist immedi- Years passed by. I had left the world CPR, struggling to remember the adult ately organized a debriefing session for of acute care, and now spent my time in ratio of beats to breaths, screaming in- the staff. “How do you feel?” she asked management. The stethoscope seldom structions to call for the mobile ICU me. Angry, Ma'am. Angry at the ineffi- hung around my neck, and my clinical unit, to call another doctor. I thumped, cient system that didn’t get the cart to skills were little tested. A neighbour blew, shouted, begged. Surely she would me in time, angry at the reckless ado- called me as I lay in bed on the edge of suddenly gasp and start breathing like the lescent who defied orders, angry at her sleep. He was agitated: his wife was boy at the pool. More physicians arrived, friends who let her dance. Above all, sick, throwing up. I found her vomiting and the ICU team. The minutes dragged angry with myself for failing. on the floor of their room. They had by. Intubation, IV, drugs, electrical enjoyed a heavy meal, with perhaps a shocks. Deep down, I knew it was over. Then, some years later, there was the bit too much wine. I knew she suffered Whom do I blame? My clinical Saturday morning at the neighbour- from gastritis from time to time. I skills? Her lifestyle? Her physician? hood swimming pool, where — my waited until she felt better and told her The ambulance that could, and should, family still asleep — I was enjoying husband to call me again if necessary.
[Show full text]