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synaesthesia: an arts and literary magazine published by the students, faculty, and staff of the Keck School of Medicine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cardiac Massage
by Karen Olaes

Today I witnessed my first pediatric code. I've seen a number of adults go south during Trauma Surgery- even massaged a heart with my hands- but today was the first time I fought back tears. The drama of it all was just too much to bear. Mom rushing in the doors with Limp Child in her arms. Flat line on the screen, nurses poking every extremity with needles. Doctors barking out numbers and orders. And then: a child's eyes fixed and dilated, pink froth flowing out of her mouth.

The entire protocol is Excitement at its fullest, the kind where a life hangs in the balance. It's what I can picture myself doing, and as perverse as it seems, with satisfaction. No one wants a kid to die, but why do I feel fortunate that my one-day stint in the Pediatric ER included the uncommon Pediatric Code?

It's not just me, either. There were at least 10 other unnecessary people in that trauma room, standing and watching. Most left once the kid was dead, but I remained to watch the mother beat her breast. It was really strange, as Mom could barely speak English, but cried out to her dead mentally retarded child, "I love you so much. Why don't you love me?" and "I can cook you food!! All the food you like. I'll cook you all the seafood you like."

That's what did it. Everything up to that point was predictable, and it wasn't just the algorithmic medicine. The subtle mask that takes over the faces of nurses and doctors, replacing the initial wide-eyed focused hope. The confessional looks we give each other, teary-eyed, as we take off our gloves, clean up plastic wrappers and empty vials. The metallic sound of the curtain as it is pulled around Mom and Child. All predictable, all expected.

But who can imagine what will come out of a grieving mother's mouth? We cannot prepare for these words nor read about them in pocket manuals. They are at once voyeuristic and introspective. We fall victim to the tiny wounds they create, if only for the few seconds it takes to walk away, into the next room, on to the next patient.

 

12/04/2006

Pediatrics Rotation

Karen is a member of the Class of 2007