At Least I Know What Unit I Don't Want To Work On

I stood in the hallway outside the room, nervously looking on at my first CRT (Critical Response Team) incident. Before the CRT was called, the woman was on a bedside commode, slumped over and moaning softly. “Clara,” her nurse, shook her shoulder and put the woman’s head between her hands, trying to get her to open her eyes. “Mrs. Jones, open your eyes! Can you hear me, Mrs. Jones? Try to look at me.” The woman was virtually unresponsive. The nurse I was working with ran into the room and asked if Clara needed help. “Call a CRT. Now.” Within minutes, the small room was swarming with help and the woman was whisked off to ICU. The relief Clara felt after the patient was stabilized and off our unit was palpable.

CRTs are sort of a pre-code blue; they are called by the nurse in the hopes that help will arrive and the patient will be stabilized before they lose consciousness and stop breathing. They are not called frequently, particularly on the unit where I work, so it was several months into my training before I experienced the one above. The charge nurse will show up quickly, as will all nearby nurses on the floor, and the ICU charge nurse and another ICU nurse will come down to assist as “another pair of eyes” to help assess the situation. The room fills almost instantly with helpful (and sometimes just curiously nosy) bodies.

Since ending my orientation on the unit and beginning to work on my own, I had a list of three (albeit irrational and somewhat ridiculous) fears that I had successfully avoided dealing with on my own. A month or so ago, I conquered all three of them in a single 3-day workweek, from 3rd most feared to the number one most feared, strangely enough. #3: Changing a PICC-line dressing on my own. (For those other nurses out there, I know this is bizarre. But I’m always afraid they’ll slip out!) #2: Putting a Foley catheter in. (I somehow managed to not put one in since nursing school.) #1: Transfusing blood/blood products. (Legitimate to fear, but still not worthy of months of avoidance.) In any case, I thought I had conquered the worst if it and have been feeling, for the most part, pretty competent at work. The last lurking fear I had that occasionally stressed me out was walking into a patient’s room and finding them unresponsive (or worse) and having to call a CRT or code.

The other day I squelched that one and made it through my first CRT. The man was a diabetic in renal failure who had been evading his nephrologist for some time who wanted to start him on dialysis. He came in for an unrelated surgery and when his labs came back the morning after, a slew of doctors convinced him to stay in the hospital and have a dialysis catheter (Permcath) placed and hemodialysis started. For this surgery, he needed to be NPO (nothing to eat or drink) for at least 8 hours, which can be tricky for a diabetic. Toward the end of my 12 hour shift, I was in the room with him and noticed a slight alteration in his mental status and also that he was profusely sweating. My suspicions proved correct when I checked his blood sugar and it was 30. This is quite low, and can be very serious – the normal accepted low is at least 70, but normal blood sugar is closer to 100. I began to follow our hospital’s protocol for hypoglycemia but despite two attempts, we couldn’t get his blood sugar higher than 60, which is still too low. I notified the MD and implemented the orders. He was started on what is essentially a sugar-water IV drip and I thought everything would turn out alright.

An hour later, I was in the room with him explaining his surgical consent, and within minutes before my eyes he began to decline; he was sweating worse than before and was extremely drowsy, mumbling, and tremulous. I checked his blood sugar immediately and was shaking as I waited for the results, knowing they would be awful. His sugar was 26. I ran into the hall calling for help and snagged a bottle of D50 (very concentrated sugar water) and told someone to call a CRT. In under a minute I had half a dozen nurses in the room assisting me, and within 2 minutes the full critical response team had arrived. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t draw up the D50, but someone graciously took over that task. The patient eventually stabilized and after a maddening amount of arguing with the internist, we transferred the patient off the unit.

I will still have lingering worries about worst-case scenarios and crashing patients, but at least I feel like I’ve had a little taste of the worst things this unit has to offer. One this is for sure – with those embarrassingly shaky hands, I sure as hell know the ICU isn’t for me!

A Difficult Conclusion

I have known of quite a few patients in the ICU that I’m in that have died. I have even cared for a few of them on a day shortly before their deaths. However, I have not yet seen a “code” situation or watched a person die, let alone clean up their bodies afterwards.

Today I had that experience. When I arrived on the floor a little after 6AM, the night shift nurses were all unusually busy, and both the night shift charge nurse and day shift charge nurse were in the same room, along with two other nurses and a respiratory therapist. They were shaking their heads frequently and running around, saying the patient's O2 sats were in the 70s-80s (which is pretty bad, but is by no means a death sentence.) When the charge nurse came out, I purposely (unknown to her) asked to be with a different patient, even though I knew the previously mentioned patient would certainly be an intensive learning experience.

Since my first day on the unit, I have been unbelievably petrified of having one of my patients code. The charge nurses always try to give us very sick patients because they are the best learning experiences for students – so I have gladly welcomed opportunities to learn. Regardless of my desire to learn, I have still been, simply put – TERRIFIED – of being in a code situation and having to give chest compressions, bag them, push epinephrine/emergency meds, etc. It doesn’t help that I have a pretty low level of confidence in myself, which is almost crippling at times. So this morning, there was something in the air about this guy – and I did NOT want to be on the front lines when he crashed, which seemed pretty likely.

About two hours later, I hear the calm, almost robotic voice of someone calling a code blue over the intercom system of the hospital. People came running from every corner of the campus – cardiac, chaplains, pharmacist, anesthesia, respiratory backup – everyone. Not to mention the three students (including myself) that were already on the unit. I walked over from my patient’s room to the room where the code was happening, and there were already 20 or so people crowding the room. The large glass doors were flung open, and one of the nephrologists (he was in the room when the patient coded) was giving chest compressions – but the nurses were clearly running the show. I walked over at the same time as the patient’s three family members came rushing to the room, and my heart broke. In a matter of seconds as they saw the nightmare scenario before them, they began crying and quivering and clutching each other while sobbing. I wanted so badly to say something to them and comfort them, but I started crying just looking at them and had to control myself and look away to remain “professional.” It was frightening to me too; I’d never experienced anything like it.

In a shortened version, here is what actually happened to cause the code blue. The man was (clearly) ridiculously ill. Among other things, he was on continuous renal replacement therapy (dialysis) and the nephrologist was in the room with the nurse to secure a usable access site for the dialysis. During this period, the nurse noticed that the patient’s already low O2 sats were getting lower, and he had no pulses – this is called PEA or Pulseless Electrical Activity. It means that, essentially, the patient’s cardiac electrical system is working just fine – so on an EKG, the heart appears to be just beating away and working fine. However, it is pulseless, meaning that though the electrical conduction system is working, the contractile abilities of the heart are gone, and so the patient’s heart isn’t pumping a drop of blood. The body can only sustain this for a small amount of time, because eventually the cardiac muscles stop receiving oxygen. At this point, this particular patient went into ventricular tachycardia and then ventricular fibrillation. The defibrillator was fired up while CPR was done, and then the patient was defibrillated. On the first try, they brought back a rhythm and pumped him full of a number of emergency drugs to bring up his blood pressure. Even though they brought back a heart rhythm, he was in respiratory arrest as well and his blood pressure was really almost nonexistent. Shortly after that he went down again and they attempted CPR, but the doctors told the family that there was nothing more they could do.

An hour or so later, one of the nurses asked if I would like to help prepare the body. I said no, but went anyway. We were taught about this in school, but I hadn’t yet ever experienced a death. Basically all of the tubes, IVs, catheters and other lines need to be removed and the body is bathed. Clean sheets and gown are then arranged, so the patient looks as clean and “normal” as possible for the family. This all sounds simple and nice, but I’m going to be honest – it was pretty disturbing. Because of chest compressions from CPR, air gets pumped into the patient and they kind of burp when you roll them – and it smells of their insides. Because the blood pools, the skin on the underside of the patient becomes mottled and purple. He also bled out of some of the small holes where his IVs were because his body wasn’t clotting any longer, and along with other body fluids, it was kind of messy. The oddest part of this was how the room smelled and how he smelled – it wasn’t any cleaning solvents, medicines, or blood or body fluids – I could distinguish those well enough. The smell was not unpleasant… it was almost a sweet odor, musky and fleshy. I wondered if that is what death smells like, when the body is just beginning to disassemble itself and dissolve back into the ground.

The whole day didn’t necessarily make me sad, but it got me thinking. Mainly I feel an awful, painful sympathy for the patient’s family. The look of terror and despair on their faces was more than I can handle, and I’m not sure I could work on a unit where that look is commonplace. It made me realize just how important a role nurses can play in saving a person’s life with smart, efficient decisions and delegating. But at the same time, I felt a deeper knowing of how gloomy, disheartening, and achingly real it can be.

To Judge or not to Judge

Again, it has been far too long since I posted an entry. I think it is largely because even now, I am afraid that I will somehow get into trouble for writing about my experiences. I do believe though that as long as I divulge no specifics, I’ll have done nothing more than share my boring life with the world. In any case, I have had an interesting semester so far. Here is a brief list of some of the craziest/saddest/most fascinating stuff:

-Saw a “drive by” birth; i.e. the mother comes rolling down the hall at 9cm dilated with no prenatal care and shoots the baby out within minutes. Oh, and she spoke no English. And my god, she screamed as though she was pushing out a bowling ball covered in razor blades.
-Saw far too many children slowly being eaten up by repeated bouts of cancer
-Caring for and feeding babies so premature they are the size of water bottles
-Two words: necrotizing fasciitis. Due to the misfortune of catching such a horrible infection, my patient passed away just the night after I met her.

There have been other things of course, but the vast majority of my stories are more subtly heartbreaking rather than so mentally or visually disturbing. I have quite a few more days left in my ICU rotation, and I’m sure I’ll see far more depressing, ethically challenging things before I’m done.

Specifically, I cared for an emaciated critically ill man who had been transferred from prison to nursing home to the hospital. He required intensive, detailed, gentle care, and during the day as I watched him grimace and slowly deteriorate I wondered what he had done to land himself in prison. He looked so helpless and childlike, it was hard to imagine the life he'd led. I later found out that he was a murderer. It made me feel strange to know that, but it didn’t change how I felt about him or my day. It’s interesting to learn about patient’s lives – who they love, who they are, what they’ve done, their transgressions. I have to constantly remind myself to not judge patients and their family members for ignoring or neglecting one another. A dying grandfather whose family has deserted him, while appearing sad and lonely, may have been an unremorseful pedophile or abuser. A middle-aged woman’s family may seem calm and relieved after learning of her impending death - not out of malice but out of love – she’ll soon be out of her extended misery. A forlorn bald child with cancer whose family rarely visits – her parents may be doing all they can to make enough money for her treatments.

I know it all sounds cliché and stupid, but I swear, half of this “being a good nurse” stuff is about working through the emotions of it all. Making sure I don’t turn myself one way or the other. Most of all, I'm trying not to judge what goes on in a hospital – almost everyone is at their very best or their very worst, and you have no idea who’s who.