There is a loud crash followed by the secretary shouting, “Mr. Smith just fell!”
It is 3:00 on my day off, and I had been sitting in the conference room with my Nurse Manager, waiting for a meeting to begin. Now I’m one of the several nurses rushing to the doorway of room 16.03, where we find Mr. Smith, a 360 lb. middle-aged man, lying facedown on the floor, unmoving and unresponsive. It takes about half a second for us to realize that Mr. Smith, who is hyponatremic, has heart failure and bilateral DVTs, hasn’t simply fallen.
Someone shouts, “Call a Blue 100!” and we’re off, scrambling to find items like a backboard, wall suction, the code cart and defibrillator. I hear the Code being called over the paging system, and before we’ve log rolled Mr. Smith on his back and begun compressions, the room has filled with various responders from across the hospital. Pharmacists, residents, respiratory therapists, and nurses from the ICUs. We shove the bed and as much furniture as we can into a corner, trying to make room for as many people as we can.
In my kitten heels and stockings, I climb over the bed and set up bedside suction, effectively trapping myself in the corner for the next 45 minutes, as the room fills with more and more people. I help the respiratory therapist, kneeling on the floor, suction blood from Mr. Smith’s mouth and keep him ventilated with the ambu bag. People are shouting things like, “What’s his pressure?” “Do we have access?” and “Everybody clear!” when the defibrillator advises to give a shock. At one point, on of my coworkers catches my eye and asks, “Weren’t you supposed to be off today?” I can’t help but smile.
After 2 attempts, a central line is inserted. There’s blood, and tubes, and needles, and the packaging from various medical supplies strewn about the room. The doorway is crowded with staff, all passing supplies in as the attending provider shouts for them. A pulse is established, and we begin the process of rolling a sheet beneath Mr. Smith and then hoisting him onto the bed so we can transfer him to an ICU. I can hear the demented woman from down the hall, slamming her hands on the counter at the nurses’ station and yelling, “I hate this f***ing place! I want out of this d*** s***hole!” and I’m amazed at how oblivious some people can be. It’s inappropriate, but I want to burst into laughter.
Mr. Smith is stabilized for transfer, and is wheeled off the unit. The room clears out as quickly as it was filled. We are left to bag up his personal belongings, pick up needles and packaging from around the room, and restock the code cart. Some of the patients stick their heads out of their rooms, wondering if it’s safe to come out. One of the men with schizophrenia asks me if I can get him a ginger ale.
I know I’ve stepped in blood, and I’m pretty sure I’ve also knelt in some urine. And I still have to sit through this stupid meeting, and then go straight to dress rehearsal. It’s amazing how things go right back to normal, whatever normal is.
