by Erin Lewis

Created on: May 12, 2010

I walk through the doors at 10:35am.  They call my shift the busiest, 11am-11pm.  They told me when I started in the Emergency Department that it was the “hit the ground running and don’t stop until you go home” shift.  They were right. My coffee is in hand, liquid energy.  The minute I pass through the doors the energy is high, the people bustle, the smell of sickness topped with bleach and latex gloves.  There’s a man hunched over in a wheelchair holding an emesis basin, three crying children, a woman yelling at the receptionist because she has been waiting an hour to be seen, and hoards of others sitting, staring, and waiting. 

Today my energy is low and my spirit feels heavy.  My scrubs are wrinkled but at least they are clean for now.  My badge proudly states my name, RN, BSN, Emergency Department.  Why can’t it say the truth? My name, scared, humbled by death.  I bypass the adult emergency department and walk on to the pediatric emergency room.  It is eerily quiet, not a good omen for the rest of the day.  I greet my coworkers and feel my mood shift as we joke over donuts and coffee. Three pediatric patients in the busiest ER in the state. Something does not seem right.  We all know something is coming, but do not know exactly what.

Two hours pass, minor injuries, lacerations, stomach pains, and headaches, and then we get the call. “This is ambulance 723, we have a 4-year old cardiac patient, ETA 10 minutes.” The phone cuts out with no further information.  On instinct, we get room 16 ready, the code room, the room that requires the doctor, many nurses, many technicians, many hands.

Ten minutes come and go, 15 minutes, 18 minutes, and by 20 minutes, the tiny 4-year old rolls in on a stretcher, sitting up with a smile glued to his face.  We question whether he is code-room worthy, but since it is already prepped, we pull the stretcher in.  We get his history and upon learning about his heart defects and recent surgery, we know he will be a full work-up: intravenous line, lab work, x-rays, heart monitor, EKG.  He screams as he notices the needles and his mom whispers in his ear, “It’s okay Superman. They’re going to help you.” “Superman, eh,” I say to the tyke, “is that what we should call you?” With eyes wet with tears he shakes his head yes as he begrudgingly allows us to proceed

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