Alone, I walk into the resuscitation bay tonight to make sure everything is in order. This is my arena. This is my home, I'm in my element. I breathe it in, mentally preparing myself for the hypothetical next critical case. The patient that had been there earlier in the day had required the use of nearly every piece of equipment, and a large portion of our staff. The cavernous room is chilly and still has an odor... of blood, of sterile equipment, of death. The garbage bins are empty, that's not it. Housekeeping has mopped the floor, that isn't it. The stretcher and surrounding tubes/cords/wires are all spotless. Still though, something in the air. I clear the monitor and put it on standby, center the stretcher in the room, re-lock the brake, and ensure that the scale on the bed is zero-ed; ready for whatever might get thrown through the doors. A quick check through the drawers in my IV cart reveals that everything is re-stocked, loaded to go the next round. There is a mess of clutter on top. I place the EKG and EMS run-sheet in the medical records basket. The hastily thrown packaging and tape of syringes and needles already used, I throw away. And under it all I am stopped cold by a little small notebook. It isn't big, maybe two inches by three inches, and maybe 40 sheets of small lined paper. The cover is a royal blue and white and is well-worn. There are crease lines from multiple openings and bendings. There should be a cardboard-like back cover, but it is missing. Probably got lost in one of the times it had been pulled out of a pocket and used. I flip quickly through to see if there is anything written in it, and there's a couple random words on maybe two different pages. Written in the elegant script of a generation gone by. I place it back down and trace my fingers over the cover. I'm deeply saddened by this small companion to a life lost. In my mind the kindly grandfather kept it with him in his shirt pocket for writing things down that were important. Notes of things to be remembered, things to get for his wife while at the store. Something kept near to him at all times. Someone should have this. One of his family members should want to have this, just because it was his. And maybe they do. Maybe they don't even know it existed. But they should want to have it. They're long gone, it's three-thirty in the morning. I can't very well call the grieving family of the man to see if they'd like me to mail it to them, where to mail it, or if someone would like to come pick it up. And really, I couldn't bear it if they said to just toss it out. Someone should want to have it. This little well-worn notebook was important to this man, and it was with him until the end.
I never met him. I didn't participate in his care. But I am so deeply moved by this little book. We can never be sure of what we're leaving behind, can we? I mean, one minute you're enjoying time with family then all of a sudden four hours later a spent crew of emergency-health professionals have exhausted all possible avenues of life saving measure. When all is said and done, when the code is called, when the room is clean, and when the family has all left, what small possessions that were once ever-present will be left in the clutter of left-overs from a grueling resuscitation attempt unsuccessful?
I pick up the notebook gently once more, turn it over in my hand and involuntarily smile a sad half smile. Rest in peace dear sir. I hope your life was full of everything you ever dreamed it would be. I place the notebook in a small zip-lock bag with a couple old inhalers. I write the patient's name on it with my sharpie and seal the bag. I spray a healthy amount of odor-eliminating spray in the room, and take the bag out to the desk, telling the charge nurse that it was left behind. She looks at me quizzically and asks if there was anything in it. "Not really," I shrug, "But someone should want to have it, don't you think? I just feel like someone should want it." She looked at the tidy bag and smiled a knowing smile at me and placed in on her desk.
