Years later, the trauma still lingered; but this time around, I run towards it.The moment my pager went off, my body reacted before I even knew what the hell it said. My stomach tightened when I rounded the corner and finally read the pager.

  TRAUMA 2. LEVEL 1.

  The hospital halls blurred as I ran down to the ER. I rushed past nurses, techs, and other residents. My heart is pounding by the time I got to the ER center. Adrenaline is like a drug. Sometimes good; sometimes bad.

  All the noises hit me at once; monitors beeping, hurried voices exchanging vitals like they were making super fast bets, and the heavy dragging of the gurney on the floor. A paramedic yelled over all of the overwhelming chaos.

  “Twenty seven year old male, GSW to the left abdomen, unresponsive upon arrival. BP is tanking dangerously quick, pulse is thready-“.                     I barely process the rest. My focus is solely on the close to death patient. His skin is pale - like a ghost; blood is soaking through the gauze hastily pressed against the wound. He was barely hanging on. My pulse skyrockets and I can feel my heart beating rapidly against my skin - but my hands don't shake as I put on a pair of gloves and step in.

  “Let’s move.” I say, voice steady despite the gut wrenching tension forming in my gut.                I press my fingers to his pulse. It’s weak. Slipping. I swallow hard and force the nausea creeping up my gut back down to the abyss it came from. He’s not dying. Not here. Not now.

  “We need to intubate - now.” A nurse hurriedly hands me the tube into my awaiting hand. I’ve done this before. I can do this.                           My boss is watching, but I don’t have the time to second guess or worry about my reputation. I guide the tube down into the mans mouth, heart hammering, then glance at the monitor. Breath sounds normal and present. The tubes in.

  “He’s coding!” A voice cut through all of the noise. I don’t think, I move.

  “Starting compressions.” One, two, three. My arms burn but I don’t stop. Sweat beads down my temple and onto my cheek, the weight of the moment not lost on me. The room feels to small, too bright, and too fast.

  Come on. Stay with me.

  The sound of the monitor slowly beating is like a sweet release. A rhythm. He’s fucking alive.            “Let’s get him to the OR,” I call. As the team moves, I step back, my breath unsteady. My hands and forehead are soaked with sweat, and the scrubs I wear are soaked with the blood of somebody else. The reality comes crashing down on me after a moment.             He’s not out of the woods yet                He’s not even close.                    But he's got a 50/50 chance and that’s enough to keep me moving through the day.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  ★★★                   This wasn’t supposed to happen. One of my patients, a fifty year old male with two grandkids and a very loving wife - is coding. He was out of the woods. I swear he was. I was about to sign off so he could leave. I thought he was going to be ok.

  But no. Because life’s a bitch and likes to laugh at me a lot. My arms burn from performing CPR for two rounds already. One more and we wont be able to do anything anymore. I push hard and fast, and don’t stop. I focus on the rhythm and the pressure beneath my hands and the desperate need to save this man.

  Sure, I’ve lost patients before, but I hadn’t escorted their wife and children and grandchildren to see their dying family member.

  “Epinephrine is in!” A nurse calls.

  “Come on.” I plead under my breath, my own pulse running a marathon. This part never gets easier - the moment where it can go either way, where you don’t know if someone is going to die in your arms or if they’ll be ok.

  The monitor lets out a high pitched beep. Then a second later - another one. Then another.              Sinus rhythm.

  His pulse is weak but it’s there. I exhale sharply, my chest tight with relief as I sit back on my heels. A nurse steps in, but I don’t hear what she says. I just nod when she looks down at me with concerned eyes and wipe the sweat off my brow.      I discard my gloves in the trash and ignore the way my muscles scream at me. My scrubs are damp and my triceps feel like my arms are gonna fall off but I don’t process it. There never really is. The adrenaline lingers, leaving my hands tingling and my skin buzzing. My brain tells me to go, to move onto the next patient, but my whole being feels like it’s stuck in the echo of what the fucking shit just happened.

  I almost lost him.

  I roll my shoulders and push the thought down and away. It’s not my job to dwell - it’s my job to keep going. I scrub my hands down my face, glance at the clock, and force my feet to move. Rounds. Then coffee. Maybe I’ll breath then.

  ★★★

  The next few hours pass in a blur. I check in on post-op patients, adjust orders, and reassure family members. The steady, repetitive rhythm of it all should be grounding, but my nerves are still everywhere and tingling. My guess is they’re stretched thin from the trauma case.

  I do my best not to let it show.

  By the time I get a free second, my body is screaming at me to sleep, sit down, and to overall just rest. My head is buzzing, and I’m debating if weather or not I should sit down or chug my coffee and go on with life.

  Except when I go to finish off more of my rounds, my pager beeps.

  REPORT TO EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF PATIENT AND MEDICAL SERVICES’ OFFICE - IMMEDIATELY.

  I frown. That’s not good.

  Tucking my pager back into it’s case, I turn on my heel and walk towards the elevators. My gut twists and I feel like I’m going to be sick. My pulse kicks up but this time it isn’t from adrenaline. It’s from something a lot less acceptable.

  Something that feels a hell of a lot like dread.