It happened within minutes. The first rapid response call quickly escalated to a code blue. One minute the patient is breathing and poking fun with me and the next they are quickly fading in front of my eyes. What came next was organized chaos.

My fellow nursing friends and I have all had several conversations making very clear our fears coming to fruition- a patient going unconscious, crashing or a code being called while we’re caring for them. We knew it was not a matter of “if”, but “when”. Apparently, it was my turn.

It’s not that we don’t know what to do- we’re all trained in CPR and have walked through the code process. The issue is how we would actually react at that moment and how it would feel. Would we panic and freeze up? Would we be able to think clearly and know what decisions to make in the very second that life comes to a screeching halt?

In my moment, an overwhelming sense of calm came over me. I can’t explain it or why I felt it, but that’s what happened. Everything stopped except what was happening in that room. As soon as the code was called, the room was flooded with various doctors, nurses, and other staff. CPR had already begun. When I say it was organized chaos, I mean it in every sense of the word. Every action had a specific purpose. Watching someone glide from life to death to life is surreal. It’s like the ebb and flow of breathing; you breathe your way in and exhale your way out. Out of respect for the patient, I won’t go into any more detail than that.

Later that same afternoon, I walked my patients’ room (a different one) and noticed them nodding off in their chair. I walked in to see if they wanted to get back into their bed. As I got closer, it was clear they were not nodding off but seemingly floating in and out of consciousness. I asked, “name here, are you OK?” When they responded, “No, I don’t feel well”, every hair on my arm stood up. I’ve heard seasoned nurses day they can sense when a patient is going downhill or may “crash”. They just know. They know how it looks. I never understood until that second. They just didn’t look right. After the nurse took a look at the vitals and the patient (again this was in seconds), I was told to call a rapid response. I learned later that the patient nearly had another called.

Yesterday was a day of many firsts. I also had my first post mortem care. It’s one of the most personal moments I’ve shared with a patient, second only to another this week (saved for a different post). You’re paying homage to the body that housed their soul and all the years of their life. It’s the CNA’s responsibility to assure the patient is presentable for family and respectfully prepared to go wherever they are headed next, whether that be the morgue, or what the patient or family has determined.

Everyone reacts differently to grief. I briefly worked in an ER and will never forget a young wife, openly weeping, “I want him back! I want him back!”. Or another family gathered around for hours to say their goodbyes peacefully. As with life, it’s just as important to guide and support patients and their families through death, through whatever manner it occurs.