At 6:30AM today a teenage girl tried unsuccessfully to stop killing herself.
She took a lot of pills with the intent to end her life but then changed her mind. By the time people arrived to help her, the cascade of activity that ends a life had already gotten out of their reach.
At 12:15PM today I was listening to the conversation between two RNs who would help find a new home for the parts of her she would no longer need.
I forget sometimes that I work in a hospital. Unusual stories walk in the door everyday and unless they catch me off guard (like, say, while I’m eating lunch) I usually just take it all in stride.
The best part of my job isn’t knowing that my group helps people. That’s the group’s job. My job… the best part of my job is serving as witness. When someone dies and a loved one chooses organ donation a whole truck load of paperwork is generated. In that paperwork is the record of that life. I get to read about the deceased’s final days, and to be honest, I get to read how that person spent their last few minutes.
I find out what is in that person’s blood, literally. I know what they did for work and I know the cause of their death. I know which parts still work and which parts will end up in a laboratory for research. I know height, weight, where they were born and where they were lived. I know the color of their skin and can imagine the tracing of their lineage. I also know who was with them during the last minute, the last second.
The girl from this morning… her last few minutes were spent in a blur of activity. The RN on the other end of the line called her a rapid recovery. When our RNs heard how much medicine they used to try to bring her back they let out a collective, “wow.” Imagine for a second what it takes to get a seasoned medical professional to say, “wow.” In the last couple of hours of this girl’s life she was down for 44 minutes. To put a finer point on the situation, those 44 minutes were not continuous. That is to say, she lived and died several times over before she finally passed.
Studying the details of these lives and deaths is my work and I see it to be quite an honor.
While one group of hospital staffers are tying up the loose ends of this girl’s life our group is getting ready to open new doors for the parts of her body she no longer needs. I get to sit in the moments of quiet between these two lives, before the dust has a chance to settle, and watch it all unravel and then come together.
It’s like being in the ocean and watching a wave come at you, engulf you, and then proceed to the place it was meant to live. Somewhere in the exchange the wave’s energy becomes a part of you and leaves just enough to stir your insides before it moves on to the next phase of its life.
As for the girl from this morning, her last few weeks were very difficult. She had no home. She lived in the streets. She is considered a high-risk donor because of some of the things she chose to do over the last month.
It helps to think that things happen for a reason.
All of the suffering this girl experienced during her unbelievably shor lifetime led her down this path and by a modern medical slight-of-hand she is quite literally reborn.
I get to read about many stories like this one. There was the one man who lived (and died) in my neighborhood just blocks from where I live. Then there was last week when I read about the little, gentle soul who went into the hospital for a routine procedure and suffered a catastrophic series of events that left his poor wife and daughter wondering about what had just happened to their family. That man was only in his forties. The details of that case hit a little too close to home and I had to fight back an ache that started to form in my chest.
I may tell you about these things but you don’t experience them the way I do. I read these stories in real time. By the time you read these stories the families have begun to re-live their lives. The deceased has already been buried and their belongings have been parceled out to members of the family.
When I read these stories I know the families are still, at this very minute, in shock and disbelief. I take a moment to respect and remember their sadness. The ink on these papers is less than an hour old and sometimes it’s laid on the page by the hand of the family member. I quietly say thank you to them for their decision. It is, without doubt, a courageous one to make. Next, I wish good fortune on the person who, while I go through the chart, is getting instructions to come to our hospital because the little item they’ve been waiting for is, finally, on its blessed way.
In the middle of all this insanity, sadness, and excitement I’m the lucky one. I get a chance to cherish and celebrate two lives: the one that only hours ago ended without warning and the one that only hours from now will begin anew, filled with hope.
