It's my turn to work this Thanksgiving. Although I am disappointed that I will not be having dinner with my husband, I knew that we would only be doing emergency cases in the OR.
Expecting a relatively light working day, I swipe my badge and enter the locker room to change into scrubs.
My trauma pager beeps almost as soon as I clip it onto the waistband of my scrubs.
Reading the small screen of the pager, I decipher the code:
"Red tag 24yo m, GSW head, GCS 3, intubated, ETA 2 min air."
Quickly, I throw my lab coat around my shoulders, shouting instructions to staff to set up an OR for an emergency craniotomy. I rush down the hall to the ER. Halfway down the hall, my pager beeps again.
"Black tag."
I retrace my steps and return to the OR.
A 24 year old man shot himself in the head, his neurological responses all but absent. His wife was currently in conference with the trauma attending.
Another page comes through from the trauma attending. I read the page and shake my head.
With a heavy heart, I set up the OR to do the harvest. The doors of the OR open, a myriad of beeping monitors accompanying the patient into the room. Silently, I watch the anesthesiologist, the tech and the circulating nurse transfer the patient to the OR bed. While I prep the patient's abdomen with Betadine, I glance at his swaddled head, his face barely visible beneath layers of gauze.
The surgeon and I step up to the OR table, and begin the meticulous task of recovering the liver, and both kidneys. The patient's lungs are covered with pebble sized black spots, evidence of his heavy smoking.
Ten hours later, we complete the organ recovery. Sending the staff out of the room, I sit beside the OR bed and look at this young man, wondering what kind of tragedies he had experienced.
Picking up his cold, lifeless hand, I close my eyes and say a prayer for him, hoping that his soul is at peace. Tears spring from my eyes, dripping onto his colorless hand. I worry about the young family he left behind. Rising from my sitting stool, I take my time as I gently clean blood and Betadine from his skin, using my shoulder sleeve to wipe away my tears.
Composing myself, I walk out of the room and down the hall to the OR front desk. Stopping short, I see a soldier and his family in pre-op. Several soldiers in full uniform surround his bed, chattering happily, and laughing while ribbing each other with stories. The patient is smiling, holding his wife's hand. Their eyes are bright with hope; this brave soldier will receive the liver that I just helped recover. Tears cloud my eyes again.
One life ended. Another is beginning.
Exhaust overwhelms me as I walk into the door of my house. My dear husband has dinner re-heated for me, but I am not hungry. He looks into my eyes and understands. Silently, my husband places a steaming mug of cocoa in my hand. He opens the patio door for me and kisses my forehead. I stand at the baluster outside on the deck, processing the emotional roller coaster I experienced today. The silence of the night cloaks me in a dark, comfortable embrace. As I wipe the tears from my face, I hear the helicopter buzz over my house carrying my patient's kidneys to a pediatric patient, and another to a solider at the nearest Army base. I smile through my tears, knowing that my efforts helped not one, but three families today.
Thanksgiving has just taken on a completely new definition for me.
I trudge up the stairs and pour myself into the bed. My sweet husband pulls the comforter around my shoulders as my puppy jumps up beside me and quickly makes herself into a tight circle against my abdomen. Gently, he brushes my long hair away and kisses my tear streaked face.
"Thank you, sweetheart, for all that you did today. I love you," my husband whispers into my ear.
I drift off to sleep, thankful for every facet of my life.
