Yesterday was quite the day at work.
A woman, not yet 50, gets rushed in from a small outport community- the clot in her brain is blocking her blood flow and she can't move her legs. Or arms. Or speak or smile. She could be frozen like this.. strokes are relentless. Minutes are ticking by and time is precious- there is only a certain window when something can be done. Rushed to the machines that can see inside, no seepage of red... so she is taken back to the emergency room. The neurologist walking hurriedly beside her stretcher as we navigate the busy hallways, asking for her permission to give her a drug that could change everything. Break up that clot, let the blood flow again and the movement return and the speech flow freely from her half-frozen lips. She could also bleed to death... but the potential benefit is greater than the high risk. To say no due to fear means to say no to the possibility of full movement and mobility and function... or delay it many, many months and possibly years.
She says yes. What else can she do? The dangerous, life-preserving medication flows through her veins. I watch her like a hawk, getting her to squeeze my hands and try to move her legs every fifteen minutes or so, checking her pupils under the light for reactivity rather than sluggishness-- a sign that blood might be invading her already vulnerable brain.
A few hours later, she can move her leg. Answer my questions, slowly but surely. She goes to the ICU and this morning the neurologist tells me that she is doing great.
Supper time. A stretcher is rushed in, the paramedics alongside, pounding on this man's chest, doing the work that his heart has stopped doing. Breathing for him, the awkward cough-puff of the bag-valve mask, his chest rising and falling unnaturally as his lungs are fed by human hands. Everyone around the bed... trying to find a vein, epinephrine pushed into it... trying to stimulate the heart to take up what it has already surrendered. Everyone stand back, check for a pulse. The jagged lines of our artificial circulation on the screen cease. Left with a flat line. Nothing. Asystole. Try again, start over, two minutes on the clock. Sweat beading on those who are doing the work of that small powerful muscle. Keep going, check for life, watch the flatline... his face gets more and more blue. Twenty minutes, a valiant effort, the code is called. Step back, there he is- gone. Only just 50. Silence.
The daughter comes in and her weeping is heard throughout the unit. Who is ever prepared for this?
You are our God and our times are in Your hands.
The baby within me kicks... that little heart started beating about half a year ago, longer than that maybe. Only the Father knows when it will cease to do so. For all of us.
Death and life.
