(*Disclaimer- If you cannot make it through an episode of E.R. you may want to shield your eyes from the post below. Feel free to scroll down to yesterday’s 100 Words. I understand.)

“Heart rate- 20 and dropping. Starting chest compressions.”

“We can’t get an IV! All her veins are blown. And she has no line.”

“Give the Epinephrine down her ET tube.”

“One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five… Breath…”

“How many doses of Epi have we given? Still no heart rate. It’s been well over 5 minutes. Are we going to call time?”

“Time-3:52 am. Her parents are already on their way to the hospital. I’ll wrap her in blankets so her parent’s can hold.”

The snapping of latex gloves fills the room. Silence thickens as the beeping and colored displays on monitors abruptly turn off. The silence deafens. So much that no one dares to speak. Everyone enters autopilot through the dark, silence of the night, numbed.

The flurry of machines and hospital staff trickle away from the bedside. I’m finally left alone with the baby. A child whose spent more hours in her lifetime with me as her nurse than her parents. A life that never had the chance to feel the sun, a drop of rain, or her father’s hand. My mind reels back into her final moments, replaying it over and over. But the sobs from behind interrupt, and remind me that a mother is waiting. Unable to detach or remove anything from the child (protocol), I gently swaddle her in two blankets to hide the wounds, tubes, and discoloration from her final battle for life. I lower her into the arms of her weeping mother. Fighting back tears of my own as she rocks her baby girl gently in a chair for one last time.

This scenario took place on my very first day as a registered nurse. Foreshadowing many scenarios of loss in my career. Every nurse digests loss and death in his or her own way. Some bitch and complain bitterly about doctors or residents. Others crave the intensity and adrenaline. For me, on the exterior, it was always the same. Just silence. Everyone around me interpreted it as a calm, cool manner, juggling each emergency with grace. However, the silence only masked my suppression, me digesting a new career, expectations, and life and death decisions. The walk down to the morgue sometimes became a brief break from the chaos. And over time, the feeling of life leaving from beneath my very hands took a subconscious toll.

It always happens quickly. Whether an expected death or not, it’s always the same. Just a few seconds, and there is no turning back. Some patients smiled and laughed one minute, and went limp the next. The quickness, uncertainly, and finality of every loss weighed heavily as I took each one with me.

Within months, the continual loss manifested itself into intense anxiety. Specifically, a fear of loss. In a sense part of me reverted back to an elementary fear of separation anxiety. An overwhelming concern clouded my thoughts each time a loved one left the house, drove in a car, flew out of town, etc. The split second loss of life filled every possible scenario. Although consciously aware of my unsound reasoning, all of the loss I carried screamed over any rationality.

Like most things in life, I just dealt with it. Whatever scenario I feared most, I placed myself in it, stared it in the face, and suffered through. Wash, rinse, and repeat until anxiety subsides.

All was well again after a few months. And through the years, not a trace was left behind. Even now, I don’t believe anyone knows I struggled with this. Even I forget. The feelings are barely tangible anymore, until weeks like these when Dadisodes leaves for business. A few split second scenarios managed to trickle back in this week.

And I find myself sitting here in silence, masking the suppression others will interpret as grace.

Prompt: Fresh

Over 3,000 miles away, the plane descended upon dry, hilly terrain. She swiftly maneuvered her 3 suitcases through the congested arteries of the terminal; everyone scattering off to some adventure. Naivety sped the pace of her feet towards an exit, nearly as quickly as her thoughts. Anxiety. Fear. Determination. All fought for attention in her frontal cortex. No car. No map. Not a friend within three time zones. This was not part of the itinerary. Yet this was precisely what she needed. Just 3 bags and a seed of fortitude, ready to grow and flourish in a fresh new world.

The above paragraph was written in response to the 100 Word Challenge authored by Velvet Verbosity. The scenario took place six years ago when I took my first travel nursing assignment in Southern California. After living in South Florida for over 24 years, I accepted a 3-month assignment at a children’s hospital working in a neonatal cardiac unit. Despite living out of 3 suitcases, alone (my family was not thrilled), without a car, and no one to turn to, this time was pivotal in developing the person I am today. I struggle to find words to accurately describe the intense fear and loneliness I felt during that time. But it challenged me emotionally, physically, and professionally. So I ended up extending my 3-month contract several times. I also later met Dadisodes. Sometimes life really is like a box of chocolates.