May 23, 2010

• The Last Fight (WDTFD? part 2 of 3)

  Her arms were flailing up and down, and her family tried to hold her down, so she wouldn't fall out of bed.  "Om," ("auntie," an endearing title given to someone who is older than one's parents) had black hair with silver streaks. She looked like she was in her 60's. 

  When I saw her, I knew right away that she was delirious because her brain was oxygen hungry.  She needed oxygen even more than the sick patient in the next room.  I immediately ran out, unplugged the extractor, (plugged that patient back to his old extractor and oxygen tank) and pushed it next door to the woman's room.
  
  AGHH SHE DOESN'T HAVE A MASK!!!
  
  After 5 precious minutes, we finally retrieved a mask and connected her to the oxygen.  She slowly calmed down and started to breathe better, but it was only a temporary solution.  She had TB, AIDS, and probably PCP.  Her lungs were shutting down, and if she had been in the States, she would have had a tube placed in her throat and been placed on a machine so that it would breathe for her. 

  But our hospital only had 1 ventilator.  With the stigma against TB and AIDS, the hospital prohibited our patient from using the vent.

  Om lied quietly for a few minutes, and suddenly, her skin turned pale and grey, and her body writhed and wrestled in bed.  It was a constant battle.  She struggled harder and harder to breathe, but her lungs just weren't working.  This would be the last fight of her life.  (All this while I ran back and forth between this patient and the other patient in the room next door.)

  I sighed.  Her lungs would tire out soon- she couldn't last much longer. 

  ~ ~ ~

  In my mind, I was a ridiculously naive foreigner who thought I could save the world.  I dreamed of a day that patients would arrive sick but with the intervention of our ICU and all the awesome nursing care and support, the patients would improve, get better, and get on outta there.

  But that was fiction.  Fantasy.  Completely unreal.

  Instead, we were huddled in a small circle, with Om's son, daughter, and brother standing before us.  Having a family meeting (as we say here in the States.)

  Your mom.... is really sick.  She is not doing well.  And there is nothing else we can do for her...
  
  "What... what do you mean.... what are you saying..."

  It could be tonight.  Tomorrow.  Anytime.

  "What?"

  She's dying.  We're sorry.

  There was silence for some time.  As the brother and son returned to the patient's room, the daughter just stood there, shocked....

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