When my patient died

It was a day full of firsts: my first day of my clinical years of medical school, first time on call, first time working in the hospital. It was still light out when we got our first trauma page of the evening: “P1 MCC male, +LOC. Trauma 2. ETA 5 min” (see glossary). I didn't know what any of it meant. I was thrilled.

The team rushed downstairs. The patient arrived with a calm emergency medical technician on top of him giving him chest compressions. The technician's head was turned towards the patient's feet. She was watching where the gurney was going instead of watching her hands attempt resuscitation. I think she knew it was hopeless.

The patient was wheeled into the trauma bay, transferred to the table, his clothing stripped, and a monitor was readied to take his vitals. I noticed that in his left tibia there was an intraosseous port, a mechanism to provide large volumes of fluid rapidly. I was proud that I knew what it was, then I remembered the gravity of its presence.

He was unresponsive and without a pulse. Compressions continued. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. Multiple people felt for pulses. “I'm ready to call it if you are,” said one resident. Nods all around. “Time of death …”

There was a brief second of silence before things went on as usual. The resident called my name and told me to put on gloves. Several people were surrounding the patient, prodding his body, feeling for something that would explain his death. Someone threw a pair of gloves in my direction. I could barely get the gloves on over my sweaty hands. The resident put …