Some things you can't unsee

There is frenzied movement in the ED. Patients are moved to free up trauma beds. Machines are wheeled and positioned. Thick absorbent bedding is laid down. Blue gowns and splash guard visors are put on.


All in anticipation of a horrific event. The paramedic radios tell us that multiple victims are wounded, but everything else is speculation. A Code Triage External is sounded while rumors are whispered. It's a college. No, I heard it's a nursing home. No, I heard it's an adult school.  Everyone is on edge until that first victim comes through the ambulance bay doors. 


It's loud in the ER. Twenty-five people are swarming around one bed--ED doctors, nurses, the surgical team from the 5th floor, blood bank techs, ultrasound techs, x-ray techs, EMTs, police officials, heck, even social workers and us, the lowly volunteers.


L and I clutch a Patient Belongings List, hoping that it won't be switched to an Items Sent To Morgue List. We stand by in gloves and wait our turn at CPR. It doesn't come. Instead, the victim's chest cavity is cut open and the heart is manually pumped by a doctor's hand. This is the last-ditch effort when all else fails.


I remember being fixated on the yellow glistening fat that bled surprisingly little when cut, ten inches slashed across to expose the chest cavity. It was a hasty cut. A this-is-no-time-for-aesthetics cut, a this-might-hurt-but-you'll-thank-me-later-if-at-all cut.

....


"Does anyone object to calling the time?" 

I object. I object. Because it's never the time to die such a horrible death. These are people who had put their faith in God, but where was God in any of this? These people had families, friends, people who depended on them to provide for them. And yet, in a senseless act of violence, their time came too soon. Where was God in any of this? 


L and I finally hug each other and weep after our last trip to the morgue. As we left, a tuft of dark hair sticking out from under the white sheet catches my eye.


These experiences affect me. Haunt me, even.


I don't know what to do with them. I don't know where to shelve "watch people die horrible deaths, fail to save them." With every week's reality checks, I grow a little more bitter at the world and its injustices that I see every single week.

I cry to you, LORD;
   I say, “You are my refuge,
   my portion in the land of the living.”

But what about the land of the dead? Surely your plan extends to provide some comfort over those who mourn. Surely you are still good, always and forevermore.  

I don't know why I go back to the emergency department, other than this is a city that cries out for restoration that I am powerless to provide.