One out, one in. The prequel

One out….

You never forget the first patient you lose. Mine was a frail elderly person who lived close to my ambulance station at the time. The job came in as a cardiac arrest, and that’s exactly what it was. We got there very quickly, the patient’s heart had stopped, and it was my job to try to save them. I began CPR, the first few chest compressions broke some ribs. The dull crack is audible across the room. My partner was setting up the O2 bag and mask, they looked over at me and nodded encouragingly. That was a sound I would hear many times during my career. Some adrenaline injections (for the patient!), and 20 minutes of CPR without any signs of self sustained heart activity dictated we stopped and declared the patient’s life ‘extinct’. But this was my first. Surely there was more we could do, something we had missed? My partner handed me the paperwork and I filled it out, just like I had been taught during my training.

Later, I reflected on the broken ribs with my partner. “It’s perfectly normal” they said. That’s exactly what it became to me. It was an indication that we were pressing down hard enough to make the patient’s heart pump blood properly. “Broken ribs will repair, stopped hearts need help” – I remember my instructors telling us as raw recruits. They didn’t explain the heart-sinking feeling we would experience each time it happened. It was a blunt reminder that this was a real person you were dealing with.

I lost count of the deceased patients I saw, each one making me harder inside. I had to be to cope. You have to treat them as ‘jobs’ not people. You didn’t know most of them before, so you couldn’t be upset. We joked among ourselves about ‘killing’ patients each time deaths occurred during shifts, not because we were twisted or enjoyed it, but because it was a way of coping with it.

If the patient was ‘gone’ before we arrived then distancing yourself was easier. If you knew them, usually as a regular, it was a bit tougher. The really hard ones were the ones you were talking to when you arrived. The ones who went into some form of arrest in front of you.

One patient who arrested on me lived in a nursing home. The staff were quick to point out the patient had a DNAR (Do Not Attempt Resuscitation – a legal document that prevents medical intervention in such situations). We asked to see the document as, without it, we must continue life support. The document arrived and we watched as the patient slowly faded away. As we had accepted the duty of care for that patient, we couldn’t leave until there were no more signs of life. Watching a life slip away in front of you is a strange experience. It’s difficult to explain the emotions involved, but none are good.

Then the hard walls go up again and control gives you a meal break. It’s a bizarre thing, but even now there’s not much will put me off food.

Coping mechanisms keep you going…..until something comes along that weakens them.

Recently I’ve heard of some charities that offer physical and practical support for crew members. Charities, not ambulance services themselves, not the NHS, although it looks like most only operate in England and Wales. I have heard, however, that one ambulance service (possibly more) has recently implemented a more practical support service for its staff. It will be interesting to see how it works.

One such charity, PTSD999, has recently employed the services of a rock legend to help record a version of the late David Bowie’s song Heroes. Please look them up on iTunes or Amazon. The band is called Burn Out (enough said). Just 99p gets you an amazing song and helps them provide such an important service. The charity offers support to all types of emergency workers, please support these guys and other charities like them. We hope the song does well. Their tagline is “help save the lives of those that save yours”.

So yes, deaths affect us but, most importantly, don’t forget that each time one life fades away a new one is created somewhere. We could be heroes, but that’s not why we do it….

One out, one in.

The Ambulance Service, possibly the whole NHS, has a number of “superstitions” or beliefs – the word ‘cancer’ isn’t mentioned much, usually replaced by ‘ca’, the word ‘quiet’ is never used for fear of unleashing mayhem and madness. Then there’s the belief among many crews that, when a person dies, somewhere a new life is born. That one worried me most.

I had never been a fan of babies. In our training we were told they were aliens, that their bodies didn’t behave in the same way as adult bodies, and that they had ways of controlling your mind through loud, sustained noises. Also that the substances their bodies produce require hazchem protocols to be in place. That’s probably why I managed to avoid any being delivered in my ambulance during my career.

I had a few near misses – a long emergency drive in blizzard conditions, using every driving skill I’d been taught, terrified some other driver would do something silly that might cause us to crash, but I got us to the maternity hospital in time! Dropping an expectant mother off then hearing the new baby cry as we wheeled our trolly out of the ward.

One memorable birth involved a father who was known to be violent to emergency personnel. We were told to wait in the vacinity of the flat until the police arrived before entering. Little did we realise that we had parked in a spot visible to the flat. The first we knew was the father tapping on the passenger window of the ambulance. My partner lowered the window slightly, expecting something bad. “it’s out! The baby is out. What should I do?” he said excitedly. We established that the baby was breathing and the mother was well, then advised him to let the mum hold the baby and make sure baby was kept warm, and that we’d be there as soon as the police arrived.” ok” he said cheerily, and trotted back to see his new child. Once the police arrived we went in. All was indeed well, and we let the father cut the chord. So much for violent, there were happy tears in that man’s eyes, it was heartwarming.

I’m not really proud of the fact none were born in my ambulance, but I am slightly relieved. New life is an amazing thing, genuinely a miracle of nature, but babies are terrifying!

One out, one in. I’ll try to explain the first half next time….