Tag: Trauma Surgery

GHHS, Narrative

Remembering

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Cooper Root, MS3, Class of 2025

My first trauma surgery call shift was on a regular Thursday night. It was very slow and nothing eventful happened most of the night. I was able to sit at the hospital and complete all my studying, and even managed to get plenty of extra work done as well. I went to sleep, the pager had yet to go off, and it seemed like it would be a straightforward night. At about 3:30 AM my pager went off multiple times in a row – Level I trauma ETA 5 minutes. I scrambled to get ready and hustled down to the trauma bay. I arrived to hear there was an apartment fire and we actually had 3 individuals arriving simultaneously. I knew my role and prepared to fill out the injury sheet, cut clothes, grab blankets, and anything else to help. To my surprise, I did none of that when I saw the patient. A young girl was wheeled in with no pulse and CPR machine on her chest. She suffered extensive burns to her entire body. The CPR device was removed, and I was thrust to the bedside to immediately begin chest compressions. In a state of shock, I began this process, frequently getting told “faster, deeper, pick up the pace”. After a few minutes that felt like hours, someone relieved me of my duties but to no avail. The patient never regained a pulse and was pronounced dead within minutes of arrival. Rather than take time to process and grieve, two more patients get wheeled in with other injuries from the fire as well. I was immediately sent to go help those patients, without a moment to reel in how I had felt from one of my few direct experiences with death.

Medicine can be so fast paced and dynamic, one of the many aspects we all love about the field. We are considered excellent in these moments of sudden change, creating a fully functioning team with assigned roles and responsibilities in a matter of seconds. It is fascinating how effective a few random healthcare workers can become a multi-functional fluid machine in moments of extreme chaos. But often we tend to act exactly like that, a machine, once these moments pass. Calculated, automated, analytical, and unemotional. The team did a great job, and I felt as if they all truly cared about what they were doing and trying to save this woman’s life. As the years go by and these instances occur often, it’s human nature to glance past the gravity and finality of what we deal with on a daily basis. I am likely more guilty of this than anyone, as I was essentially numb to this experience until writing this essay, and fully comprehending that someone’s life ended in front of my eyes, someone younger than myself. I couldn’t tell you a thing about this person unfortunately, other than her injuries, and that we did what we could to save her, and that is a strange feeling as well, considering most of my experiences with death have been older family members, or at least people I know on a personal basis. How did she spend her last day? What were her goals in life? What did she think about before drifting off to sleep? Questions that will never be answered for me, and an experience that will never be taken from me. Ultimately, what this experience did for me was to provide a challenge. A challenge to never lose sight of the person within the patient, rather than the disease, injury, or pathology that may be affecting them. Sometimes the best way to honor a patient is just put your head down and do everything you can to save others and take solace in the fact that you will do everything you can to save the next.

To her friends, family, and loved ones – I am truly sorry for your loss. I wish there was more we could have done. I hope to honor this experience with this essay, which is nothing compared to having her here with us. I hope you all have found some sense of solace in your loss. She will not be forgotten.

GHHS, Narrative

The Road to Healing

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Micah Vander Griend, M3, Class of 2025

A memorable event occurred while on my overnight trauma shift during my surgery clerkship, where I cared for a woman who had suffered a wrist injury while motorcycling with her boyfriend. Beyond addressing her medical needs, I was able to attend to her emotionally—something that can easily be forgotten amidst the pandemonium on the trauma service. She was scared, in pain, and felt uncomfortable with the experience of being unclothed, having her broken wrist manipulated for x-rays, as well as having to answer the same questions about her health and the events leading up to her admission repeatedly. Although, at the end of my 24-hour call shift, I stayed with her. I felt a deep connection with her experience and pain and wanted to alleviate her suffering.
During our time in the stifling hot and impersonal trauma bay, I held her hand while she had her wrist soft casted, engaged in conversation, learned about her life, and offered her a distraction from the pain she was surely experiencing. As our dialogue progressed, she entrusted me with her fears about the upcoming operation to repair her wrist fracture. Drawing parallels from my own childhood experience of a similar injury, I shared my recovery journey and how I was able to regain complete function of my wrist.
Although the mechanisms of our injuries were different, her anxieties were alleviated by my similar situation. She felt an immediate sense of peace and hope in her eyes was reignited; she recognized that she, too, may be able to resume various activities that she cherished, such as riding motorcycles. I felt touched that, as we said goodbye, she thanked me for the time that I had spent with her, sharing that I had made this difficult experience more manageable and peaceful. This interaction was a powerful reminder that beyond the physical wounds we treat, the emotional and spiritual healing we facilitate is equally vital.