My First Dead Guy

Last night I got to take care of my first dead guy. Well. When I got there he was't dead yet.

When I got there he was another gentleman in a bed on our side of the hall. He looked a lot like Jim Henson, in a completely unresponsive, missing a limb, lake of poop every time you turned around kind of way.

We went in and cleaned him up several times, and made him as comfortable as possible until the family decided to extubate him. We turned off the alarms, the cafeteria brought up the bereavement cart* and the waiting began. Eventually it happened. After Mr O** had passed away and the family had left, Joe and I went in to take care of him. It was strange, caring for this man that I didn't know in such an intimate way. Strange, taking out his IV sites, the way one of them still kept oozing blood after I took it out. It was strange talking to him as if he was still alive- something I swore I wasn't going to do, but found myself doing anyway.

We took him to the morgue, and signed him in- and in doing so, I found out that one of the patients I really enjoyed caring for had also died over the weekend. In a way, I'm glad it wasn't her who was my first. Not knowing Mr. O very well helped. Knowing, and growing fond of Ms. B would have made it a lot more difficult, I think. Then again, maybe not.

It was a lot easier than I thought it would have been, but I don't think I would want to do it every night.



*the Oncology unit calls them the Death Cookie carts, for what's on them, and when they arrive.

**Not his name.