Code Lesson

" “Call it.”

“The Intern looked at me mid-compression, sweat beaded on his brow.

““Sir?” His voice was unnaturally high.

“You heard me. Call it.”

“She can make it,” he insisted.

I heard another crack crack as he continued the compressions. Surprising – I hadn’t thought there were any ribs left to break. The woman’s arms flopped up and down as he pounded on her naked chest. Bloody froth bubbled up the snorkel I’d jammed down her trachea earlier. It didn’t budge despite the violence of my Intern’s efforts. I pushed aside the guilty pleasure this evoked.

“It’s been forty minutes. She’s gone.”

“No.”

I glanced at the watching nurses. Only the Intern - whose name I couldn’t remember – was still working on the woman. The rest of us had stopped five minutes ago. Always in July, when the new interns arrived, we went through this. The medical schools taught them to fight. Here we would teach them how to cope with losing.

I moved closer to the bed. Touched the woman’s forehead. It was cold and mottled. Shining a light into her glazed eyes, I was satisfied – fixed, dilated pools of unseeing black stared back.

I reached out and took the Intern’s sweat-soaked shoulder. “She’s gone,” I said. “You’re not doing her any favours. She deserves a little dignity.”

“She can make it – she’s only thirty, you said the young have a better chance – we can’t just give up – “ His voice broke.

“Look at the monitor.”

We both stared at the machine.

“What is that rhythm?”

“Asystole.” I could barely hear him.

“And what do you do when you see asystole?”

“Check another lead.”

A nurse switched the machine to a second lead. The flat trace on-screen did not move.

He looked down at his hands, which shook from – exhaustion? emotion? both? I couldn’t tell.

“Call it,” I said.

He unslung the stethoscope from around his neck and placed it against the woman’s breast. I knew there was nothing to hear, no textbook lub-dub lub-dub there, but he listened intently for an eternity before he straightened and made his way to the woman’s head. Shone his penlight into her eyes as I had just moments ago. Nothing there either.

He licked his lips, looked up at the clock. Looked back at me. He looked old, his shoulders stooped. Defeated.

He cleared his throat. “Time of death fifteen forty.”

The nurses moved quickly, an army of worker ants covering up the dead. I watched as they removed all the things with which we had invaded the woman’s body. Lines, catheters, leads – a finger or tube in every orifice was the protocol – with them gone, she looked startlingly human.

The nurses covered her with a blanket, tucked in at the sides. I lingered behind, alone with the woman and the Intern. I watched as he moved to the head of the bed where she still stared at the ceiling. Putting a finger on each eyelid, he nudged them closed.

“I’ll be outside,” I said quietly.

He nodded, unable to meet my gaze.

As I slipped out, I heard him begin to cry.

---written for Creative Writing (Fiction) course