Warning: this post contains emotional content.
Wednesday morning, after a break-neck start, a busy set of rounds, and some CPR (successful, praise God), I looked at the clock and saw it was only 11am. I felt like I'd already worked at least 10 hours! One of the doctors said to me, "It's like war, isn't it? Constant war."
Yesterday (Thursday) was a hard day. In the morning all the ventilators were in use, and they had already started the next case in OR. One of the ventilated kids was stable and ready to extubate, so we took her off the ventilator first thing on our shift. At a dark shade of blue, she was pinker than she had ever been. Within two hours, she completely decompensated, and despite everyone's efforts and 30 minutes of compressions, we lost her. It was one of the most difficult and draining experiences of my life. I cannot even completely describe to you how terrible and surreal that moment felt. We lost one child last week, but I was not involved in the case at all. It was painful to walk into the hospital that morning, past the mourning father in the waiting room, and hear the heart wrenching screams of the mother crying for her son. But for me it was far more difficult to do compressions on this little baby, and feel her lifeless chest under my hands, knowing we were not going to get her back. It was so hard to see the struggling local staff, who just watched their first child patient die. It hurt to think about the family. My eyes teared at the defeated look on the surgeon's face when he heard there was nothing more we could do. And we could not stop for even a moment to comprehend our loss. The other five patients in the PICU got nearly no care while our entire team worked on this baby. Afterward, we immediately had to go back to caring for them, and also prepare for the surgical admit coming, while the local staff recovered. It was very difficult for me to focus on what I needed to do next. The PICU is just one large room, so while I continued working on the other kids, I could see them wrapping the baby girl's body.
But throughout this entire trip, at times I have felt an extra measure of peace that I know comes straight from God. He gently reminds me that I am not in control, and that he loves these children even more than I do. None of the work that I do is as important as showing God's love to everyone I come in contact with. That little baby girl is waiting for us in a better place. Please keep our team, the local staff, the children, and the families in your prayers, especially the two families who lost a child.
Hebrews 10:23
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.
Wednesday morning, after a break-neck start, a busy set of rounds, and some CPR (successful, praise God), I looked at the clock and saw it was only 11am. I felt like I'd already worked at least 10 hours! One of the doctors said to me, "It's like war, isn't it? Constant war."
Yesterday (Thursday) was a hard day. In the morning all the ventilators were in use, and they had already started the next case in OR. One of the ventilated kids was stable and ready to extubate, so we took her off the ventilator first thing on our shift. At a dark shade of blue, she was pinker than she had ever been. Within two hours, she completely decompensated, and despite everyone's efforts and 30 minutes of compressions, we lost her. It was one of the most difficult and draining experiences of my life. I cannot even completely describe to you how terrible and surreal that moment felt. We lost one child last week, but I was not involved in the case at all. It was painful to walk into the hospital that morning, past the mourning father in the waiting room, and hear the heart wrenching screams of the mother crying for her son. But for me it was far more difficult to do compressions on this little baby, and feel her lifeless chest under my hands, knowing we were not going to get her back. It was so hard to see the struggling local staff, who just watched their first child patient die. It hurt to think about the family. My eyes teared at the defeated look on the surgeon's face when he heard there was nothing more we could do. And we could not stop for even a moment to comprehend our loss. The other five patients in the PICU got nearly no care while our entire team worked on this baby. Afterward, we immediately had to go back to caring for them, and also prepare for the surgical admit coming, while the local staff recovered. It was very difficult for me to focus on what I needed to do next. The PICU is just one large room, so while I continued working on the other kids, I could see them wrapping the baby girl's body.
But throughout this entire trip, at times I have felt an extra measure of peace that I know comes straight from God. He gently reminds me that I am not in control, and that he loves these children even more than I do. None of the work that I do is as important as showing God's love to everyone I come in contact with. That little baby girl is waiting for us in a better place. Please keep our team, the local staff, the children, and the families in your prayers, especially the two families who lost a child.
Hebrews 10:23
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.
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