It's amazing how fast a life can end. One second, the patient's heart is beating and they have a chance to live, and the next, they're flatline. dead. And that's all. You could save a hundred lives. But there are some people who stick with you. The ones who don't deserve to die, the innocents. The bystanders, victims of drunk drivers, hostages, abused children. It makes you wonder sometimes if it's even worth it.
It's not your fault, they tell you that in med school. Not your fault, some people just can't be saved. But you blame yourself, especially with those cases that are personal. You know, like your dad died of cancer and you've got a terminal patient who smoked for his whole life. No way to save him, but you still see the image of your dad hovering over the guy's face and it's like he's dying all over again. Or like your dad hit your mom, slapped her around a lot, and now this woman comes in, beaten to death by her husband or boyfriend or whatever the case may be. And it's your mom in the trauma room dying on the table, not some woman you've never met, some woman you'll never meet. It's almost impossible to separate yourself from the patient sometimes, and sometimes you don't want to. It's painful, but there's something sick about wanting to do it. And I do. I want to do this, even if I have to see a million people dying all over again in front of me, or the same person's face blocking out all the light in the room, reminding me of their horrible death.
I love it, honestly. Bringing someone back from the brink of death, presenting the happy news to their families...it almost makes me think the death is worth it. Almost. I know it's not, not really, but it's close. I love this more than anything, and I hate it more than anything sometimes too. Ultimately, I make a difference. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. But I'm always making a difference. And isn't that what counts?