| "code blue" free ai image from www.craiyon.com |
I hunched over at my desk, again trying to keep up with the incessant flow of emails in my inbox. I was staring at my coffee, now lukewarm, and I could see the creamer curdling on the inner rim of the paper cup next to my phone as another sick call came in from the staff, informing me that another person would not be there to fulfill staffing needs in our department.
My ergonomic work example will never make it to the safety messages where we are reminded to sit up straight, keep feet flat on the ground in good posture, and ensure the computer screen is at eye level to reduce strain on the neck and back from sitting. Most days, I sit at my desk with the hips of my chair low enough to spring, leapfrog up, and dash out of the office quickly. Realistically, I sit in a way that makes it look like I am about to dive right into my screen.
Email management, somedays, is like breaching a damn, and unfortunately, the spillway of messages from separate departments comes continuously, some needing immediate responses; some emails don't make a bit of sense and are often written in a way that assumes you know what the sender is communicating, email etiquette as it is is an art, and some have not learned the skill.
It is difficult to sit at my desk and find time to peal away and round; however, it is an automatic one that raises and lowers, and to my left, a space heater that is on a medium setting every day, excluding weekends because the average temperature in the office is around 55 degrees, cold enough for me, to keep a heater running. The department is usually cold, sterile, and uncomforting, typical of an operating room environment; you never want to stay there any longer than you need to, which is the feeling you get. Most hospitals are set up that way. However, we make the office more comforting, welcoming, and warm by adding personal touches with pictures, plaques, and, most importantly, snacks, coffee, and sodas.
During the day, oftentimes, the staff drop by to say hello or get a snack from the repurposed file cabinet in the office; I do not think it has ever had an office file of paperwork with dividers in it. Instead, it became the snack shop file cabinet, and the staff prefers salty, crunchy, and fatty foods during the day to break up the routines of procedures. Feel-good foods like fatty chips, sugary candies, and caffeine are the ingredients that keep staff up and running in a cardiac procedure environment. We know we should consume the types of foods and snacks sparingly, but in a stressful, oftentimes spur-of-the-moment, ever-changing environment, how harmful can it be to staff for peace of mind and tranquility?
Typically, chips and crackers fill the cabinet with a few chocolate bars, the small ones like bite-sized, or they come by to get a coffee from the abused, worn-down Keurig. The staff also comes by to drop in for a schedule adjustment, review a pay discrepancy, or escalate a ticket for some repair needed either with the hospital building itself or with the numerous technical equipment native to the cath lab. Most of the time, they come by to get coffee and snacks and seek an opportunity to talk, share, and check in. I like it when they visit us in the office. I pause, pull my face and eyes away from the computer screen, and gaze in their direction, looking for nonverbal cues to engage and see how they are doing. Sometimes, the staff visits, and they have an agenda or a need and are obliging and ready for me to assist; I get after addressing any issues with no delays.
The ticket repair requests on an average day can be countless. However, we can often solve this immediately and get our computers, monitors, imaging equipment like X-rays, and picture-taking gear back online with a simple reboot. We continue our procedures sometimes, though we have to escalate and request a ticket to higher echelon support from industry experts and technological skills field experts to get our equipment back online when the usual restart techniques that the staff know how to do are insufficient. I always ask myself what astronauts do on the Space Station when they have computer glitches. Do they call and put a ticket into IT like we do?
Days like this are typical, familiar, and routine in the work we do in our service area, and believe it or not, code blues are also typical, familiar, and routine in our area where we treat heart problems. One day, however, was not so usual for me.
On the day that we had anesthesia available, those were the doctors who helped our patients sleep and manage their pain while we did our heart procedures. It was a standard case where we performed our aortic valve implant cases during the middle of the week. The technology to help patients is cutting-edge and innovative. It gives older adults who typically have difficulty catching their breath better ability to get dressed, brush their teeth, or give themselves a bath or shower. They need assistance with better breathing and heart function because they have leaky valves as they age. Not being able to breathe affects their ability to go to the grocery store, pick up basic needs, and do activities that a younger middle-aged person takes for granted. Again, these types of procedures are typical for the staff.
Sitting at my desk, jumping into emails, toggling back and forth between Google Chrome and Microsoft Edge, and performing administrative tasks, the overhead paging system, loud and audible, the voice booms and explodes from the speakers above, from the organization's operator, whose voice is very distinctive and articulative when she speaks, "Code blue, third-floor cath lab, code blue third-floor cath lab."
The sound of operating room doors opening more rapidly down the hallway, footsteps outside
my office pacing a little more frantically, and an overall sense of hurry, rush, and scramble is par for the course. I get up from my desk, take a deep breath, put my pen in the v-neck collar of my thin scrub top, adjust my eyeglasses, put my paper-printed daily schedule in the left pocket of my scrubs with my iPhone, and head into the surgery procedures suites pass the warning red lines on the floor to the operating procedure area to discover which out of the five labs in our department is the code blue occurring.
I know that out of the five of our rooms, one of them is performing the aortic valve repair. As I gathered my bearings and took another deep breath in, because after 22 years of taking care of sick heart patients, although not as close as before since my new role, I thought to myself, which never gets easier, please, God, let the aortic valve patient be okay, not that the other patients are any less important or those cases any less critical or essential. Still, in my heart and mind, I could sense that my thoughts and prayers might have been silent as I saw the crowd of necessary staff, providers, and emergency professionals heading in the direction nervously and eagerly with equipment, additional supplies, and resources for life-saving, to the room and place that I feared most—the aortic valve repair.
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