What Just happened?

I was gonna write about last night's stint on ward 5.

I was gonna speak about the sheer sleep deprivation that strikes when working 9.37 hours straight on a hot, stuffy ward with only two fans cooling it down.

I was gonna be jokey about this.

But now I'm not.


In the park outside my doorstep, a staffordshire bull terrier lunged for the throat of my neighbour's spaniel. All of a sudden, every person living around the edges of the grassy green leaped from their houses and watched in a stunned awe as the owner of the staffy and spaniel fought to separate the dogs now locked in a bloody battle. The staffy was kicked, strangled, pulled at and hit, and depite every effort of three men, it still would not unlock it's vicious jaws from the poor spaniel's chest. It was snarling and growling, drinking the blood from its crying victim like a demented four-pawed vampire.

My mum ran back inside, and called the police. The dog was dangerous, and now it looked as though it would have to be shot before it would let go of its prey, who only seconds before had been happily chewing on its tennis ball.


Amazingly, the fight was separated, not long before a pair of police officers arrived.

What happened after this, however, now feels like a blurred dream.

Someone yelled from the far end of the car park. A man had collapsed.
History of angina.
Four men surrounded him as I bombed down from my house and rounded the corner, yelling my first aider status as I went. And there he lay, on his side, swamped by people who had no clue what to do.
I dived onto the floor.
"We need to sit him up, in a W position. Does he have any medication?"
"He's gone rigid!" The lad beside me said. "He won't move."
"Roll him on his back!" A woman yelled.
"No! Keep him on his side!" I argued. "If he vomits we'll lose his airway."
I tilted his head back. Someone sprayed medication into his mouth. But this didn't help. This man was dealing with more than an angina attack, and his condition was rapidly deteriorating - faster than I could think.
By now, every neighbour surrounded me on all sides, crowding in, nosing in, all yelling, shouting, chatting, gasping at the scene.
"Get an ambulance!" I called, as someone else also suggested the action in a panicked tone.
What happens? What do we do? Does anyone know?
Every question ran through my ears, registered in my muddled-up head, and while I new the answers, I found no courage to yell them out.
A close neighbour came down - he said he'd been a nurse for many years, and instantly he knelt by our casualty and laid a hand on his chest.
The man's body was incredibly stiff, and he still seemed to be choking for breath. I thrust his head back again as he took another gasp. Another fellow neighbour checked his mouth for any loose dentures, but nothing was there to obstruct the airway.
What's going on now? An ambulance is on the way!
"That's my man!" One woman yelled. I know her well.
She knelt down by my side, and tried to press in to rouse him. His response was nothing.
"Keep back," Someone said to her, "come away, an ambulance is coming!"
"I'm not leaving him!" She fought back, as she pushed her way in closer.
I gritted my teeth - there were too many people trying to get involved.
"Stay back, sweetheart," I said gently to the woman, "give him some room - I need to monitor him."
She eventually pulled back slightly, and I leaned forwards to listen for breathing.
He had gone quiet.
Shit.
My stomach clenched.
"Is he still breathing?" I asked the ex-nurse.
"Yeah, yeah, he has a pulse." Was his reply.
"Just cos he has a pulse doesn't mean he's still breathing," I retorted, but the man wasn't listening.
"Is his chest moving?" I asked, louder this time.
"Yeah."
I'm over-reacting, I thought, he's been a nurse for years, he knows far better than me.
But something didn't seem right.
Our casualty now had his eyes open. I clicked my finger in his face. No response.
I brushed my finger across his eyelashes. Not even a flicker.
"I don't think he's breathing," I said, almost dumbstruck with this realisation.
"He's breathing," my nurse assured me.
I leaned over the man again, and tried as hard as I could to listen amidst the hubbub.
Then I was certain.
"He's not breathing!" I said to the nurse. I tried to say it louder, but it was as though the volume button in my voice box had been turned on to mute. No one was listening, in the midst of their panic, anticipation, fear, worry, and general awe.
"We need CPR," I said, though more to myself. And yet inside me, there was doubt, niggling my thoughts. Surely a trained ex-nurse would realise this if the patient really wasn't breathing. Perhaps my hidden apprehension fuelled my imagination with the worst case scenario.
Here we go! The ambulance is here! Stand back everyone! Keep clear!
I looked up.
The ambulance pulled up by the pavement and the two paramedics leaped from the front cab.
"What's going on?" One of the green-clad medics asked as he knelt down and grabbed at the casualty's wrist, fumbling for a pulse through the ashen skin and blue latex.
I gave a hand over with the info I knew - his name, his age, his history of angina, no allergies, collapsed after being involved in a dog fight.
The paramedic leaped up, as his colleague brought over O2 and the trolley bed.
They loaded the limp body onto the bed and in two seconds, had transferred the casualty to the confines of the ambulance. The doors were slammed shut.
An eerie silence suddenly descended upon us all.
Then, chatter broke out, in small pockets of gossip, just here and there. Suddenly everyone was distressed, or in shock, or were even unsure of the reality of what they had just witnessed. I was the only person who didn't stand in a group.

I stood and stared at the ambulance. A small side window was open slightly, and I'm pretty sure I was the only person who was listening hard enough to hear the sound I had inwardly been dreading.
The click, click, click of the trolley bed depressing under the weight of the intermittent compressions. CPR.
I knew it, I whispered bitterly to myself through gritted teeth, I fucking knew it.
I heard the familiar voice of the AED; the pause as a shock was delivered; the direction to continue CPR.
For 10 minutes I listened and stared blankly at the ambo wall, faced with the logo I so admired.
And anger surged through me.
Tears of fury and irritation filled my eyes, and suddenly I couldn't stop myself from crying any more.
No one had listened to me - not one person had acknowledged my realisation, not even the stupid bloke who calls himself an ex-nurse.
The man had remained in his deathly state for almost 5 minutes. Perhaps, those 5 minutes filled with CPR might have made a difference.
I tried to tell them, but no one was willing to listen to a mere first aider who was only 17 years old.

The man didn't make it. His heart was too weak. In truth, he died on scene. I know he did, and this confirmation by the medical team at DGH confirmed my own diagnosis.
Perhaps, had the ambo not arrived on scene for a further 5 minutes, I would have thrown folk out of the way and started CPR despite the 'medical' opinions of other so-called health care professionals and by standers.
Yet I still could have started - I could've done more.
And this is what niggles me - it digs at the back of my head right now. My self-doubt had cost immediate action to be taken. Yet the misguidance I chose to accept created my self-doubt. The misguidance made by a nurse who was knowledgeable and experienced and therefore was more likely to be correct and someone who I should most probably listen to in all his infinite medical wisdom.
I was wrong. On this occasion.

Later on, I went for my second night duty, and somehow I ended up having to explain myself to the nursing team there. They sympathised with my experience, but one nurse said something very true:

Good intentions are fine and well in situations involving minor things, like cuts or bruises. But when someone's life hangs in the balance, that's when good intentions aren't good enough.

Once again, the moral to this story is thusly; it's good to know you're willing to help, and you can call 999 and pitch in where need be, but when there's too many people with 'good intentions' and a person who actually knows what to do, then please, please let them in and do their job. I wasn't in uniform this time round, but it shouldn't take a uniform to convey someone's skills when they openly make it known amongst the crowd. Perhaps I should have been more forceful, but that will come with experience and age now.
Please, let people do their work - I'm not saying don't stop such good intentions and helpful willingness, but do stand clear when asked and do try not to intervene. Listen and be on hand to help.

This has happened 3 times to me now in the space of a week (both in and out of uniform) and quite frankly, its becoming tiring and annoying.

Next time, I'm going to tell people to fuck off out the way so I can do a proper job, and then apologise to them afterwards for my rudeness, but they wouldn't have listened to me in any other way.