Chest Compressions

My friend is in her last year of medical school. She was working a night shift in the ICU when someone paged her. A man in his thirties needed chest compressions. A nurse set palms on the patient’s breastbone and pushed hard and fast, two inches deep at a rate of a hundred and twenty compressions per minute. After two minutes, the supervising doctor signalled that my friend should take over. My friend set her palms on the patient’s breastbone. She had never administered chest compressions before. She didn’t expect the impact of each push to travel through her entire body. After two minutes, the doctor signalled for another nurse to take over. My friend stood and watched with arms pulsing and aching until it was her turn again, and again, until the doctor called time of death.

My friend was paged again. The patient was a woman in her eighties with tiny toothpick bones. This time, the nurses weren’t available. The doctor signalled for my friend to start compressions. My friend had been taught to do no harm. This seemed like doing harm. The patient’s chart indicated that her family wanted every intervention. My friend set palms on the woman’s chest and pushed lightly. The doctor said push harder. My friend pushed harder. The doctor repeated the command. My friend pushed even harder and felt the woman’s breastbone snap, felt the snap through her entire body. The doctor said keep going. My friend pushed the crushed pieces of a body until the doctor called time of death.

My friend went to the vending machine and bought a soda. She doesn’t like soda. She took a sip and it tasted disgusting. Three more patients died that night.

My friend became depressed, so she told her advisor. The advisor advised my friend to see a doctor. The doctor prescribed an antidepressant, and my friend found herself considering suicide. My friend has stopped the antidepressant, but she hasn’t stopped thinking about chest compressions.