Mobile radiographer arrives, chest compressions continue. There's a rhythm - now it's gone. Tiny pulse, now no output. That smell. That death smell. Pumping on the chest, arms tired, swap with someone else. Keep pumping, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, 40 minutes. Infusion. ABG. Acidotic. Pupils fixed. Compressions cease. 38 years old. Curtains now closed and everything left, just a blanket drawn up. Phone calls in the middle of the night.
Feel pointless. Wonder if she will get bruises from the futile weight of my arms and hands on her chest. Detach. Sit on the ward and read through her chart, search for an answer for why it all went wrong. Listen to the call to the coroner. Lean back for a bit. Feel morose, feel reminded of all the people who wonder why I do this job and if I agree with them. Shake myself, answer more calls, forget her name and feel guilty about it. It's on a sticker somewhere.