Shattered

"He passed away. I'm shattered."

That was the text I received from a friend the other morning. My stomach dropped and eyes welled just seeing the words. The he was her husband. Her world had just been turned upside down, smashed to pieces. Her pain resonated in each and every word. He had been in a motorcycle accident the night before; hit by an oncoming car right before her eyes. She was following a mere car-length behind. The medical team did their best, but it didn't matter. Even though they worked tirelessly for hours, his injuries were just too massive. He slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. He was only twenty-eight.

I've cried for days for her. The tears won't stop. The strange thing is, we aren't even that close. I've never even met him. Still, I was the one she called after they rolled him into the OR. I suppose it's because I'm the only nurse she knows. She needed to hear a voice of reason; someone to help her make sense of all the medical-speak. I'm OK with that. I'm just glad she thought to reach out, although I'm not sure how much help I actually was.

I was working that night, so we texted until nearly dawn. I did my best to reassure her. There wasn't much else for me to do, not being privy to the extent of his injuries. My experience made me think the worst, yet I hoped for the best, and I told her to do the same. When the texts stopped, I knew it wasn't good. As I drove home in the morning rush-hour, her heart-breaking text appeared on my phone. There was nothing more to say, no more hope to give. He was gone.

I'm not sure why this is hitting me so hard. I see accidents and tragedy every day. I've spent my career objectifying and de-humanizing death, making it clinical rather than emotional, in order to become more proficient at my job. I think all of us in the medical profession do, to a certain extent. We build up walls to get through our days, so we can maintain perspective and keep coming back for more. I've seen my share of families grieve, but I always do so with a sense of detached professionalism. If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to get anything done, and wouldn't do anyone any good. But this was different. All professionalism was set aside. There were no walls. I guess that's why it's affecting me so. His death and her grief caught me off guard, bursting my professional bubble. This time, I couldn't help but to feel her fear, her loss, her utter sorrow. Each emotion hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything hit so close to home. And that's when the waterworks began.

I'm not sure what lesson there is to be learned from all of this. Maybe that I am more human and susceptible to emotion than I'd like to believe. Or maybe just to be thankful for my family and all of our blessings, because everything can be taken in an instant. Either way, I'm going to give Mouse the biggest, longest hug possible when I get back to Denver next week.