{"id":1652,"date":"2023-11-15T17:06:43","date_gmt":"2023-11-15T17:06:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.scottishmedicalhumanities.org\/human\/?p=1652"},"modified":"2023-11-16T08:48:02","modified_gmt":"2023-11-16T08:48:02","slug":"this-overdose-was-different","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.scottishmedicalhumanities.org\/human\/this-overdose-was-different\/","title":{"rendered":"This overdose was different"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

She clearly didn\u2019t know that this overdose was different. This time, he was dead.<\/p>\n

In the emergency department (ED), we\u2019ve become all too familiar with the twenty-something code-blue patient \u2013 usually male, often found at the train station around 7:30 am.<\/p>\n

The medical management of a cardiac arrest was familiar, but seeing it happen outside of the emergency department, in a patient\u2019s home, I felt uneasy. His name, I learned, was Jonathan; his girlfriend\u2019s name was Chloe. Jonathan\u2019s Eagles jersey tacked to the wall, his university ID on the table, the muted South Park<\/em> episode still running on his TV \u2013 these small snippets of normality made him unlike the John Doe overdose patients I\u2019m used to. They presented a person with a life and a story \u2013 a story that would end here. Now.<\/p>\n

After twenty minutes of CPR, we stopped. Chloe, still in her pajamas, paced frantically.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, we couldn\u2019t save him,\u201d the lieutenant told her gently. She collapsed and let out a shriek that rattled the thin walls. Neighbors opened their doors, their faces heavy with expressions of concern or judgment.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis can\u2019t be happening \u2026. This can\u2019t be happening,\u201d Chloe gasped. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you take him to the hospital? Can you please try something else? Anything<\/em> else?\u201d<\/p>\n

I had no words of comfort to offer. I listened and nodded as she tried to bargain.<\/p>\n

A few eternal minutes later, Jonathan\u2019s parents arrived.<\/p>\n

Their faces were drenched in sorrow, but not surprise. It seemed they\u2019d been expecting this day \u2013 dreading its arrival. Reluctantly, I accompanied Jonathan\u2019s mother into the apartment as Chloe stayed behind, pacing and sobbing.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat have you done, Jonathan?\u201d his mother wailed, kneeling to embrace him, her hands on his shoulders.<\/p>\n

When I\u2019m treating patients in the emergency department, I feel some degree of control, even among the dead and dying. In this living room, I was the guest. My role was undefined, and my medical degree felt meaningless. I stood feeling paralyzed by my own futility and watched Jonathan\u2019s mother kiss his mouth, ignoring the endotracheal tube in her way.<\/p>\n

When we heard the radio crackle with the call for another code, I slipped out of the room like a halfhearted guest, relieved to finally have an excuse to leave.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This is an abridged version of <\/em>Dr Utsha Khatri’s 2020 post at pulsevoices.org<\/em><\/a>, with permission.<\/p>\n

Commentary<\/h3>\n

This was used as one of the pieces for reading at the NHS Scotland Bereavement conference in 2022<\/a>. It was described as tough, almost too real. The juxtaposition of the setting, at home with only the paraphernalia of a normal life, and the impact on even an experienced professional. The tragedy of a wasted life. Helplessness. You can anticipate and recoil from the lasting impact of the experience on all those involved. Guilty relief at leaving.<\/p>\n

Further info<\/h3>\n