The last shot
1999; Elsevier BV; Volume: 25; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1016/s0099-1767(99)70139-x
ISSN1527-2966
Autores ResumoI stood alone, looking at the small infant as he lay on the huge white sheet. The room echoed the quiet of a thick fog: cool and isolating. My ears rang with emptiness as loud waves of silence hit them. It was a sensation all too familiar to me, one I wait to embrace me at times like this.“Cute kid,” I thought, as I turned his little body over, inspecting him for bruises, marks, and other signs of abuse. I ran my hand over his full head of hair and gently laid him down again. He did not look neglected. No outward signs of abuse were visible. Sudden infant death syndrome was a possibility, I supposed.I listened as the physician explained to the mother that we had done everything possible. Our resuscitation efforts had no effect. The baby was dead.Years of working in the emergency department have taught me that everyone responds differently to the pain of losing someone they love. Sometimes loud wailing, sometimes a lack of expression of grief, even hostility is not unexpected. Her sharp, glaring eyes stared at us from an even colder, hard face. I felt my own valued open-mindedness turn to doubt when I reach up to touch her shoulder.I felt righteous justification to that doubt when she stepped back before my hand was able to make contact. Her eyes told me not to touch her.“I'll take you to meet him,” I said, feeling uneasy. “You can hold him if you want.” Suspicion replaced the coldness in her eyes as she took me in with one sideways glance.I thought it curious, no, odd, that she never got closer than a couple of feet from the baby. Why would she keep such a distance from her child? Glancing only brief seconds at the infant, her attention focused on me. Something was peculiar here. I convinced myself that this woman was hiding something. She was being too careful.“I'll give you some time alone,” I offered, feeling insecure about allowing her to be alone with the baby, but not knowing what else to do. She nodded one sharp, quick nod, as if she was dismissing me.I stood outside the closed door. How can one have a child die and be so cold? So hard? She had two other children, and thoughts of them brought pain to my heart. How did they live? Were they abused? Obviously, they must be neglected with a mother like this! My mind toyed with suspicion until the sounds coming from the room pulled me into reality.Heart-wrenching, gut-racking, uncontrollable, yet muffled sobs filled my unsuspecting ears. I thought my heart would explode. This seemingly cold, heartless woman tried to keep her grief-stricken cries as quiet as possible. Had I not been standing directly outside the door I would not have heard them.Not to catch her off guard, I opened the door slowly, noisily. She stepped back quickly. Except for swollen, reddened eyes, and a very slight difference in her composure, she looked the same as when I left. This woman's need to conceal her pain became apparent to me. Her coldness, the toughness, the distance she kept from her child in my presence was her means of survival.“I'm so very sorry this happened to you,” I said as she studied me, “Can I do anything for you?”Looking at the baby and back at me, she opened her mouth as if to say something, only to close it without speaking. A painful look escaped from behind her protective mask.“What? What can I do? How can I help? Would you like me to call someone for you?”She hesitated, as if I might laugh. Humility clouded her expression and she shook her head no. However, something, maybe an intense desire, an absolute need, the knowledge that she may regret not taking action in this now or never situation…whatever the reason, it made her choose to drop her protective walls long enough to make a request.I had to strain to hear her as she looked at the floor and mumbled, “A camera.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “I don't have a picture of him. We never had a family picture taken. You know, with me, him, and my other kids.” Her voice begged me to understand.…and so she sat with a painfully synthetic smile plastered on her face as she held her stiff little baby. She prompted the 2 children at her side to smile as I snapped her family portrait.Clutching her envelope of pictures, she turned to me and softly said, “Thank you.” I watched this rock of a woman walk away, and although the hardness about her had not changed, I saw just how human she really was. I stood alone, looking at the small infant as he lay on the huge white sheet. The room echoed the quiet of a thick fog: cool and isolating. My ears rang with emptiness as loud waves of silence hit them. It was a sensation all too familiar to me, one I wait to embrace me at times like this. “Cute kid,” I thought, as I turned his little body over, inspecting him for bruises, marks, and other signs of abuse. I ran my hand over his full head of hair and gently laid him down again. He did not look neglected. No outward signs of abuse were visible. Sudden infant death syndrome was a possibility, I supposed. I listened as the physician explained to the mother that we had done everything possible. Our resuscitation efforts had no effect. The baby was dead. Years of working in the emergency department have taught me that everyone responds differently to the pain of losing someone they love. Sometimes loud wailing, sometimes a lack of expression of grief, even hostility is not unexpected. Her sharp, glaring eyes stared at us from an even colder, hard face. I felt my own valued open-mindedness turn to doubt when I reach up to touch her shoulder. I felt righteous justification to that doubt when she stepped back before my hand was able to make contact. Her eyes told me not to touch her. “I'll take you to meet him,” I said, feeling uneasy. “You can hold him if you want.” Suspicion replaced the coldness in her eyes as she took me in with one sideways glance. I thought it curious, no, odd, that she never got closer than a couple of feet from the baby. Why would she keep such a distance from her child? Glancing only brief seconds at the infant, her attention focused on me. Something was peculiar here. I convinced myself that this woman was hiding something. She was being too careful. “I'll give you some time alone,” I offered, feeling insecure about allowing her to be alone with the baby, but not knowing what else to do. She nodded one sharp, quick nod, as if she was dismissing me. I stood outside the closed door. How can one have a child die and be so cold? So hard? She had two other children, and thoughts of them brought pain to my heart. How did they live? Were they abused? Obviously, they must be neglected with a mother like this! My mind toyed with suspicion until the sounds coming from the room pulled me into reality. Heart-wrenching, gut-racking, uncontrollable, yet muffled sobs filled my unsuspecting ears. I thought my heart would explode. This seemingly cold, heartless woman tried to keep her grief-stricken cries as quiet as possible. Had I not been standing directly outside the door I would not have heard them. Not to catch her off guard, I opened the door slowly, noisily. She stepped back quickly. Except for swollen, reddened eyes, and a very slight difference in her composure, she looked the same as when I left. This woman's need to conceal her pain became apparent to me. Her coldness, the toughness, the distance she kept from her child in my presence was her means of survival. “I'm so very sorry this happened to you,” I said as she studied me, “Can I do anything for you?” Looking at the baby and back at me, she opened her mouth as if to say something, only to close it without speaking. A painful look escaped from behind her protective mask. “What? What can I do? How can I help? Would you like me to call someone for you?” She hesitated, as if I might laugh. Humility clouded her expression and she shook her head no. However, something, maybe an intense desire, an absolute need, the knowledge that she may regret not taking action in this now or never situation…whatever the reason, it made her choose to drop her protective walls long enough to make a request. I had to strain to hear her as she looked at the floor and mumbled, “A camera.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “I don't have a picture of him. We never had a family picture taken. You know, with me, him, and my other kids.” Her voice begged me to understand. …and so she sat with a painfully synthetic smile plastered on her face as she held her stiff little baby. She prompted the 2 children at her side to smile as I snapped her family portrait. Clutching her envelope of pictures, she turned to me and softly said, “Thank you.” I watched this rock of a woman walk away, and although the hardness about her had not changed, I saw just how human she really was. AppendixContributions to this column are welcomed and encouraged. Submissions may be sent to Susan Moore, RN, MS, CCRN, CEN, 5350 Iroquois Circle, Reno, NV 89502; phone (702) 328-4036; E-mail: [email protected] Contributions to this column are welcomed and encouraged. Submissions may be sent to Susan Moore, RN, MS, CCRN, CEN, 5350 Iroquois Circle, Reno, NV 89502; phone (702) 328-4036; E-mail: [email protected] Contributions to this column are welcomed and encouraged. Submissions may be sent to Susan Moore, RN, MS, CCRN, CEN, 5350 Iroquois Circle, Reno, NV 89502; phone (702) 328-4036; E-mail: [email protected] Contributions to this column are welcomed and encouraged. Submissions may be sent to Susan Moore, RN, MS, CCRN, CEN, 5350 Iroquois Circle, Reno, NV 89502; phone (702) 328-4036; E-mail: [email protected]
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