This is where it ends
I lost my stethoscope.
I had it one moment, and the next, I didn't.
I lose things all the time. In fact, I am a professional loser: as soon as I realize something is gone, I can stop in my tracks, and immediately trace it back to where I last saw it, and that way, I can usually recover...75% of the things that I lose.
This time, I thought I knew where it was, but when I went to look, it wasn't.
My stethoscope and I have been together for 8 years. It was given to me as a gift from my friends, because I was the only one left who still hadn't purchased it. Typical of me: why do now what you can put off until tomorrow?
I have tried to lose it, or it has tried to lose me many times throughout the years, but we've always found our way back to each other.
One time, I had lost it for a month and a half! I remember what happened: I was cards night float. It was 1 am. Suddenly, the operator called Dr. Kapil overhead to the heart failure unit. Dr. Kapil was a cards fellow; obviously, not inhouse at 1 am. As the cardiology nightfloat, I figured something must be up if they're calling him, so I walked over to the unit. Turned out, there was a patient with an LVAD (left ventricular assist device) who had gone into Vtach. There needed to be a code. But you can't shock a patient with an LVAD because it will short circuit. You have to disconnect the lifeline and hand-pump the heart with a little rubber pump so that you can administer shocks in between. I shit you not. It's a little rubber ball with two handles, looks like a thigh-master. It pumps the heart.
Anyway, I was first on the scene. This was around October of second year. I immediately briefly went into Vtach myself, but snapped myself out of it, flung the stethoscope off to the side, rolled up my sleeves and surprised myself by knowing what to do, at least until the seniors got there to help.
So, the code ran for about 45 minutes, until we finally got enough amiodarone into the patient to convert him back into a sinus rhythm. The attending, whom I had on the phone, almost cried, and exclaimed: "Oh, thank the mother of god!!" Because if we were unable to do this, the patient would need an emergency bi-Vad, and that's essentially a destination device. Destination = heaven. Celestial discharge.
At the end of it all, I couldn't find my stethoscope. I looked and looked all around the room, all around the floor, and it just wasn't there! I sent out emails (Lost pet!), and started counting days and calculating probabilities, or improbabilities, of my finding it.
A month and half later! A nurse paged me from the heart failure unit, imagine my surprise. She told me that the patient we coded that time got moved to another room, and while they were cleaning, they found the stethoscope lodged between his mattress and his siderail.
It was an emotional reunion.
I've also left it in cafeterias, conference rooms, and procedure areas countless times, and have always found my way back to it.
But now it seems to be gone, and I left that hospital today, so I don't have much hope that a month from now, when I come back, I'll still find it.
It's over between me and my stethoscope.
All good things must come to an end?
I had it one moment, and the next, I didn't.
I lose things all the time. In fact, I am a professional loser: as soon as I realize something is gone, I can stop in my tracks, and immediately trace it back to where I last saw it, and that way, I can usually recover...75% of the things that I lose.
This time, I thought I knew where it was, but when I went to look, it wasn't.
My stethoscope and I have been together for 8 years. It was given to me as a gift from my friends, because I was the only one left who still hadn't purchased it. Typical of me: why do now what you can put off until tomorrow?
I have tried to lose it, or it has tried to lose me many times throughout the years, but we've always found our way back to each other.
One time, I had lost it for a month and a half! I remember what happened: I was cards night float. It was 1 am. Suddenly, the operator called Dr. Kapil overhead to the heart failure unit. Dr. Kapil was a cards fellow; obviously, not inhouse at 1 am. As the cardiology nightfloat, I figured something must be up if they're calling him, so I walked over to the unit. Turned out, there was a patient with an LVAD (left ventricular assist device) who had gone into Vtach. There needed to be a code. But you can't shock a patient with an LVAD because it will short circuit. You have to disconnect the lifeline and hand-pump the heart with a little rubber pump so that you can administer shocks in between. I shit you not. It's a little rubber ball with two handles, looks like a thigh-master. It pumps the heart.
Anyway, I was first on the scene. This was around October of second year. I immediately briefly went into Vtach myself, but snapped myself out of it, flung the stethoscope off to the side, rolled up my sleeves and surprised myself by knowing what to do, at least until the seniors got there to help.
So, the code ran for about 45 minutes, until we finally got enough amiodarone into the patient to convert him back into a sinus rhythm. The attending, whom I had on the phone, almost cried, and exclaimed: "Oh, thank the mother of god!!" Because if we were unable to do this, the patient would need an emergency bi-Vad, and that's essentially a destination device. Destination = heaven. Celestial discharge.
At the end of it all, I couldn't find my stethoscope. I looked and looked all around the room, all around the floor, and it just wasn't there! I sent out emails (Lost pet!), and started counting days and calculating probabilities, or improbabilities, of my finding it.
A month and half later! A nurse paged me from the heart failure unit, imagine my surprise. She told me that the patient we coded that time got moved to another room, and while they were cleaning, they found the stethoscope lodged between his mattress and his siderail.
It was an emotional reunion.
I've also left it in cafeterias, conference rooms, and procedure areas countless times, and have always found my way back to it.
But now it seems to be gone, and I left that hospital today, so I don't have much hope that a month from now, when I come back, I'll still find it.
It's over between me and my stethoscope.
All good things must come to an end?
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