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Just a kiss?
Postflight
Jon Hagen, RN, BSN, EMT-P
Just a Kiss? Did you kiss your significant other before you left for work today or went to sleep last night? I hope you have a lot of significant others and that each of them gets a kiss before you send them off every day. In my job, I see some emotional kissing. Usually, I’m right up close, standing at the head of the stretcher. Often the kisses come with tears. Many times, one of the people is unconscious, ventilated with a tube that someone has inserted to protect the airway. Sometimes they are being kissed for the last time. It happened again the other night. We were called to transport a teenager who was critically injured in a motor vehicle crash and suffered massive head injuries. She was in shock. Her pupils were fixed and dilated; her brain had been severely injured. Suddenly, whether she survived the next hour became much more important than final exams, a graduation party, or picking a college. We prepared her for transport, working quickly. Her parents were in the waiting room, near the emergency room. I went in to meet her mom. The physician was explaining what had happened, how badly she had been hurt, what treatment had been provided, and how she was going to be transferred by helicopter. How could anyone comprehend all of that at a time like this? An hour earlier, this woman and her husband had been watching a movie on TV, and now a doctor they met 3 minutes ago was telling them that their daughter might die. We were ready to go. I took the mom to her daughter’s side. I took a few seconds to explain the breathing tube, the medications used to sedate her, how long the transport time would be. She nodded through her tears, but I’m sure she didn’t hear a word. Instead, she leaned over to kiss her girl on the cheek, the forehead. She stroked her hair where it wasn’t matted with blood or bandaged. She was careful not to touch any of the tubes or monitoring equipment. She begged her to hang on, to fight. She told her she loved her, loved her so much. I’ve learned to always give the husband, wife, mom, dad, or child a few seconds for a kiss goodbye and to say a few words. Although it lasts only a brief period, this gesture is among the most important interventions that our flight crews can do. Every once in a while, our ride is the last ride for the patient, so no matter how sick or hurt someone is, I always make time for a goodbye. This night, I let the mom kiss her child a little longer than May-June 2005
I usually do, at least a whole minute. Tonight, I knew this would be the last time she and her daughter would be able to share the moment. The girl was dying. We caregivers stood around the stretcher, swallowing hard and looking away, as a mother pleaded with her daughter to live. We all knew this was their final goodbye. Finally, it was time to go. We started down the hall and went out the door to the helicopter as the mom watched. Three strangers in blue suits were taking her baby away from her. I hoped she trusted us, although she really had no choice. Soon after we were in the air, the girl’s condition changed. My partner and I glanced at each other, our eyes meeting. We weren’t surprised, but we tried interventions to remedy the problem. We did what we could, which we knew wasn’t going to be enough. Shortly after we arrived in the receiving emergency room, the girl went into cardiac arrest. She didn’t respond to resuscitation efforts and died among strangers. Her mom was coming, but she was still at least an hour away. I’m glad we allowed her an extra few seconds to kiss goodbye, to caress, to cry. It will have to last a lifetime. Jon Hagen, RN, BSN, EMT-P, is a flight nurse with ThedaStar Air Medical in Neenah, Wisconsin. 1067-991X/$30.00 Copyright 2005 by Air Medical Journal Associates doi:10.1016/j.amj.2005.02.004
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Jon Hagen, RN, BSN, EMT-P
Just a Kiss? Did you kiss your significant other before you left for work today or went to sleep last night? I hope you have a lot of significant others and that each of them gets a kiss before you send them off every day. In my job, I see some emotional kissing. Usually, I’m right up close, standing at the head of the stretcher. Often the kisses come with tears. Many times, one of the people is unconscious, ventilated with a tube that someone has inserted to protect the airway. Sometimes they are being kissed for the last time. It happened again the other night. We were called to transport a teenager who was critically injured in a motor vehicle crash and suffered massive head injuries. She was in shock. Her pupils were fixed and dilated; her brain had been severely injured. Suddenly, whether she survived the next hour became much more important than final exams, a graduation party, or picking a college. We prepared her for transport, working quickly. Her parents were in the waiting room, near the emergency room. I went in to meet her mom. The physician was explaining what had happened, how badly she had been hurt, what treatment had been provided, and how she was going to be transferred by helicopter. How could anyone comprehend all of that at a time like this? An hour earlier, this woman and her husband had been watching a movie on TV, and now a doctor they met 3 minutes ago was telling them that their daughter might die. We were ready to go. I took the mom to her daughter’s side. I took a few seconds to explain the breathing tube, the medications used to sedate her, how long the transport time would be. She nodded through her tears, but I’m sure she didn’t hear a word. Instead, she leaned over to kiss her girl on the cheek, the forehead. She stroked her hair where it wasn’t matted with blood or bandaged. She was careful not to touch any of the tubes or monitoring equipment. She begged her to hang on, to fight. She told her she loved her, loved her so much. I’ve learned to always give the husband, wife, mom, dad, or child a few seconds for a kiss goodbye and to say a few words. Although it lasts only a brief period, this gesture is among the most important interventions that our flight crews can do. Every once in a while, our ride is the last ride for the patient, so no matter how sick or hurt someone is, I always make time for a goodbye. This night, I let the mom kiss her child a little longer than May-June 2005
I usually do, at least a whole minute. Tonight, I knew this would be the last time she and her daughter would be able to share the moment. The girl was dying. We caregivers stood around the stretcher, swallowing hard and looking away, as a mother pleaded with her daughter to live. We all knew this was their final goodbye. Finally, it was time to go. We started down the hall and went out the door to the helicopter as the mom watched. Three strangers in blue suits were taking her baby away from her. I hoped she trusted us, although she really had no choice. Soon after we were in the air, the girl’s condition changed. My partner and I glanced at each other, our eyes meeting. We weren’t surprised, but we tried interventions to remedy the problem. We did what we could, which we knew wasn’t going to be enough. Shortly after we arrived in the receiving emergency room, the girl went into cardiac arrest. She didn’t respond to resuscitation efforts and died among strangers. Her mom was coming, but she was still at least an hour away. I’m glad we allowed her an extra few seconds to kiss goodbye, to caress, to cry. It will have to last a lifetime. Jon Hagen, RN, BSN, EMT-P, is a flight nurse with ThedaStar Air Medical in Neenah, Wisconsin. 1067-991X/$30.00 Copyright 2005 by Air Medical Journal Associates doi:10.1016/j.amj.2005.02.004
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