Have you ever experienced an event which was so overpowering that the very foundation of your life was shaken? What kind of event would cause this to happen? A birth, a death, a disaster? Today’s column — about a 15-year-old boy who becomes caught in the turbulent undertow of a tragedy — attempts to answer this question.
Having been born into a family of medical/nursing professionals — my father, his father, and my father’s brother, were pediatricians; my mother was a nurse — it was no surprise that my first real job was in a hospital. In June, the summer before I turned 16, I was hired and trained as a hospital orderly (the precursor to today’s certified nursing assistant).
The training was tough, and the standards were high. I was always on the run, assisting nurses and doctors as they treated children. My father arrived early each morning, and I would accompany him as he went from room to room, caring for his patients.
It was in July, at 6:50 a.m., and I had just stepped off the elevator when the head nurse waved me over: “Go get Sandy now!” The steel in her voice was the signal of a emergency. I exploded down the hall, bolted into the nurse’s station, and blurted, “Sandy, corner room, now!” We dashed into the corner room where I saw my father bent over an infant — a newborn so tiny I could have held her in the palm of one hand. My father had begun a cut down, to find an artery whose diameter was big enough to use as the entry point for IV fluids (an ankle vessel is located by cutting down with a scalpel).
I watched in agony as the infant’s skin darkened to a bluish color. My hands began shaking so hard I plunged them into my pockets, ashamed of the fear which had gripped me. Another pair of hands — steady, calm — worked with confidence as my father completed the cut down, started the IV and applied oxygen.
As the baby’s color shifted from blue to grey to pink, the tension in the room broke. But then, the infant began to shake as wave after wave of seizures hit her. As I watched, I felt like I was drowning, unable to move air into my lungs. My thoughts were like Alaskan King Crabs who had been captured and tossed into a small bucket: pinching, clawing, ripping each other to shreds. My mind screamed: “Why did this baby have to die?”
Desperate, I looked for my father for help, but when I searched the room, he was gone. I was alone, detached, an observer. A thin bubble surrounded me, encapsulated me, separating me from the dead child.
Twenty years later: One month prior to the birth of our first child, I began to have nightmares where my son died during childbirth. In the dream, it was always, somehow my fault. I kept this to myself. My son’s birth, in July, was complicated, due to the cord being wrapped around his neck. He was born with a blue color. As my father applied oxygen, I watched in relief as his skin color shifted from blue to grey to pink.
Holding my son in my arms, I released a ton of fear. But then a startling question shot across my mind: When a child dies in a hospital, who informs the family? My mind went back to the death of the newborn, but this time, I was able to piece together the reality of what had happened. Overcome by tragedy, I had looked for my father’s help. But when I discovered he had left the room without telling me, I had taken it personally, as proof that he must be disappointed in my weakness. I believed (falsely) that he was ashamed of me. It had never occurred to me that my father had left the room to console the child’s grieving family.
When I witnessed the child’s death, my mind had gone into an automatic self-protective mode, called a post-traumatic reaction. This reaction had created a false belief — I was weak, my father was ashamed of me — which now, had been corrected.
Believing that all my nightmares were now gone forever, I went to bed and slept. However, new nightmares attacked my sleep. What I had failed to realize was that because the infant’s death had been stored in the memory systems for trauma, I could not grieve. I still had some work to do.
I wrote out the details of the infant’s death, and, with the help of someone I trusted, I was able to grieve. My nightmares stopped.
Trauma, a wound time can’t heal, requires the help of others. I realize now that the suffering I had experienced is universally felt by all. I also know that healing is blocked by social isolation. I wonder, if this event in today’s column hadn’t happened, would I be writing at all?
The content of this article is for educational purposes only and should not be used as a substitute for treatment by a professional.
Dr. Richard Elghammer contributes his column each week to the Journal Review.
