I don't remember every detail about the first patient I watched die, but I remember his weight.
It was shouted repeatedly across the room to the pharmacist standing in the doorway. The number bounced between physicians, nurses, and pharmacists as medications were calculated on the spot. Everyone was moving quickly, speaking in short phrases, focused on the singular goal of keeping this patient alive.
I remember hearing that number over and over again.
What surprises me is that I can't tell you much else. I don't remember every medication that was given. I don't remember every intervention attempted. I don't remember the exact sequence of events that unfolded in that room as I stood on the toilet in the corner trying to stay out of the way and take it all in.
I remember his weight because everyone was trying so hard to save him.
