Hello everyboy, my rascals.
First of all, Happy Daddy´s day! Happy Invisible man´s day! Here it is my litte honor for all men and all Josés (especially for my father and for José, the author of ” To come back for to tell it. Story of and acute myocardial infarction”)

Today I would like to share with you a post form the Blog Savor the Essence of life published on January 12, 2014. I am very sorry about my translation, you just can follow the English version and the blog in www.humanizingintensivecare.com.

” Working in the Intensive Care
Unit (ICU) is an experience that can’t quite be put into words. It’s
fast-paced, intense, and the stress of some situations can even occasionally
make my own heart rate go up as high as one of our trauma patients.
people love us. Some people hate us. I can promise you that you do not want to
be a patient in my unit. If you are then that means you’re really sick. But I
can also promise you that if you end up here you will get stellar care by a
team of the best health care providers available.
times we may act a little wacky though. We may seem rude at times. Maybe you
catch us acting totally inappropriate for the situation at hand. Maybe you’ve
even thought, “how can they act that way with all this going on with my family
Well, we
have our reasons. Following is a letter to the families of ICU patients
Disenchanted Family Member of My ICU Patient,
So you
walked in to me singing a song out loud as I hung that IV medicine, huh? You
were a little bewildered, and thought, “Is that from the Sound of Music? Why is
she so inappropriately jolly considering my dad has a tube down his throat?!”
First off, it is the Sound of Music. After all, these are a few of my favorite
seriously, I’m not singing for my own satisfaction. What you don’t realize is
I’m singing to calm my nerves, to keep myself relaxed. Your dad almost died
before I let you back. I’m concerned for him, but I don’t want you to see that
on my face. I don’t want you to worry about him. That’s my job. I just want you
to love him.
I know
you just heard us laughing and cracking a joke in the hall. I get it. You don’t
see anything funny with your mom being confined to that bed, attached to all
those monitors.
I understand. I do. I hope you can understand that while
you were waiting outside unaware we saved the young woman next door. She
couldn’t breathe. Now she can. We didn’t think we’d get the breathing tube down
in time…
We also
restarted the heart of the man across the hall. We shocked him so many times,
and I actually broke his ribs. Just when we were afraid it wouldn’t restart, it
patient next door to him wasn’t so lucky. We tried. I begged God, but she went
anyway. I held her daughter and let her cry in my hair for twenty minutes.
times we have to laugh. It’s the only thing we know to do. We’re afraid if we
cry, we won’t be able to stop.
really sorry if I seemed short with you when you came in to visit. I know you
thought I was being rude, and I know that once outside again you complained
about me, saying “she must have wanted a break instead of taking time to talk
to me!”
No. I
won’t get a break today. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was focused on the
change I just noticed on your dad’s EKG. I was wondering what I could try next
when his blood pressure plummets again. You see, I’m giving the maximum amount
of all those drugs you see hanging. I know you’re not ready to say goodbye. I’m
not ready to give up. That distracts me sometimes and makes me a less than
perfect conversationalist.
I want
you to know that when I see your mom in this condition I feel your pain. I
think of my own mom who has passed away. When their conditions mirror each
other, so similar in presentation, it’s like peeling the scab off my grief. I
don’t let you see that, but I choke back my own tears while you cry.
Oh dear
mom, as you try to maintain your composure while your child remains
unresponsive, I have to fight to keep from sobbing all over your shirt while I
hug you. Your plight is a very real confrontation of the frailty of our
children. I don’t like it as a mother. I will sweat blood to fight for your
baby’s life, no matter the age. I know it could be mine just as easy.
My dear
sir, as you cry over your ailing spouse, I’m sorry that I have to walk away.
I’m sorry I can’t be stronger for you. For a moment I place myself in your
shoes. I imagine my spouse laying there, and I grieve with you. Then I get back
on the horse and I fight for your bride. I just wanted you to know that.
singing, dancing, laughing behavior might make you think I’m indifferent. Or my
distraction and firmly set expression might make you think I don’t care.
I do.
What you
don’t see is when I pull into my driveway at the end of the night after my long
shift has ended. Often times I put my car into park and I cry. All the stress
of fighting for them, all the grief pushed away, all the emotions finally have
time and catch up to me. I don’t sing or laugh. I weep.
Then I
wipe my eyes and go inside. I hug my babies a little tighter. I hold my spouse
a little closer. Then I go to bed early so I can come back in the morning and
fight another day.
I just
wanted you to know.

Your ICU