Baseball Caps and Pacifiers

    A few years after the fact, I'm starting to realize just how much was asked of me that night. I was just an undergrad, just working my part time job when a man's life was placed in my inexperienced hands for the first time. The often overlooked aspect of this job is the unpredictability of the environment. In the hospital you have students, nurses, and doctors skillfully intertwining knowledge, experience, and resources. As for me and my partner, we were packed inside the elevator of a project building alongside the patient's daughter and granddaughter when he died on us. We were both just a few years past being teenagers, and while we had both trained for such situations, this was the first time either of us had to deal with death in the first person.
    The first of many are always memorable. By the time of this writing, I must have seen death dozens of times, but they're all a blur compared to the first. I remember his name, his address, his age, his granddaughter's name; I remember the red "Asystole" blinking on the cardiac monitor.

     I wrote down the details of the event elsewhere, to reflect on what I did and what I could've done better, but the most stand-out moment that night didn't seem to warrant a lesson. After you passed, and after the doctor pronounced you, I went outside to clean the back of my bus. Lost between the failed IVs and stylets on the floor, I found your navy blue baseball cap and your granddaughter's pacifier lying side by side, having been dropped and forgotten in the midst of everything. What a juxtaposition, I thought. There's something to be said about life and death, and beginnings and endings here. But sometimes it's enough, and sometimes it's more than enough, to not say anything and let the raw experiences and memories exist for themselves. I wrapped her pacifier inside that old cap of yours, handed it to your daughter, wished her the best, and left to consider those thoughts.