Flowers
(Trigger warning for suicide and trauma)
Some days, I like to tell myself that I could be a florist instead. I have no idea how to do a floral arrangement, but then again, I had no idea how to do a PAP smear last year, and now I do them all the time. I like to imagine the small, quiet space, surrounded by the plants and gentle smell of flowers. I would happily work away, snipping and trimming, matching colours and sizes, making pretty things all day.
I like to imagine this quiet life when I am particularly exhausted, or sad, or tired of pretending to be brave. These are the days when I would like no more responsibility than to pick out a nice combination of flowers.
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Earlier this week, I walked into morning report to find one of our nurses missing. Usually this means that the night was so busy that the on-call nurse needs to sleep in and miss work in the morning.
“There was a completed suicide last night,” our nurse in charge tells us. “The RCMP found their body last night, still warm. They started CPR and brought them here, but they couldn’t get the kid back.”
The room is quiet. This has been the tenth death in our little community of 1,200 in just this year. Over a decade ago, this community had one of the highest rates of teen suicide in the country. We thought that things were finally taking a turn for the better over the past few years. But I am so afraid that the epidemic may be coming back.
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What would be the worst thing I’d have to face if I were a florist? I like to wonder. Maybe some angry, scathing reviews. Or irate customers threatening to close down my shop. I could handle that, I think. It couldn’t be much worse than people in our ER threatening, swearing, and swinging at us. The worst news I’d ever have to deliver would be to say that the flowers they wanted for an important celebration or condolence were not available.
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One Christmas, I was working in triage in our ER back home. I am in the midst of a triage when I hear a yell calling for help from the next person in line. I am out of my chair in seconds to see a man pushing his elderly father in a wheelchair. The father’s head and eyes have rolled back, he has a terrible ashen colour to him, and won’t respond to me when I tap him. I can’t tell if he’s having a syncopal episode or a seizure, but I notice urine dripping under the wheelchair when he has suddenly become incontinent. I keep a finger on his faint pulse as I grab my phone with my other hand to call my charge nurse. I gesture for the son to wheel his father in as we rush down our resuscitation hallway.
“He’s just been feeling unwell for the past few days…I thought it was a chest cold. What’s going on?” The son is terrified, but keeping it surprisingly well together.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him, “but we’re going to get the doctor to see him right away.”
We have a whole bunch of nurses and a doctor in the room within seconds, and we lift the elderly man onto the stretcher and start to peel off the layers of winter clothes. I take a second amidst everyone hooking him up to the monitor and starting IVs to press my fingers against his jugular. I realize I’ve lost the faint pulse I had a few seconds ago. I sweep a glance at his son, standing in the corner, his eyes wide open in terror. I wish I had just two minutes to emotionally prepare him for what is about to happen, what he is going to see. But I have no time, so instead, I climb onto the stretcher and press my hands onto his father’s chest to start CPR.
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If I opened my little flower shop, I’d have to worry about the rent, the sales, my flower suppliers. But there would be no on-call phone next to my head, ringing in the middle of the night. There would be no more jumping up with my heart pounding, fearing that this would be the call that has me running to resuscitate a dead baby or one of the many skidoo drivers speeding past under my window. There would be no anxiety about hurting someone because I didn’t know enough or overlooked something. There would be no more sleepless nights kicking myself for the things I had missed today.
------------------
Many months ago, a man came into our ER, heavily intoxicated. He had once been a frontline emergency worker, now with PTSD. Something happened earlier that night, triggering him to drink. As he drank, he became increasingly belligerent, and his friend called 911 when he said he no longer wanted to live.
He is brought in, yelling and swearing, threatening to kill us all if we touch him. The security guards are on edge, trying to to do their jobs, but their presence and the sound of their radios are incredibly triggering and only escalate him more. I finally convince them to stay outside the room as I go in to assess and try to de-escalate him. Unfortunately, the doctor has ordered bloodwork, so I must go in and (literally) poke the bear.
It takes me an eternity to coax him into agreeing to bloodwork, and he vacillates between angry threats and uncontrollable sobbing as he tells me about the horrible things he has experienced. “You won’t believe the things I’ve had to see,” he cries. “Pieces of human bodies, the smell of burnt flesh, washing all those remains of dead people down the drain.” My heart aches. There is nothing that can be said.
I finish drawing his blood and gather my things when he turns over and looks straight at me, for the first time since he has come in.
“How old are you?”
“26.”
He is silent for a moment. “Get out,” he finally says quietly.
I pick up my IV tote and head towards the doorway.
“No,” he stops me. “I didn’t mean get out of my room. I meant get out of this line of work. No one deserves to see the things that you will. Get out before it breaks you.”
------------------
Why do I stay? I wonder. Maybe because I know that few people will. And maybe because we’re all given a choice in this world. We can turn a blind eye to suffering, to choose a life in a bubble where we can keep the heartbreak of this world far, far from touching us. Or we can choose to lean deeply into the suffering, to climb down into the trenches and hold the people who are broken, just like us.
Perhaps, for now, my florist dreams will have to wait.
Some days, I like to tell myself that I could be a florist instead. I have no idea how to do a floral arrangement, but then again, I had no idea how to do a PAP smear last year, and now I do them all the time. I like to imagine the small, quiet space, surrounded by the plants and gentle smell of flowers. I would happily work away, snipping and trimming, matching colours and sizes, making pretty things all day.
I like to imagine this quiet life when I am particularly exhausted, or sad, or tired of pretending to be brave. These are the days when I would like no more responsibility than to pick out a nice combination of flowers.
------------------
Earlier this week, I walked into morning report to find one of our nurses missing. Usually this means that the night was so busy that the on-call nurse needs to sleep in and miss work in the morning.
“There was a completed suicide last night,” our nurse in charge tells us. “The RCMP found their body last night, still warm. They started CPR and brought them here, but they couldn’t get the kid back.”
The room is quiet. This has been the tenth death in our little community of 1,200 in just this year. Over a decade ago, this community had one of the highest rates of teen suicide in the country. We thought that things were finally taking a turn for the better over the past few years. But I am so afraid that the epidemic may be coming back.
------------------
What would be the worst thing I’d have to face if I were a florist? I like to wonder. Maybe some angry, scathing reviews. Or irate customers threatening to close down my shop. I could handle that, I think. It couldn’t be much worse than people in our ER threatening, swearing, and swinging at us. The worst news I’d ever have to deliver would be to say that the flowers they wanted for an important celebration or condolence were not available.
------------------
One Christmas, I was working in triage in our ER back home. I am in the midst of a triage when I hear a yell calling for help from the next person in line. I am out of my chair in seconds to see a man pushing his elderly father in a wheelchair. The father’s head and eyes have rolled back, he has a terrible ashen colour to him, and won’t respond to me when I tap him. I can’t tell if he’s having a syncopal episode or a seizure, but I notice urine dripping under the wheelchair when he has suddenly become incontinent. I keep a finger on his faint pulse as I grab my phone with my other hand to call my charge nurse. I gesture for the son to wheel his father in as we rush down our resuscitation hallway.
“He’s just been feeling unwell for the past few days…I thought it was a chest cold. What’s going on?” The son is terrified, but keeping it surprisingly well together.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him, “but we’re going to get the doctor to see him right away.”
We have a whole bunch of nurses and a doctor in the room within seconds, and we lift the elderly man onto the stretcher and start to peel off the layers of winter clothes. I take a second amidst everyone hooking him up to the monitor and starting IVs to press my fingers against his jugular. I realize I’ve lost the faint pulse I had a few seconds ago. I sweep a glance at his son, standing in the corner, his eyes wide open in terror. I wish I had just two minutes to emotionally prepare him for what is about to happen, what he is going to see. But I have no time, so instead, I climb onto the stretcher and press my hands onto his father’s chest to start CPR.
------------------
If I opened my little flower shop, I’d have to worry about the rent, the sales, my flower suppliers. But there would be no on-call phone next to my head, ringing in the middle of the night. There would be no more jumping up with my heart pounding, fearing that this would be the call that has me running to resuscitate a dead baby or one of the many skidoo drivers speeding past under my window. There would be no anxiety about hurting someone because I didn’t know enough or overlooked something. There would be no more sleepless nights kicking myself for the things I had missed today.
------------------
Many months ago, a man came into our ER, heavily intoxicated. He had once been a frontline emergency worker, now with PTSD. Something happened earlier that night, triggering him to drink. As he drank, he became increasingly belligerent, and his friend called 911 when he said he no longer wanted to live.
He is brought in, yelling and swearing, threatening to kill us all if we touch him. The security guards are on edge, trying to to do their jobs, but their presence and the sound of their radios are incredibly triggering and only escalate him more. I finally convince them to stay outside the room as I go in to assess and try to de-escalate him. Unfortunately, the doctor has ordered bloodwork, so I must go in and (literally) poke the bear.
It takes me an eternity to coax him into agreeing to bloodwork, and he vacillates between angry threats and uncontrollable sobbing as he tells me about the horrible things he has experienced. “You won’t believe the things I’ve had to see,” he cries. “Pieces of human bodies, the smell of burnt flesh, washing all those remains of dead people down the drain.” My heart aches. There is nothing that can be said.
I finish drawing his blood and gather my things when he turns over and looks straight at me, for the first time since he has come in.
“How old are you?”
“26.”
He is silent for a moment. “Get out,” he finally says quietly.
I pick up my IV tote and head towards the doorway.
“No,” he stops me. “I didn’t mean get out of my room. I meant get out of this line of work. No one deserves to see the things that you will. Get out before it breaks you.”
------------------
Why do I stay? I wonder. Maybe because I know that few people will. And maybe because we’re all given a choice in this world. We can turn a blind eye to suffering, to choose a life in a bubble where we can keep the heartbreak of this world far, far from touching us. Or we can choose to lean deeply into the suffering, to climb down into the trenches and hold the people who are broken, just like us.
Perhaps, for now, my florist dreams will have to wait.
Got tears in my eyes after this one <3 So much love and respect for you.
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