Waiting to Clock in

K. Uwe Dunn

A nurse ran out of room 202 and grabbed the defibrillator box. This meant somebody was coding -- they had gone unresponsive -- in the nursing home, right now.

I stood there, waiting to clock in. I did nothing.

But, honestly, at that point, there was nothing I could do.

If I had found the patient not breathing, I would’ve yelled, “Call 9-1-1,” and started chest compressions.

If I was second to the room, I would’ve called 9-1-1 as the first person did chest compressions.

But the fact that the nurse ran for the defibrillator, the heart shock machine, meant they were well beyond those steps. The room was, presumably, filled with nurses and aides, providing assistance as needed.

If she wanted me to do something, she would have said, “Do this.” or “Get thing X.”

But she didn’t so I didn’t.

I would’ve been an extra body.

I would’ve gotten in the way.

Any action by me at this stage would have been purely egotistical, as if, you know, I had to act to save the day, as if I had to be the hero.

But I knew my place at that moment and it was to stay put, to stay in line.

Still, it felt strange. I was in health care. I was CPR certified. Somebody was in a crisis situation and I was standing there, looking around, counting the minutes to clock in.

I pictured the nurse straddling the resident, hand over fist, elbows out, sweat dripping, pumping her chest, both bodies shaking, the bed sliding back and forth, the ribs cracking. But still no response.

Someone hands her the defibrillator. She rips off the resident’s shirt, fastens the sticky pads -- one above the breasts and to the left, the other below, to the right -- takes the iron-looking hand grips, and presses the green button. The machine, in its creepy robot voice, says, “Apply pads firmly on skin. Do not touch patient. Analyzing heart rate. Shock advised.” Then the life-saving gadget commences with automated bursts of electricity, trying to jumpstart the heart.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. A force. A charge. A bolt.

Eeeeeeeeee-lec-tri-city, as Captain Beefheart said, courses through her being, trying to wake her up.

“Come on, come on, come on. Please. Please. Please. Don’t die on me.”

It, pure energy, runs through wires, flies in the air, and now, flows through skin, blood, and organs. It spreads indifferently, the heart just another passageway, a location in space, a dot in infinity.

I could only imagine. I had never been privy to this process when a life was on the line. I had only practiced with a dummy.

I was lucky.

I remained in line, with the others, waiting to scan our fingers to kick off evening shift. I read some PSAs on the bulletin board about uniform requirements and health insurance updates.

I checked the schedule over and over again. We had three aides and two nurses on our floor that day. With that much staffing, it was looking to be a good night for us.

I nervously glanced at other staff members as they sighed and fidgeted.

One aide leaned against her boyfriend as she sipped an iced coffee and checked her phone. Two others whispered in the corner. Another shook her head and said, “This is the longest minute ever, I swear.”

Finally, it was 3 p.m., time to clock in.

It was only later that we found out the patient didn’t make it.

The woman died, there, on a bed she had only claimed the day before.

Some people live in a nursing home for a decade, some for a year. Her stay lasted all of one day, as she was gone the next.

I had never met her. All I heard was that she was “a hot mess.” She had lots of problems and took lots of meds.

They said the family seemed relieved, like they were glad to be rid of her.

One shouldn’t judge. One never knows the circumstances.

That night, alarms went off throughout the building, alerting the fire department to a potential situation. The light on the control board labeled “Trouble” was blinking red and identified the location as room 202, the same room the woman had passed away in earlier that day.

Nurses and aides rushed to the spot.

They found an empty bed in an empty room.

No one was there. Nothing was going on.

No smoke. No fire.

They called the firefighters off.

The alarm ceased.

It was quiet.

Was it a ghost?

A malfunction?

“So that’s it?” a nurse said.

“A whole lotta nothing,” an aide added.

The next day, as I stood in line again, waiting to clock in, I noticed a new person in room 202.

He was obese, missing a leg, and hooked up to an IV.

He ate, watched TV, and rang the call bell when he needed something.

He had no knowledge of the woman, her spectacular death, or the alarms. He had no way of knowing someone died there, in that same bed, only the day before.

K. Uwe Dunn is a certified nurse aide who lives in central Pennsylvania with his wife, Isabella. He has a bachelor's degree in English literature, a master's in painting, and is fluent in the German language. His work has been featured in Kestrel: A Journal of Literature and Art and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review, The Petigru Review, and Echo: A Journal of Creative Nonfiction.