The walk that a donor family takes from the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) to the Operating Room (OR) has been called the “loneliest walk” by families.
-Donate Life
Honor Walks or Walks of Honor are emotional, overwhelmingly moving, unbelievably sad, but more than anything, incredibly beautiful. These walks are meant to be a display of support for the grieving families, a short time that us, the staff, can help share the grief with the families that they will then have for a lifetime. But, I believe that it is also for the staff, namely the staff that cared for the patient and their family. The people who were present when it was obvious that there was nothing else that could be done, who were in the room when the families cried and begged but ultimately said there last ‘goodbyes’ and ‘I love you’s’, the staff that knew that the person in front of them was virtually dead, only being kept alive by us, the staff that kept going, despite the horrible thing they had just experienced, because it’s what we do, we keep going.
It’s sad, too, like the conformation that despite absolutely everything you’d done, the person will still die. Nothing that the nurses, techs, doctors, respiratory therapists, pharmacists, radiology techs, or anyone else had done had been enough to keep this person alive. It’s a real time example that sometimes, people just die, despite absolutely everything and every effort, they still die.
It’s chilling, knowing that you are seeing a person in their very last moments being what we consider clinically alive. It’s harrowing, really, when you think about it. That you and everyone else have gathered to line the hallways to see this person being wheeled into the room where there life will most certainly come to an end. It’s surreal, because it’s at that moment that you realize you are a part of something much bigger than yourself and your staff, your are a part of the last moment a family has with their family member alive. The grief and emotions in the room, well hallway, are palpable, which is made evident by the occasional passing of tissues down the lines of people.
The anger, it can be suffocating. Often times, the anger is directed at people that you know are not at fault whatsoever, and at things that you know are harmless. It comes when you see people crying, people who had absolutely no contact with this patient or the family. You want to scream, “Stop crying, you weren’t there, you don’t understand, you don’t get to cry,” but you don’t, because you know that this situation is horribly sad for everyone. You want to scream when everyone else outside the four walls is acting so incredibly normal, because you have just went through something horrific, but they haven’t. The rest of the world has gone about their everyday lives, while you were witness to one fo the most intimate moments in a family’s life.
Seeing your patient, your former patient that is about to save multiple lives is also beautiful. But, the beauty isn’t immediately evident, it comes later, it follows the sadness, grief, and anger, all of which manifest at the oddest times. It comes when you later see the list of who their organs went to, the list of lives saved. It comes when you think about the multiple organ transplants that are going on, hours later, and you realize that lives have been forever changed, for the better.
But the beauty will come, and when it does, it will prevail.
Pedsertech 