The Hug

[Warning: This article contains graphic descriptions of medical situations that some readers may find disturbing. Please use discretion when reading or sharing this story.]

Paramedics brought a guy into the Emergency Department one afternoon. He had been working with a metal grinder when it got too close to his neck. Skin and tissue were instantly obliterated as blood filled the newly created gap. An ambulance was called. 

I met him in the ER as he lay on a stretcher into the back corner. Despite dried blood all down his shirt, he was stable and smiling, with a thick bandage over the right side of his neck. The bleeding has long since stopped. The wound was directly over his carotid artery, but it was relatively superficial - no major vessels or structures affected. Phew!

As I sutured, we launched into the normal doctor-patient banter. I like to keep the mood light - jokes, stories, and bragging about my suturing skills. But amidst the small talk, I could tell he had something on his mind. “You know, doc, I’m not sure how you guys do this.”

I looked up from his bloodied neck and found him staring down at me.

“Like, all this terrible stuff that comes through your doors. How do you deal with it?”

I replied with my standard answer that most of us have a morbid sense of humor. Although some stuff is so terrible that you can’t laugh, much of it can be shrugged off with a joke.

Halfway through the repair job, an overhead page blared through the speaker system. “Code team to Trauma One. Code team to Trauma One. Stat.”

“Sorry, gotta go.” I dropped the instruments on the tray and left the suture dangling from his skin as I raced down the hall. 

Another physician was already attending when I arrived. It was a little girl, about 18 months old, who was found unresponsive after her nap. A team of paramedics had brought her in while performing chest compressions. She wasn’t breathing. No pulse. She had been found in her crib at daycare, face down in vomit. Totally fine when she laid down, but now completely lifeless. No explanation. Her skin was pale and cool.

When a heart stops, there isn’t much to be done except follow the algorithm: chest compressions, ventilate the lungs, 100% oxygen, adrenaline injections… and pray. The medical team took care of her little body, while the family members stood in the doorway desperately praying, “Oh God. No, please. Oh God let her wake up…”

After a while, it was a quiet Code Blue - just the sound of a little chest being rhythmically compressed. Still no signs of life. I didn’t have much to do - there were many hands available but nothing more to be done apart from swap out on CPR. The mother was crying, grandparents holding each other. The sounds of wailing echoed down the halls. 

Before long, I was called away to another resuscitation. A truck driver had gone to sleep in his semi, as usual. The next morning, his company, which monitored vehicle movement via GPS, noticed he hadn’t moved all day, so police were dispatched to check on him. Half his body wouldn’t work. Despite being fully conscious, he couldn’t speak. A CT scan showed a massive stroke. He’d never drive again. Or walk. And would require full time care for the rest of his short life.

Next door, the code on the little girl was over. She’d been gone for an hour, but now it was official.  The whole hospital heard the screams of a family who’d just lost their baby. Nurses were in tears. 

The next few hours in the department were pretty somber. There wasn’t a formal debrief session, but I managed to find a moment alone with my senior colleague, the one who managed Trauma One. “How do you go on?” I asked.

He managed a weak smile. “Reach for the next chart.” 

He was a church-going man, a physician I deeply respected. He knew where he was going after death, like I do. All we can hope is our dying patients will go there too. But his response wasn’t right. How can we turn the page so quickly without processing what happened? 

I made my way back to the guy with the neck wound, picked up the instruments, and continued where I’d left off. When he asked what happened, I could only look at the floor. “I can’t say. You wouldn’t want to know anyway.”

Again, he told me how he didn’t know how we did our jobs and faced such tragedy every day. That little girl’s death was one that couldn’t be laughed off. I finished his neck and explained when to get the sutures removed. 

Finally, with a neat line of black sutures on his neck, he stood up. He was a big burly guy, a head taller than me. “Is this the last I’ll see you?” he asked. I told him yes, he was free to go as soon as the nurse bandaged his neck. Without another word, he wrapped his thick arms around me. I couldn’t help myself and hugged him back, fighting back the tears. 

At home that night, my three-year-old son was asleep in his crib. He’d had a fever earlier, but now he was sleeping soundly. His heart beat strong and steady under my hand. Breathing calm, skin warm. 

I don’t know how to pray for a family who loses a child. There’s no possible comfort to such shattered hearts. God, I hope that little girl was carried home by angels, into strong arms that will never let her go, where her breath will never leave and her heart will never stop. 

Years later, I attended a conference on the importance of debriefing after traumatic medical cases. The instructor asked if anyone had experienced a tragic case. I stuck my hand up and started sharing about the little girl who never woke up from her nap, but choked up. I found tears flooding my eyes and couldn’t form any words. The trauma was still there, just under the surface, unbeknownst to me for nearly a decade. 

Maybe my burly patient was on to something. How do we deal with all this tragedy? Debriefing as a team, counselling, social support, prayer… it all makes a difference. But perhaps the one thing that helped me get past the ER shift that scorched itself into my soul was a pair of tattooed arms that reached out for me when I was about to reach for the next chart.

© D. B. Ryen Incorporated, August 2025.