The emergency room of a trauma center has the potential to teach a lot of life lessons. Several years ago I was a patient care representative in a level 1 trauma center, working the midnight shift. A patient care representative was there to help make sure patients were fairly calm, orchestrate transportation from the ER to home if needed, support family members of trauma patients, and provide emotional/practical support for family members of deceased patients. It was a tough job and I was ill prepared for it. I eventually became better at it and held the job for almost 3 years. I chose to move into a 9-to-5 job when I realized compassion gave way to obligation. A few co-workers had been labeled “I don’t care reps” and I was approaching that point, according to a couple of attending physicians.
It has been over 15 years since I left that job. There are patients and situations I do not believe I will ever forget. Outside of my abuse, the job gave me a clear view of tragedy. I saw people at their worst and others at their best. I could easily spend hours telling emergency room stories, but there is one story that affected me the most.
During my last year on the job and young suicidal man came into the ER. Several people had come through for suicidal thoughts but this was different. The physician asked me to find the man’s family or anyone I could let know he was there. I went into the exam room and introduced myself. He could not have been more than 24. He spoke quietly and told me there was no one to contact. I left the room telling him to let me know if he changed his mind.
Within 30 minutes the ER physician pulled me aside. I was now needed to find the patient’s family more urgently. The man was suicidal because he was sexually abused as a child and recently discovered his younger brother had been abused by the same man. He was suicidal because he felt responsible. Time seemed to move in slow motion. My mind went blank and I desperately tried to figure out what I was going to say.
During that time I was back in therapy, this time with a new therapist. There was a 4-year break between therapists and I was still skimming the surface with this one. Skimming the surface maybe the wrong description. It was more like establishing a trust and trying to figure out which direction I was headed. I was wrestling with my own guilt, shame, and memories and emotions went into panic mode almost immediately as I headed to the exam room.
The patient was crying; his baseball cap was over his face. Tears immediately filled my eyes. Over time I had learned to stay objective and not cry, but there was no objectivity here. I felt his pain so deeply and could not hide it. Not only that, I did not want to hide it. He needed to know he was not alone.
I sat still and waited for him to speak. He managed to give me the name of a friend to call. My chest hurt as I explained we had to get the police involved; there had to be report. I stayed in the corner of the room as the police asked him questions. His affect was flat and voice monotone. When the officers left his room, I left also simply because the resident psychiatrist came in.
I paced around the ER trying to decide what to do. I really wanted this man to know it was not his fault; he is not responsible for the actions of the abuser. I understood the shame he felt already but to feel guilt for what happened to his younger brother had to be incredible. My thoughts were scattered as I weighed my options. Would I just walk away and put him out of my mind, was it an option, or would I find a way to help? I ultimately ended up hiding in a quiet office just outside the ER and writing a letter. I told him how it was never his fault, he was brave for asking for help, and that he needed to live for himself and his younger brother. The letter was about 2 pages handwritten and I am not sure of everything I said. When I was done, I folded it up, walked back into his room, and placed it in his hand. I told him I hoped it helped and walked out. He was eventually admitted to the behavioral health floor and I never heard another word about him, which was not unusual. I often did not know what happened to patients once they left the ER.
You may wonder what my point might be. It is this; we never know when the opportunity to share with someone will present itself. Have you been comforted by someone saying they understand and know what it is like to be abused? Even if you never see or hear from the person again, they will know they are not alone. It is tragic so many men and women are victims of someone else’s twisted mindset, but the statistics are there. Despite knowing 1 and 3 women have been abused, it still feels lonely. We are the only ones who can speak up for each other. All the individual therapy in the world will not take away the sense of isolation. We need each other. Group therapy, forums, and support groups are necessary.
Like I mentioned, I never saw or heard about that man in the ER again. My letter was not meant to save his life or pat my ego. It was simply to let him know he was not alone. It may have not had any impact on his life or it may have planted a seed, however tiny, that there is hope. There is hope.
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