Time of death 1532. Letting out a sigh, I take a second to look at the man on the stretcher in front of me. He's just as much a stranger to me as the man that took my order at the Chinese place last night, but being here in this moment... the official goodbye to life here on Earth for Mr. Wilkinson, it means something. Or at least it should.

Ralph J Wilkinson, 67 year old male past medical history diabetes mellitus, congestive heart failure (EF 50-55%), left total knee replacement and glaucoma; found down in his car. That's exactly how I'll remember this man... 'that code last week, man in his 60's found down in his car, unknown downtime... never got pulses back.' At least until his memory is squashed somewhere into the recesses of my mind, replaced by more of the same. The lady with the sugar of 1200, the young guy that collapsed a lung during sex, the man that came in with his fingers in a cooler, the bonfire family.

Working in the ER is just a string of one misfortune after another. Sure, we get the stubbed toes and heartburn... but those aren't the ones that stick with you.

The door opens, "Um, hey... family is in the waiting room, I'll have doctor Lane speak with them in the quiet room, what do ya need, 5 minutes?" My charge nurse looks around the room, her eyes go from the patient, to the blood soaked sheets, to the piles of trash thrown into each corner, "I''ll give you 15."

"Go ahead and grab the body bag, extra patient labels and a couple blankets. I'll straighten up." I mumble to my orientee, Emma. I drag a trashcan around the room, picking up what I can, using my shoe to scooch the smaller items into the corner so I can grab a handful all at once and don't have to bend over 50 million times.

Turning off the machines, I peel the stickers off of Mr. Wilkinson's chest. Emma moves to take an IV out and I pop her hand, "the rule is: if it's in, it stays in. If it's on, it comes off. All these EKG stickers, electrodes, and the sticky pulse ox, they come off. These tubes [as I point to the ET tube, and IVs] stay in until the patient goes to the morgue." We work to remove the things we can, stripping him of his remaining clothes and putting his belongings into a plastic bag.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I show Emma how to put the patient in the body bag, leaving it unzipped and strategically draped with sheets so that the patient's family can visit at Bedside to say their final goodbyes. More importantly so that the patient is just one zip away when it's time to head down to the cooler. Certain patients, after even a short amount of time, start leaking various... fluids... as their body fully relaxes. You make the mistake of not bagging a patient once... never again.

I make sure all of my orientees understand the responsibility they've been given when providing post-mortem care. Not only for the patient, but the family as well. This man has lived more than 60 years here on this Earth. That's 60 years of unique memories, experiences, personal connections. He is someone's son. We may not have been able to bring him back from the brink (or in this case way past the brink) of death, but we sure can treat his final moments spent in our care with the dignity and respect he is due.

Emma and I sit at our computer, reviewing the documentation from our code, both trying hard to ignore the quiet sobs coming from room 12. It's only 4 o'clock... you've got to be kidding me. Em works diligently to finish her tasks and care for her patients, while I work my ass off watching her and helping with anything else the team needs.

Somehow we managed to make it to 7pm: "yesssss" I whisper to myself as the night shift stampede pours into the emergency room after pre-shift huddle. Emma gives report and does surprisingly well, I throw up a peace sign "peace out bitches... my bed, she calls me." This was my 4th day of 4 in a row and my brain was absolutely fried. Fried crispy, sizzle sizzle.