My cellphone dinged. The message flashed urgently: “CCU2’s sat is 87. Can he get a respiration therapy?”
I swiftly replied to the nurse, my fingers flying throughout the display screen: “He simply had a respiration therapy.”
Her response got here again rapidly, tinged with concern: “However his sat continues to be low.”
I felt a surge of alarm. This affected person’s directive was clear-cut: keep an SpO2 of 88-92. A saturation stage of 87 was not just under par—it was critically low. With out hesitation, I dashed from the RT Cave. Up flights of stairs, down lengthy, echoing halls, by way of bustling corridors that appeared to stretch for miles, I raced in direction of the important care unit—manner on the opposite aspect of the hospital, out in BFE. Decided to intervene earlier than his sat plummeted to the much more perilous 86%, I pushed myself to succeed in him in time.
———————-
He lay there coated in blankets, his head barely raised. Glancing on the monitor, I famous his saturation was at 92%, a wonderfully acceptable worth in my e-book — simply as acceptable because the 87%, which was inside our margin of tolerance (give or take 2%). He checked out me with a wry grin peeking out from below his mustache and mentioned, “Hello John. How are you doing right this moment?” A sparkle in his eyes gleemed as if to say he wasn’t the in a important care room with
“I am doing effectively,” I replied. Then, noticing the aged girl by the window — his spouse, I greeted her, “Hello there. How are you doing?”
“I am doing high-quality. What is going on on?” she requested.
“Simply got here to examine in,” I mentioned casually, glancing over on the TV tuned to Fox Information. “You guys going to look at the talk tonight?”