Friday, February 12, 2021

Chaplain Chronicles: Concluding Thoughts

The Chronicles are far from over, but as I write my 12th post on the 12th of February, the week of Lunar New Year, COVID has taken a backseat, and the hospital system is catching its breath, for now.

This week, I had my first Sunday away from patients since September, and I left Los Angeles County for the first time since before the Holidays, when I spent Thanksgiving in Orange County with my parents.

Santa Barbara was the perfect solo day trip destination for me, and I hit up several favorite spots from family vacations, rented a bike, journaled at a cafe patio, and visited the zoo.

It was only after soaking up the sunshine, and getting away from my work as a chaplain, that I was able to come back, and to revisit the stories I wanted to put into words.

I will write more, and in greater detail, about chaplaincy during the coronavirus in the days to come.  Perhaps my experiences will find their way into my Ph.D dissertation.

For now, though, I am finished.  Relieved, through the act of writing, of continuing to store these stories in my memory, afraid to release them because they are too special to be forgotten.

I honor the patients and families whose lives have touched mine, salute the brave medical staff who shouldered the brunt of the burden of care, and thank all who have taken time to read my thoughts.

This time of year, we hold hope for the future, while giving tribute to the past.  May this time of Reflection give rise to further Action, as I return to the hospital, ready to chaplain again.


Wednesday, February 10, 2021

Chapter 10: "You made a perfect Catholic today!"

Most of the time, I am careful about sharing stories from the hospital.  My chaplain peers have plenty of their own experiences and emotions to process, and family and friends may not always be "up for" the details of sad scenarios that I have seen.  But one story has certainly made the rounds, amongst both colleagues and friends, because it is heartwarming and hopeful.

In the middle of the winter surge, I spoke with the sister of a COVID patient, who was in Critical Care.  The patient was Catholic, but had not been baptized, and this concerned the sister.  Over the phone, I let the sister know that I would speak with the nurse about having the priest come and perform baptism from outside of the room, in some way, since COVID restrictions limited patient contact.

Half an hour later, I went onto the COVID unit to find the nurse.  He was a friendly travel nurse from Georgia, whom I had not met before.  When I arrived outside the patient's room, the patient's family was on Skype with her.  Although she was intubated and unable to respond, I could hear her family members speaking words of love, through the computer screen.

I introduced myself to the travel nurse, whose name was Cecil, and updated him: "So, I just spoke with the sister, and I'm going to see if a priest can come tomorrow, to do some form of baptism from outside the room, if that's okay?  Do you think she will last through the night?"

"Honestly, it's hard to tell these days.  You wanna do the baptism now?"

His enthusiasm bolstered my spirits.  That thought had not crossed my mind.  "Well, she's Catholic, and they have specific requirements about only the priest doing certain things.  But, why don't you check with the sister, since you have her on Skype."

A few minutes later, I found myself standing right outside the patient's room, face-to-face with the patient's family, through the computer screen.  As I opened my mouth, I trusted that all those years of visiting various mass services would help me to sound as Catholic as possible.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit..." and the words flowed.  I asked that the Lord receive the patient--I used her full name--into His loving arms, when the time came for her to leave this earth.  I affirmed the water of baptism, "of eternal Life..." and handed it over to the nurse, who wheeled the screen back to where the family could see the patient.

Remaining outside the room, I had a small cup of water ready for the nurse.  "Do I just splash this over her face?" he asked in all sincerity.  And I just had to smile.  

This black Southern Baptist nurse was being as faithful as he could to his understanding of baptism--immersion was impossible, but he would use up every drop of water that he could!

"Let's do it the way the Catholics would.  You can just dip your finger in the cup, and make the sign of the cross on her forehead.  Can you do that?"

"Sure!" His eyes lit up, from behind 2 layers off masks and a COVID protection bubble helmet, which looked rather like a space helmet.

The water administered, Cecil wheeled the computer back to the doorway, where I finished off the prayer, ending once again "In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit" as tears streamed down the family members' faces, and I could see smiles amidst the sadness.

Not wanting to expose myself for too long, I quickly left the unit after sanitizing my face shield and washing my hands.  The whole thing had taken 15 minutes.

Later, I texted a group of seminary friends, spread out across the world.  One friend in particular is a German Catholic monastic living in Austria.  In response to my story, he wrote:

"According to Catholic canon, anyone, even atheists, can perform baptism in an emergency.  So, you probably made a perfect Catholic today!"

Chapter 9: 40 minutes to Say Goodbye

One of the duties we chaplains perform is to serve as liaison between our Catholic patients and the priests from the local parish.  When patients are sick, their family members usually request a Sacrament of the Sick (SOS), for healing.  SOS sometimes are referred to at the Last Rites.

We received such a request one Saturday early in February, from a family with Vietnamese origin.  The patient, the mother of the family, was going to be extubated the following morning.  Her two sons would come to say goodbye, and they wanted the priest to say a final blessing.

According to the patient's chart, the she had already received the Sacrament of the Sick.  I put in the request to the parish, providing the patient's room number and the time of the extubation.  But as a back-up plan, my chaplain peer, a Catholic Eucharistic minister, would also be available.

Sunday morning came, and I noticed how "normal" things felt.  The COVID cases were much lower than the month before--in fact, there were only 5 patients in the Emergency Room, which was shockingly low.  Now that we weren't in "crisis" mode, I felt more room to actually feel my feelings.

We greeted the patient's two sons at the entrance of the hospital and escorted them up to the ICU.  They told us that their father had passed away here, a few years prior.  One son was married and spoke fluent English.  The other son was single and had lived with the patient, prior to her hospitalization.  Although this was the older of the two sons, he deferred to his younger brother, who had better English.  This is often the case in immigrant families.

The priest did not show up.  My colleague led us in Catholic prayers appropriate to the occasion, and then we left the patient's sons in the room, to say their goodbyes.  That day, nursing staff on the ICUs were so overloaded that some had 3 patients to take care of (the norm is 1-2).  Because of this, the patient's sons got extra time with her.  Sometimes, the extubation requires a whole team, and it must occur whenever the doctor arrives.  Today, there would be no doctor, so the schedule was more flexible.  For that, I was grateful.

40 minutes passed by.  Finally, I escorted the sons out.  The older son carried a plastic bag, containing the patient's clothing, dentures, and Medicare card, among other things.  The younger son communicated with the nurse about mortuary arrangements.  "You'll let us know when she passes?"  "Yes, of course."

On the way out, the younger son visited the restroom, and I spoke with his brother about the adjustment it would be, not only to grieve his mother's passing, but also the loss of his role as her live-in caregiver.  He was a gentle soul, and he said the hospital made him afraid.  "But, I must walk the path that life gives me," he said, in his accented English.

When we reached the hospital lobby, I bid farewell to the two brothers.  As they walked out to the parking lot, they put an arm around the other's shoulder, heading back out into the world together, and having said goodbye to their mother for the last time.  Watching from inside the lobby, the thought came to me: "A life time of memories with their mom, and only 40 minutes to say goodbye."  

Our rule of thumb as chaplains is that we can show emotion, and we can cry--but never more than the patients or their families.  So far, in nearly 6 months of my chaplain residency, I had yet to cry at work.  My eyes had welled up a few times, but that was the extent of it.

This was one of those moments, and to stop myself from losing it in the hospital lobby, I quickly turned around to walk back to our chaplain office.  Within half an hour, I would be out seeing patients again, in the Emergency Room, with another one of my chaplain colleagues, for a peer shadowing assignment.  

Things move quickly on the job.  Mentally, I release each patient I have seen into the care of the Universe as I transition to the next one.  But certain moments leave a deeper impression, and live on in my heart.  The memory of this morning's extubation was one that would stay with me, along with the tenderness of goodbyes a lifetime in the making.



Monday, February 8, 2021

Chapter 8: What Not to Say

Chaplain humor helps us cope.  We always make a point to be respectful of patients and families, and often we are making fun of ourselves, or the way a situation plays out.  By the end of January, all of us had received the second shot of the vaccine.  The atmosphere in the shared office space was more relaxed, and we continued to find reasons to laugh together.

Our peer brought in a list of platitudes, from a book that gave examples of what not to say to those who are grieving.  We wrote some of our favorite platitudes on the board, and referred to them throughout the course of the week.  

A peer spoke about the challenges of parenting, in the midst of being a dedicated chaplain.  We echoed, true to form, "That sounds hard.  Do you want to share more about it?"  Our peer shared a bit more.  Then, we pointed to the board, signaling a turn from the serious to the sarcastic, which we knew could only be done in the safety of permission and trust to do so:

"Well, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!"

There is a texting emoji which has a face that is laughing and crying at the same time.  That face captures so much of how we process life.  Often, we chaplains laugh so hard that we want to cry at the same time.  Laughing and crying both release stress, and are healing.

The art of providing platitude-free spiritual care does take practice.  Often, people ask me about my role: "So do you basically just comfort patients while they are dying?"  Well, yes--and also so much more.  

We hope to serve as cathartic presences, for those who need to access and express their feelings; catalysts for reflection, for those who need to reconnect with their sense of self, through their personal narrative; and as comfort for those for whom hope feels out of reach, simply by seeing and acknowledging how they feel.  We champion ways of providing care that require much more intentionality than simple platitudes.

To close, I will list a few more examples of what not to say:

"It's God's will."

"This is your Karma."

"You can always have another baby."

"This is why I always lock my car doors!"

"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, I went through the same thing."

"This is nothing compared to what the Hurricane survivors had to go through."




Chapter 7: "Then COVID-19 got me sick..."

We had made it to the end of January.  As I stepped onto my non-COVID floor for "routine, self-initiated" visits, I checked in with the unit secretary, as was my practice.  "How are things on the unit today?  Any patient who would benefit from a chaplain visit?"

When we are not on-call or responding to crisis situations, chaplains make "cold calls" to each patient on their assigned floors, who have not yet been visited by a chaplain.  We also visit patients who have been referred to us by other medical staff.

Today, the unit secretary told me about one particular patient, who was recovering from COVID, no longer contagious, but still psychologically scarred from her experience, seemingly.  She refused to speak, and only communicated through writing.

Having "done my homework" before coming onto the floor, I recalled that this patient had passed through 2 of our COVID ICUs.  As is my practice, I had written down basic information for each patient, while going through the eCharting system, and this case had stood out to me.

It took three tries over two days to be able to have a visit with this patient.  The first time, she was asleep, and the second time, she was being attended to by nursing staff.  I spoke with the nurse outside, and he encouraged me to keep trying.  

Third time was the charm.  The patient was resting with her eyes closed, but she opened her eyes in response to my greeting at the bedside.  Knowing she was tired, and unable to speak, I kept my introduction very brief.

She nodded to indicate that it was okay to stay for a bit, and also motioned for a pen and paper.  She wrote: "Then COVID-19 got me sick."  Simple, yet profound.  After all she had been through, there was so much behind that sentence.

The unit secretary had told me a bit about her vocational background (she was infected while working as a LVN in nursing homes during the most recent COVID surge); her family system (she had strong support from her adult children); and that she was Catholic.

Normally, these would be questions that chaplains ask of their patients in a visit.  However, for patients who are unable to speak, this information would be obtained through calling family members listed as their emergency contact, or through conversations with nursing staff.

When I visit patients on the ICU, who cannot speak, I refer to conversations I have had with their loved ones.  "Hi ___, I spoke with your daughter today.  She wishes she could be here, and she send her love.  She also wanted me to tell you not to worry about your cat.  She is taking care of her."

With this patient, I saw from her chart that she had already been seen by other chaplains while in the ICU. So, I said, "I am so glad you have been getting care from your team here at the hospital.  I also wanted to visit you today and see how you were doing."

I always ask Spirit to guide my words, to make my visit helpful to the patient, and free from my limitations.  "I can only imagine what you have gone through during this time, as you cared for others at your work, and then got the virus yourself.  You have come through a long fight, and you made it until today."  

I put on gloves and held the patient's hand, which was warm and strong.  The patient began to shake, and I wondered if she needed to cry and release her feelings.  I squeezed her hand and gave her empathetic eye contact until her shaking ceased.

Knowing from her chart that she had been open to receiving prayer in the past, I offered: "I don't know everything that you feel right now, and I'm sorry that it's still hard for you to speak.  But I see you now and I am with you.  You are not alone."

I saw nursing staff preparing to come in, and I nodded to them to signal that I would wrap up my visit.  "May I pray a blessing for you as you continue to recover?"  The patient nodded.  I prayed, the way I always do: from the heart, and allowing the words to flow intuitively.

We had seen so many patients pass away from COVID.  Here was a survivor, bearing the physical and psychological scars of a virus that kills and robs humans of life and quality of life.  I got chills as I walked away.  The fragility and resilience of life, embodied in those telling words:

"Then COVID-19 got me sick" -- but COVID did not have the final say, at least not yet.  What happened tomorrow was out of my control.  My job as a chaplain was simply to be present to what was.  If pandemic has taught me anything, it is that.  

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own...(Matthew 6:34)

Chapter 6: "You're Either Batman, or You're Not!"

What is the role of chaplains in the larger process, in relating with staff?  How do short, unplanned conversations contribute to staff care?  These were questions that arose in the wake of the code blue I wrote about in the previous post.  I explored them further in my Verbatim:

Two days later, during my normal clinical hours in CCS, I was charting near a nurse whom I had met during my first unit, summer 2019, and had a conversation with.  I had run into her once before this unit, and it was clear to me she did not remember me, and I also did not have a chance to remind her of our previous connection.  

This nurse was talking with another nurse about getting called into management’s office due to low handwashing percentages, but she was saying that it was a problem with the sensor, since there was no way she was not protecting herself on the COVID units.  [All of us wear a sensor, which tracks whether we foam in and out of patients' rooms, and how often we wash our hands.]

At first, I was just overhearing their conversation, but at this point, got pulled in:

Nurse A: And the problem is, when you’re all gowned up, when you come out, you have to disrobe and take the gloves off first, and then by the time you’re washing your hands, the sensor doesn’t remember.  

Nurse B: I mean, if this was 2015, and they were harping about handwashing, fine.  But we’re in the middle of a pandemic, and this is what they choose to focus on?

Nurse A: (Turns to me).  You know, this pandemic has shown a lot of problems that already existed.  Like racism, poor management, and all of that.  This hospital was already being managed poorly before, but now, I don’t think they’ll be able to handle all this.  I think they are going to get bought out by another system, or they’ll fold.

Chaplain: Yes, for sure.  Those problems were there already, but this just made it more obvious.  I can see how being a part of a larger health system would help streamline some of the organizational issues.  That’s got to be so stressful (chaplain tries to show empathy through body language as well, shaking head, sighing…)

Nurse A: You can say that again.  This is not what I went to college for.  Not to decide who gets to receive care, who lives or dies.  We were taught to treat everybody.

Chaplain: (nods, holds space to see if she wants to say more).  That is so tough.  When resources are stretched so thin.

Nurse A: You know they call us frontline heroes, but then we are also the first to get blamed, when they need a scapegoat.  But you can’t be heroes and villains at the same time, you know?  You’re either batman, or you’re not!  (She starts to laugh, and chaplain joins in.)  I’ll be back. (Nurse goes into nutrition room.  Chaplain continues to chart.)

NurseA comes back out, and tells me that the ice cream sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria are better than those she found in grocery stores.  Apparently, the ice cream portion is thicker.  Another nurse had brought a bunch of ice cream sandwiches in earlier, for the unit.

Chaplain:  I guess that’s one tiny perk of working here?  (nurse nods, with her mouth full.  Chaplain says, as if on her behalf:)  Hey, I’ll take it?!

(Nurse B comes by to grab something.  Respiratory Therapist [RCP] also walks onto the unit.)

RCP: Hey (greets 2RN).  How’s it going up here?  I’m coming from the ED. (She seems very friendly, and as if coming up to the CCs makes her feel more relaxed, compared to being in the ED).

Nurse B: I want something more to do.  It’s so quiet in here.  You leave the COVID units and you’re like, wait, is this how it used to be all the time?

RCP:  I know, you’re like, huh?

Chaplain:  (starts replaying the code blue in her head, but and thinks, without saying aloud) It’s like a different universe on the COVID units.

(Nurse B leaves to go attend to a patient.)  

Nurse A: Dang, you know that patient in CCR 15, or was it 14?  The 34 year old, didn’t make it.  That was New Year’s Eve, or something?

Chaplain:  (Nods.)  Yeah, Thursday.  I was here for that. 

Nurse A: That patient was afraid of everything.  Needles, tubes, He was so sweet.

Chaplain:  Aw.. (nods, makes eye contact with both RN and RCP thinks):I am learning more about this patient, whom I never knew)

RCP:  Oh yeah, I had him in the beginning too.  I cried for an hour at his bed.  

Chaplain:  (Looks at RCP and gives eye contact/active listening body language, wondering): What exactly does she mean by that?  Is she going to share more? 

Patient:  Hey!

RCP:  I mean, down in the ER it’s like deaths all the time, but this one we knew, and I was with him from his first day.  

Nurse A:  Yeah, I was there in the beginning too. 

Patient: Hey!

1RN9:  Man, what does he want again?  (She had just turned him earlier, with the help of 2RN)

Chaplain:  (to Nurse A)  I can go in and talk to him.  I’ve spoken with his wife about visiting, so I know a bit about what he might like to talk about and his personality.  

RCP: He seems anxious, but at least he’s not the one (motions to another room on CCS) over there who kicked me in the head the other day.

Chaplain: Oh yes, that patient—I just got off the phone with his wife.  She told me he’s had dementia for a few years now and often thinks he’s fighting in the war.

RCP: I don’t blame them.  They must be so confused about where they are.

Patient:  Are you coming?

Chaplain: (puts on face shield):  I’m coming. 

***

Further reflections:

· The Care Receiver

I assessed that the RN mostly needed more support from management.  She was upset at being faulted over handwashing, when there were larger concerns (such as staffing) at play.  She felt like management personnel were “taking out” their stress on employees.  She also seemed aware of larger systemic issues in society, which the pandemic has made worse.  It also seemed that “actions speak louder than words” was very much at play, in her feeling like she was receiving support.  I felt that, for her, words were cheap if action was not there.

· The Chaplain

As the on-call chaplain, my role when on-call to respond to code blues and be available for staff and family, as needed.  Although I did touch base with the nurse about my availability, I did not proactively follow up with the family after the patient’s death, as it was near the end of the day.  Often after code blue deaths, the social worker or nurse will inform me that the family needs time to process what happened, and to make arrangements.   

While charting on the critical care unit 2 days later, I had processed my own experience of the code blue, and was open to being an empathetic presence for staff, while also not “fishing” for conversations, given how busy and overloaded they are.  I usually respect that they are working, and may not have the mental or emotional capacity to talk about their feelings, or really share about their experiences.  However, the way this conversation flowed, I was included quite naturally.

· The Spiritual Care Encounter

I encountered the conversation “randomly”—and it was a “follow-up” about a patient, but not necessarily with the staff who were at the code blue.  However, there was continuity in the story, since this patient was in Critical Care for quite a while and clearly made an impression on the staff.  I tried to respond in a “pastoral manner” by mostly holding space and was an active listener for this conversation, and I felt she felt safe sharing her honest feelings with me.  My identity as a chaplain was expressed by accompanying others in their process and bearing witness to others’ suffering and distress.  I learned from this encounter more of the sentiments of nurses about administration and the discrepancy between how society views them (frontline heroes) and how management treats them (villains, scapegoats).   Given my thoughts, from the nurse’s words earlier, about her preference for care to be “shown” rather than “said,” rather than staying in the conversation about the patient who expired, I offered to go talk to the patient, to give this nurse a break and a chance to catch up further with her colleagues.   Had I not gotten up to go see the patient, I would have wanted to verbally affirm the role of the Nurse and RCP.  

Theological/Philosophical Reflection

One of the themes I heard from the nurse was frustration in the discrepancy between how she was perceived—she knew she was important and indispensable, and yet she did not feel like she was treated according to her value.  I was very aware of my own helplessness in fixing the larger systemic situation.  This experience further brought to my awareness that my theme of Intention is multi-faceted and can equip me to discern more quickly how I “ought” to “be” in a given scenario.  

Peer/Educators Consultation

My educator gave me permission to do one verbatim that involved interactions with medical staff.  My main questions are: “should” I have “done” more during the code blue, or with so much going on, was it “enough” to simply be present, give empathetic eye contact, and be available as needed?

For the conversation in critical care two days later, I did not feel prepared to “go deeper” with the nursing staff, as they were still on the clock and constantly prepared to attend to patients.  I felt that it meant more for me to show that I was on their team, that I was doing my part to care for patients, at bedside.  

As the pandemic continues to heavily impact our hospital, I anticipate future situations similar to what I have described above.  Therefore, I wanted to bring it before my peers and educator to get perspective on how to navigate the balance between seeing patients and being present to staff.




Chapter 5: "I Thought For Sure This One Was Going to Make It"

Those of us on the interdisciplinary team reached a breaking point on the last day of 2020.  I saw a patient die of COVID who was my age.  This impacted me so much that I used it for my Verbatim assignment, which is a part of our CPE curriculum.  I have included portions of the Verbatim below:

Context of Visit: I responded to a Code Blue during the daytime of my New Year’s Eve on-call.  The patient was in the corner room in [the COVID ICU], and was already receiving chest compressions upon my arrival.  It was obvious that end-of-life concerns were at play.

I stood at the back of a cluster (about 6) of medical staff who were talking outside the room.  One of the staff members was gowning up, but was told that they had enough help.  I was wearing my N95, and other staff members also had face shields and helmets on.  Inside the room, another cluster (about 8) of medical staff were attending to the patient.  I made eye contact with the social worker, with whom I had already connected twice earlier in the day, over two other code blues.  She was busy speaking with other staff so we just nodded at each other, but to me it felt like we already had a “shorthand” established, from my on-call experiences.  

I listened as medical staff exchanged information about how COVID was impacting other parts of the world, and how diet might factor into it.  There were comments about people surviving COVID in Northern India, and importance of Olive Oil in Italy, and also Filipino diet and culture.  

I thought to myself that medical staff have such a calm nonchalance during these emergencies sometimes, but also how each code blue is different from the next.  For example, during an earlier code on [another COVID unit], medical staff seemed more concerned and stressed. 

I could barely see the patient, but I saw on my census that he was my age (34).  Another medical person showed up and stood next to me, carrying drugs that were labeled for code blue use.  We nodded at each other.  The sound of the code blue alarm continued on the unit, drowning everything out.

At one point, the doctor left the small talk and went to the glass door, opening it a crack to tell the medical staff to stop the chest compressions, reading off numerical medical data.  He then stepped back out to join the cluster, who had all stopped talking.  The doctor said, “That’s what I hate about this disease.  It makes us feel so helpless.”  The doctor left the scene.  As the medical staff inside the room began to remove tubes from the patient and clean up inside the room, one of the staff members in the cluster outside the room immediately began to cry.  This was a staff who, during last week’s code down in CDU, had said to me, in passing, “We need spiritual care.”

I realized that I had never seen medical staff cry immediately after a code blue death.  I had seen hard situations where they were upset but also seemed numb, but this release of emotions was very new to me.  I think everyone else felt it.  Even though it was hard to tell with masks and other PPE, it did seem that others had tears in their eyes.  I felt helpless, and I also felt like an outsider bearing witness to a close-knit team.  

The social worker stepped over to hug her and rub her shoulders.  The staff person who had been gowning up earlier also went over to comfort her.  I started looking around for a box of tissue, but then noticed that staff member going over to wash her face in the sink.  

The charge nurse arrived and was shocked the patient passed.  She said, “I thought for sure this one was going to make it.  Now I have to decide who gets the bed next, who to send up here.”  Meanwhile, one of the medical staff who had come out of the room said, “I’ll call the family, since I’ve been following this one.”  I told her, “Let me know if you need chaplain to follow up with the family later.”  She continued walking over to the sink to wash.  “What’s your extension?”  “3433.”  “Okay, thank you!”

The charge nurse and the social worker continued to talk, and the rest of us continued to disperse from the code.  I noticed another medical staff starting to shed tears, the first woman who had cried right after the death went over to hug her, and together they walked into the break room.  I was touched by staff members’ ability to be there for one another because they had already been working as a team.  I couldn’t keep track of who was saying what, but I could hear a few comments all around me, “He was so young.”  “If he couldn’t make it, then what about us?”

It felt surreal, like I was watching a movie scene.  I felt helpless, because now did not seem like the time to process with staff, who were either very busy, or already comforting one another.  I walked to the other side of the unit and looked at the COVID patients who were still alive, thinking to myself honestly that I didn’t really have it in me to send a blessing to them.  Instead, I bore witness to them as they hung onto life.  I walked over to another part of the ICU, to follow up with the nurse for a patient who had survived a code blue earlier in the day.