The tragedy and community of Christmas

"Look for the helpers."

The call comes at 7:30pm on Christmas Eve. “Miriam, we have a code orange. A bus crashed with over 50 passengers on it. You have to come in right away.” I put down the appetizer I’ve been munching on, hastily say goodbye to our friends, and run out of the house to my idling car. I’ve kept the car running because the icy rain is covering everything in a thick, almost impenetrable layer of ice, and it took me a good 10 minutes earlier to scrape off enough ice to be able to see. I had a feeling I’d be called in sooner or later, and I thought it best to have the car ready at a moment’s notice.

A code orange refers to a mass casualty incident where a large number of patients are expected to arrive at the hospital. Additional staff need to be called in to deal with the extra volume of patients. As I make my way carefully on the icy road to the hospital I mentally steel myself for what might be waiting there for me.

It’s been a week. A few days earlier we had a cold snap that culminated with the coldest temperatures I’ve ever experienced: -36°C/-33°F. It was so cold that boiling water thrown into the air turned into snow before reaching the ground.
Pipes froze everywhere. Our hospital’s heating system couldn’t keep up and the place turned into a refrigerator. They had to buy portable heaters and put them up in the waiting and treatment rooms, because it was too cold to function and patients were freezing.
Someone accidentally set his house on fire when he used a blow torch to thaw the frozen pipes. Someone else used heating tape on PVC pipes which melted the pipes and flooded his brandnew shop. Our cars wouldn’t start and we were stranded at home for a day.

Luckily, that extreme cold only lasted for a few days. Unluckily, since then it has warmed up so rapidly that we’ve been dealing with icy rain and extremely dangerous roads that are completely iced over.

I’m holding a still smoking pot in my hand that contained boiling water a moment ago, and is now coming down as snow.

Which brings me back to Christmas Eve. When I arrive at the hospital there’s an unusual amount of activity happening. Normally at this time of night there are only 4 nurses working, and lately it has often been less than that due to the significant staffing shortage. But now the place is bustling, and more and more people are arriving over the next half hour. The charge nurse alerted all RNs and LPNs, and many have heeded her call despite it being Christmas Eve. Even nurses that haven’t worked on site for a while have arrived to help out, and it warms everyone’s heart.

At this point we know little: all we’ve heard is that there have been 3 fatalities on scene and that paramedics are there, triaging around 50 patients. We have no idea how many will come to our hospital; all we’re sure of is that we won’t get the serious cases, since we’re a small site that’s not equipped for critically ill patients. The waiting is always the worst part, so we all get busy preparing: the nurses are divided into teams and they stock their stations with additional bandages and other first aid paraphernalia; the kitchen has been alerted to have extra snacks ready; the rest of us set up the heaters that were brought in a few days ago in the waiting room and stock the blanket warmer with as many blankets as it will hold. The location of the accident is up on a mountain where it’s still very cold, and the patients will be in shock and freezing.

Two hours after we’ve arrived we get the update: 27 “walking wounded” are en route to our hospital. To give this number some context: our emergency department has 10 beds and 2 chairs, and some beds are already occupied. We’ve moved the patients we could to the ward, which is already at full occupancy; it’s a tight squeeze and about to get tighter.

The next few hours pass in a blur. Patients arrive in clusters, bleeding and shell-shocked. The doctor and nurses get busy cleaning and patching up wounds, a mental health nurse provides much-needed emotional support, and I get busy x-raying one person after another as fast as I can. One of my co-workers has heard about the accident and offers to come in, and I gratefully take her up on her offer.

The atmosphere is one of calm and efficiency. We’re all focused on the task, which is to provide help and comfort, and later on, a place to stay overnight for the patients that are well enough to be discharged. In a brief lull I look around me at these people who have become my work family over the last few years, and my heart swells with gratitude and love. I’m not the biggest Christmas fan, but this, right here, is what Christmas is all about: community, helping each other, being there for one another.

The calm before the storm. I love these people.

Five hours later I’m done. The adrenaline is draining out of my body rapidly, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. I say goodnight to these amazing, caring, wonderful people who’ve left their families to be there for the ones who need them and to support their co-workers.

The next day we will learn more about the accident, our hearts going out to the families who lost one of their loved ones in such a tragic way.

And then we’ll go back to work and do it all over again. Day after day, no matter what day of the year, no matter the weather, no matter the circumstances.

I’m deeply honoured to work alongside these people. My heart is full - not only on Christmas, but always.

I hope you made it safely through the weekend. I know how difficult this time is for many, and to those of us who’re not the biggest fans, we made it! We’re as far away from the next Christmas as possible.

Be kind to yourself.

Love, Miriam