When I was younger, I had a knack for all things medically related.

At the ripe age of two years old, I could perform CPR (although I did lack the strength to execute it correctly).

I would pretend to be a doctor and put band-aids on imaginary wounds or rush to the rescue as a medic. I would play with first aid kits instead of dolls, and if I did end up playing dolls, my Barbie would be in the middle of performing open-heart surgery.

Naturally, when I grew older, I would pick the medical field for my career path.

While I did lose my track in college a bit, such as, doing a 180 and switching from my biology degree to an English one (then mass communication, then film, to biology, parks and recreation, and finally journalism), I always had, and still do have, the same end goal in my sights.

During my second try at a biology degree, I took (and successfully passed, mind you) anatomy and physiology, where my professor sent out a mass e-mail to his 700 some-odd students about an open position for medical scribing.

A medical scribe is someone who follows the doctor around in a hospital or private practice and types up their patient charts, prescriptions, personal notes and discharges.

So, needless to say, I applied immediately.

I was placed in a level II trauma emergency department, and it just so happens that emergency medicine was, oddly enough, my forte and cup of tea.

And I loved it.

Although, I was still only dealing with the slow and uninteresting cases; a child with a cold, an elderly patient with shortness of breath, a person with a headache, I was just happy to be there.

But when my time finally came to answer to a trauma call I was ecstatic and nervous as shit.

I was insubordinately sitting on the counter across from the doctor's station, nonchalantly swinging my legs like a 5-year-old, watching people and patients come and go. Occasionally, I would Google medical cases and try to solve them or learn how to read EKGs for fun.

The techs’ station was just behind me, where the hospital would receive radio-ins from incoming ambulances. Here is where they’d communicate their estimated arrival, patient’s condition, what had happened and treatment the medics had just done, so the doctors and staff are prepared for what’s to come.

As I’m still sitting on the counter, I watch one of the doctors slowly slump in his chair, then eventually melt onto the floor and under his desk, all the while groaning and whining. Most likely due to the fact that he has been put on hold for the umpteenth time trying to get an ETA on a patient’s lab results.

Needless to say, he was my personal role model.

Then it started; the blaring alarm from behind me indicating a new trauma patient.

The grumpiest (and my favorite) med tech saunters over to answer the radio and gives the EMT on the other end the green light to give his report.

It was like I was watching a WWII movie where the soldier with the radio calls in an air strike or for reinforcements:

The radio signal kept going in and out, always in a state of unintelligible static, call signs were used and everything was abbreviated. In the background, you could hear the sirens and other medics talking over everything else.

A male in his mid-40s was having a heart attack.

Seemed simple enough to deal with.

When the EMTs arrived, everyone was ready, in their place, with techs, nurses, a doctor and then me chilling in the back waiting to note everything that happens.

The nurses and techs jump into action, and the doctor calls out for certain drugs to be administered, asking the EMTs for details on the patient's condition, and “where the hell is the head nurse?!?”

Monitors are yelling, staff is yelling, EMTs are now chit-chatting behind me, the O2 tanks are hissing and above all else, I hear, “CLEAR!” Everyone moves away from the table.

I’ve never seen a person be shocked with 300 volts of electricity before.

However, nothing changes in the patient's vitals as the nurse starts CPR again.

CLEAR!

…1,000 Volts

Still, nothing…

This happens a few more times before the doctor has no choice but to call the time of death.

The patient’s arm slides off the table and hangs limp, and I can’t help but just stare.

I didn’t know what to do, no one trained me for what happens after a patient dies.

I have never seen someone die right before my eyes. So I waited for an emotional response from myself. Maybe a tear? Nausea? Shock? Depression?

I walked out of the room, completely fine.

Then my mind went rampant.

Because why am I not FEELING something? Anything? Am I a sociopath? Do I not care? What is wrong with me?

I just felt guilty for not reacting.

After that day, it seemed like death was just part of the routine.

Gunshots. Car accidents. Old age. Freak accidents. More heart attacks.

Once, I asked a doctor after we lost a patient, “How do you just bounce right back into the rest of your day after you lose a patient?”

She said that it’s just something you’ll learn.

That she used to pray for every patient she lost and cry all the time.

Then one day, she just stopped crying.

She told me that you can’t live life that, people die all the time, and you can’t let it get in the way of your living. You have a job to do, you can’t bring your loss into the next patient's room.

She paused for a second, then added, “But sometimes you get that one case that breaks you...”

And I witnessed that happen.

One of our best doctors on staff was literally nicknamed the “White Tornado,” due to his knack for multitasking and running from patient to patient so fast, that you could never keep up with him.

And he did his job very well, providing the utmost personable and top notch care. He had been a doctor for years, everyone loved him.

In just one night shift, he lost two patients, one of which was the little sister of everyone’s favorite medical tech on staff.

When he came into work the following day, he was a different person, only taking on a couple of patients. He was moving slow and could barely focus on one task at a time.

He was broken...

While I was learning hard skills as a medical scribe; which medications to administer for different reasons, signs and symptoms of disorders and illnesses, how to pull 15-hour night shifts and just plain old bedside manner and how to deal with patients in the psych department, I learned a lot about myself.

That I wasn’t broken because I definitely had a few cases that got to me during my time as a medical scribe.

But, I also acquired thicker skin.