I've always understood that codes are important; I've come within 20 seconds of calling a code pink (missing pediatric patient), I've had training for aggressive patients/visitors to avoid calling security codes, and I've been down the hall from code blues.
Nothing quite highlights the necessity of quickly answering call lights or monitor alarms as a code blue though. From my earliest days working in healthcare, it's been engrained that you had to answer calls within 30 seconds if possible, and anyone available should be answering them, not just CNAs or RNs or the unit secretaries, anyone.
Imagine you have a small sick baby as your patient. She's been doing well all day, and you're 5 hours into your eight hour shift. It's time for routine vitals and checking on her gastronomy tube and assessment. You walk in, administer medications, take the set of vital signs; all goes well, and you turn to leave, parents quietly sitting bedside. Two steps from the door, alarms sound, so quickly you spin around and see her face. She's not breathing and she's turned blue, without warning. "Respiratory arrest!" You call a code blue, and the team is there within two minutes.
What if you had not been in the room? It easily could have been another 3 or 4 minutes before someone else was available (or, worse, not too lazy) to answer the alarms and declare the code. It illustrates so clearly the meaning of time in a medical emergency and the responsibility of healthcare professionals to respond promptly, consistently and continuously.
The chaos following is almost thrilling to watch. Staff physicans race down the hall, almost losing their carefully balanced stethescopes around their necks or sheets of papers. Not far behind follow the respiratory therapists and the unit charge nurse. A large button is pushed and bright lights illuminate every face within the patient's room, as 10 or more people crowd around the crib. A red light blinks repeatedly signifying that, yes, here is where the code blue is happening, come, come, yes it is here.
Eventually, the crib comes down the hall, escorted by several gowned staff members, one bagging a limp body, his left hand holding the mask in place and his right hand contracting in symphony with imagined breaths.
Imagine you have a small sick baby as your patient. She's been doing well all day, and you're 5 hours into your eight hour shift. It's time for routine vitals and checking on her gastronomy tube and assessment. You walk in, administer medications, take the set of vital signs; all goes well, and you turn to leave, parents quietly sitting bedside. Two steps from the door, alarms sound, so quickly you spin around and see her face. She's not breathing and she's turned blue, without warning. "Respiratory arrest!" You call a code blue, and the team is there within two minutes.
What if you had not been in the room? It easily could have been another 3 or 4 minutes before someone else was available (or, worse, not too lazy) to answer the alarms and declare the code. It illustrates so clearly the meaning of time in a medical emergency and the responsibility of healthcare professionals to respond promptly, consistently and continuously.
The chaos following is almost thrilling to watch. Staff physicans race down the hall, almost losing their carefully balanced stethescopes around their necks or sheets of papers. Not far behind follow the respiratory therapists and the unit charge nurse. A large button is pushed and bright lights illuminate every face within the patient's room, as 10 or more people crowd around the crib. A red light blinks repeatedly signifying that, yes, here is where the code blue is happening, come, come, yes it is here.
Eventually, the crib comes down the hall, escorted by several gowned staff members, one bagging a limp body, his left hand holding the mask in place and his right hand contracting in symphony with imagined breaths.
Now that tiny intubated patient is in the ICU pictured above, alive. All because we were right there.
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