For much of his life, Blair Bigham saw the line between life and death as something irrefutable.
As he worked as a paramedic in the Toronto area for a decade, Bigham saw life as something simple: oxygen flown into the lungs, where it would be absorbed by blood, and then pumped around to cells that it would break it down, along with the glucose taken in from the gut, and finally, down to create microscopic bits of energy needed to power life.
Likewise, Bigham also saw death as something simple: it happens when energy is no longer generated, the batteries are drained, and the lights finally go out.
"I had pronounced dozens of people dead. In particularly horrific cases, when someone had, for example, been the victim of a house fire or blunt-force head trauma, I didn’t even need to check a pulse. The pallid colour of the skin, the emptiness of the eyes, and the body’s acquiescence to gravity said it all."
But his way of thinking was challenged when he started medical school in 2012.
"In the hospital, people seemed to die, well, slower than they did in the field. There were often no car accidents or bullets or torn aortas that I could point to as the cause of their demise. Death was no longer sudden. Instead, I tended to people who were dying—a process that could take days, weeks, months, or even years. The line between life and death started to feel blurry. When I started working in the intensive-care unit (ICU) as a senior medical student, that line became even harder to bring into focus."
On his journey as a medical student, Bigham would come across a case that he would never forget, and he would never see death as something simple again.
Find out more of this story over at The Walrus.
(Image Credit: Pixabay)
By Franzified