🩺 Founder’s Contribution

🩺 Founder’s Contribution

Vitals Checkpoint

• Heart Rate: 130 bpm – Nervous and unsteady

• Blood Pressure: 140/97 – Stressed

• Respiratory Rate: 25 – Irregular and shallow breaths

• One word to describe this memory: Unshakable

  
  

It was my turn to complete morgue duty for the first time.

At that point, I’d been working as a patient transporter for a few months. I had already heard pain echo through hospital halls — patients cracking jokes mid-suffering, mothers being wheeled out with their newborns, prisoners escorted in chains to be treated. I thought I’d seen a lot. But nothing prepared me for this.

The room was silent. No monitors beeping. No nurses rushing by. No warm blankets to grab. No instructions about lifting gently or checking comfort.

Just a metal stretcher. And a grey, life-sized bag. Zipped. Tagged.

I had done so many transfers. But this one… this wasn’t about where a patient was going next. This was the end of the road.

As we began moving the body, I heard a loud bang — bones hitting steel. I flinched, my mouth opening to say, “Be careful” or “Did that hurt?” But the words never came. There was no one to hear them. Just more dull thuds.

My knees nearly gave out.

I forced myself to breathe. It’s just another transfer, I thought. A little different.

But when we rolled the stretcher through the morgue doors, I froze. There were rows of racks. Some occupied. Some waiting. More grey bags. Some are smaller than others.

I stepped closer to a small one to read the label — and I ran out.

That was a baby. A mother somewhere in that hospital wouldn’t be going home with her child in her arms. And others — once smiling, breathing, laughing — now reduced to barcodes and silence.

The rest of that day blurred. I kept working, but something had cracked.

That wasn’t just a body. That was someone. Someone with a story. With people who loved them. With pain and joy and questions left unanswered. They had once needed comfort. A warm blanket. A smile. But not anymore. This was their last stop.

I don’t remember if I cried, but I remember realizing how numb I’d become. I had started treating each transfer like routine. A task. A shift. I’d told myself not to get too personal — just in case I never saw them again.

That day in the morgue shattered that illusion.

Since then, I’ve taken on other roles in healthcare. And I've seen how much emotional weight people carry in hospitals — staff, patients, family members. We’re taught to keep our distance. To show empathy, but not too much. To care, but not enough to break.

But we lose something essential in that distance.

And so, Vitals was born. A space for stories. Real, human stories. Not just from patients — but from students, caregivers, providers, and everyone in between. Because the hospital is more than its numbers, outcomes, or title badges. It's filled with moments that change us, even when no one else sees them.

I don’t have it all figured out. But this story changed the way I see medicine. And I hope Vitals can be that same kind of turning point for someone else. A space for reflection, connection, and truth.