[ WP ] The lines in your palms tell a story . What is that story ?

Day 15 in the cardiac ICU. It ’ s my third 30 hour shift. I can barely keep my eyes open. At 0700 we switch shifts finally, only one more hour to go. I was told this year would be bad. I had no fucking clue. Seriously, don ’ t do this profession. 
 
 ‘ Doctor! ’ a nurse cried. You know that cry, it ’ s the one that crawls up the back of your spine and sits on top of your head controlling your feet into a dead run. ‘ Room 12 is coding! ’ All the training the world doesn ’ t prepare your for that. You can take ACLS courses all you want. The first time you run a code you pray the nursing staff knows what they ’ re doing, luckily in the ICU they always do…here at least. 
 
 He had a name. I couldn ’ t remember it. He was here; critically ill gets you through the door in this place. We know a number of them will not make it. Not remembering their names allow you to go home in a way you can put this place into a mental trunk so you can take care of your family. 
 
 ‘ Get the crash cart! ’ The staff is moving smoothly to their positions. One to record time and drugs given, every two minutes is important in the ACLS protocol. There should be two or three ( if you ’ re lucky ) people to start chest compression, a few more people to help with airway, access, tests and the defibrillator. 
 
 It ’ s scary when it becomes a reflex, but that is when you know you ’ re good at it. It ’ s also about the time that people become a disease. For your own sanity your brain categorizes them this way. To look into every face and see the fear, grief, love, life and intensity of the soul can crush you. You can ’ t be crushed, to many rely on the honed skills you ’ ve been acquiring for years. 
 
 The code lasts 30 minutes. Two shocks, 6 rounds of epi and adrenaline through my veins results in time of death at 0640. The failure isn ’ t the worst part. It ’ s calling the loved one, having them come in and looking deep into their intense broken eyes. You can ’ t escape the intensity here, it ’ s impossible. It ’ s when you know that at this moment you are their worst villain. 
 
 It never fails; you remember each one, especially in the beginning and the hidden tears. God the hidden tears, the ones the families never see….if only they knew. 
 
 These hands have held new born babies. The lines in my palms tell of broken dreams, earth shattering wailing screams as a family cries. These hands experience sacred moments, none of them I can share. It is often my palms hold my own face in silent tears, tucked away. These hands are not my own. 
 
 That is the price and the gift of a career in medicine. Why write this for this prompt. I'm not sure, but it just needed to be said, so I said it. 
 
 What is the story of your hands?
