Last Sunday

Unfortunately, suicide attempts are not an uncommon presentation in the emergency department. Thankfully, I don’t see them every shift, but when I do, they stay with me. It was late on a Sunday night. The waiting room was nearly empty. Things were calm. And then a triage note popped up on my screen with a chief complaint I didn’t expect:
“Overdose.”

At that point, all you can see is a name, an age, and a few words describing why they’re here. He was 20 years old.

And just like that, my mind started spinning:
What did he take? How much? Was it intentional?
Why today?

What was it about this particular day that broke him?

We didn’t get much from the patient. The visit stayed surface-level, clinical. We learned he had taken 16 Benadryl tablets in an attempt to harm himself. But this post isn’t about the chart. It’s not about the medications or the vitals or the outcome. It’s about what this moment made me feel, as a scribe, as a young adult, and most of all, as a person. It epitomized one of my few true grievances with scribing: the lack of autonomy.

There are so many things I wanted to say to him. He said he was “just tired of it all.” But I wanted to ask: What are you tired of? Is it school? Is it family? Is it loneliness? Is it something no one’s asked you about yet?

He was accompanied by a "friend," and I’ll never forget the look on her face. On the verge of tears. Silent. Helpless. Watching as both their belongings were taken, as tray tables and trash cans were removed from the room, piece by piece, until there was nothing left that could pose a risk.

I wanted to hug her.

To tell her she had done the right thing. That bringing her friend in was brave. That we were going to help. That someone cared. But I couldn’t. Because I’m a scribe.

Scribes don’t treat. We don’t talk much. We don’t offer comfort, or reassurance, or advice. We mostly observe, we record, and we move on. And so I held my tongue. I wrote my note. I filled out the IVC (Involuntary Commitment) paperwork. And then we moved on to the next patient. The ER kept spinning around him, and I kept spinning with it. But I won’t forget him.

And when it’s finally my turn, when I’m in the provider’s seat, asking the questions, hearing the stories, I hope to remember these moments.

I hope I remember the helplessness I felt.

I hope I ask: Why today?
And I hope I’m someone they feel safe enough to answer.