All have to wait. As is normal with the busy ER, the ambient noises of machines, alarms ringing, painful moaning, and loud drunken outbursts permeate the department. It’s a controlled chaos.
But, a woman’s scream pierced my soul. Her baby eight-month-old boy laid limp in her arms. He’s already pale, lips blue, his chest not rising as it should with breathing — he is not responding at all. We wasted no time. Nothing brings help faster to a room than a dead child. We rapidly placed a breathing tube, started pushing on his tiny chest with our fingers to keep his heart beating, drilled an IV into his bones, and pushed in all the medications we could. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. Twenty minutes passed. Still nothing. For any other patient, we may check for heart movement and if it’s not moving, pronounce the time of death. Not for children. Never for children. We spent 45 minutes with this baby. Helpless, the time had finally come. We were all in agreement. Time of death: 0205.
The heartbreak is not over though. Next is the mother. What can you say? Not much. I could only sit and try to absorb her grief, her disbelief — her guilt. Fifteen minutes of tears.
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