In Stitches

It felt like fruitless cruelty, but I rationalised it by knowing that the child would feel nothing and the grief would perhaps be easier in the long run for mum and dad if they knew we had tried everything.

I wanted to say ‘Stop’ but my colleague in charge murmured a suggestion of doubling the usual adrenaline dose – no-one really thought it would work, but no one said so. It is much easier to stop resuscitating an elderly adult than a child. No one wants to be the first to say stop. After about 15 minutes, one of the senior nurses first brought up stopping. No-one really responded – but a general agreement was made to continue for another cycle (2 minutes)

But then, thankfully, the (right) decision was taken out of our hands. ‘Please stop … Stop, STOP. STOP. He’s dead … My baby is dead.’ We all looked at each other, nodded and stopped. The barbaric-looking lines and tubes were removed and the senior nurse wrapped him in a blanket. He picked him up and took him to mum. She held him and sobbed, and sobbed and sobbed … and then started speaking to him, ‘I am so sorry I let you down today. I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow, we can go to the zoo and see all those animals you like.’

At this point I couldn’t stay in the resuscitation room any longer. The consultant paediatrician was coming in from home to talk with the mother about what had happened. I was so glad it wasn’t my job, because all I wanted to do was cry and have a cup of tea.

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