When they wheeled him into the casualty department of StMarys Hospital, it was clear the boy had been drowned. It was February, the streets were bare of snow, yet the sky hung low with a leaden weight that seemed to foretell his grim arrival. In the courtyard a siren wailed, the wail of an ambulance racing to the scene.
Looks like theyve brought someone heavy, judging by how theyre announcing it, muttered the nightshift registrar, his voice heavy with irony.
The doors swung open and a chorus of voices filled the corridor:
Come on, open the doors, get him in here at once!
The entrance creaked, and a man staggered in, a child cradled on his hip. Trailing behind, clutching his own head with both hands, was a woman whose face was deathpale. She cried out loudly:
Is he alive? He must be, right?
That bleak morning I was on call as a surgeon. I never like working on a weekend; weekdays seem to fly by, and the staffdoctors, pathologists, radiologistsare all in place, so questions get answered quickly.
Where should I take him? the father asked, his voice breaking. Please, youre a military doctor, you can help please.
The senior on duty barked, Lay the child on the trolley, senior surgeon, examine him, and have the resuscitation team ready.
I glanced at the infant and felt a chill. A year earlier Id been on a similar shift. It was December, snow coating the town, when a frantic mother burst into the casualty ward looking for her son whod vanished after a trip to the park. Hours passed, night fell, and we scoured the whole area. In the dead of night we discovered the childs small body halfburied near a frozen pond, still wearing a blue jacket and a knitted cap. He was the same age as this boy, and the circumstances were eerily similar.
How long have you had him? I asked the father.
I dont know, he replied. The neighbours found him floating in a ditch, still showing signs of life. They started artificial respiration in the ambulance
Right. Step aside, colleagues, the registrar said, signalling the rest of the night crew to clear a space.
I stripped the babys cap, unbuttoned his jacket. His face was a bluish hue, pupils dilated and unresponsive, pulse and breath absent.
Was any water removed? I asked.
It seems not, the nurse replied.
We began artificial ventilation, filling his lungs with oxygenrich air. I turned him onto his stomach, placed my knee against his back and pressed firmly. Water spurted from his mouth. I laid him on the trolley, gave a forced inhalation, then delivered three chest compressions, trying to coax his tiny heart into pumping.
The temperatures low, his brain might still be salvageable. There are cases where people have survived under snow for over a day, I thought, clinging to hope as I worked to revive him.
The wall clock ticked slowlytwo minutes, three, fivewhen suddenly a faint sound rose from his chest, like a kittens purr. The boy let out a loud, adultlike gasp, as if battling death itself.
Get him to ICU, we need to switch to controlled ventilation; he wont be able to breathe unaided, I ordered.
Is he really alive? a silent mother whispered, tears streaming. Doctor, can you save him?
Lets hope, the senior replied, we need to call for paediatric airambulance support.
We carried the child to the intensive care unit, a heavy silence settling over the room. The monitors flickered, the ventilator hummed, keeping his small body alive. His narrow, skyblue eyes flickered, a sign that life still clung.
Two hours later the airambulance crew arrived. After a quick assessment they delivered the verdict:
The child is not viable; hes been in clinical death long enough for brain damage to be irreversible. Disconnect the machine and await the outcome.
Everyone in the bay fell silent, shocked.
Our paediatrician interjects, one of the specialists finally said, if his pupils react to light, the brain must still be functioning.
The pupils are wide, but how long was he underwater? The water in his lungs means the resuscitation done in the ambulance wasnt enough. Hes already showing irreversible changes. The kidneys have failed
I cut him off, Lets try something else. We dont have a paediatric catheter, but perhaps you do?
Of course we have one, but what good will it do? the senior asked.
Lets give it a go, the women from the team chorused.
They fumbled with a thin paediatric catheter, and as soon as it entered the boys airway a bright yellow spray burst forth, drenching the stunned staff.
What a miracle! someone shouted.
Well stay for a few more hours, then well wean him off the ventilator. If he breathes on his own, well take him home, we decided.
Three hours later, Alistair was transferred out.
Two years passed. The case of Alistair lingered in my memory. One weekend, a knock came at my door. A man stood there, his face oddly familiar.
Do you know me? he asked.
Im sorry, Im trying to place you. Did we treat you together? Or work together? I stammered.
Not that, but do you remember this boy? He turned, and a smiling childs face peered from behind him.
I recognised him instantlyAlistair, now grown.
Alistair? I blurted.
Yes, thats me. Alex, come over and greet your saviour. Sorry we vanished for so long. We were looking for your address after the rehab year, but you keep travelling the country. At least weve finally met, and youre welcome anytime, no questions asked.
Please, come in, I managed, still bewildered.
Alistair recited poetry, ran around the room, examined my shell collection, holding each to his ear as if listening to the sea.
Dad once told me everyone must learn to swim or theyll drown. Can you swim? he asked suddenly.
Of course I can, I replied, my voice hoarse, Happy swimming, lad.
Now Im a senior surgeon at a city health centre. During a routine health checkup a tall, impeccably uniformed officer approached me.
Good afternoon, DrMichael Bennett, he said in a deep baritone, Ive long wanted to meet you.
Good afternoon, Captain James Whitfield, I answered, glancing at his service record, know weve met before?
More than you think, he replied, his bluegrey eyes flickering with a familiar spark. Alex? Alistair? Is that you?
Its me, he said, smiling. Just returned from the academy and found you straight away. Mission accomplishedI’m a Royal Naval officer now.
