Sunday, November 02, 2003
A little boy was brought into the Intensive care today. He had been found floating limp in a pool, 8 minutes after last being seen busily helping out in the yard. His heart had stopped for at least 20 minutes before an ambulance crew got it beating again, by sheer brute force of drugs. Young hearts are strong but brains are still fragile. Now he lies on ventilator support, his muscles paralysed to stop the seizures and aid in cooling him. His brain is swelling, pushing itself against the confines of the skull, and all we can do is watch helplessly from outside. At worst he will die. Or is it at worst? I remember the first near- drowning I looked after, 4 years ago. She was a beautiful 2 year old, and I remember the long weeks of seeing her lie like a vacant, perfect doll, blond hair tied back with a ribbon, her hands and feet fisting uncontrollably as her parents tried to believe she was communicating with them.
Over the three months I’ve now worked in Intensive Care, I have seen many patients whose situations remind me of Casey’s. I have even, now, sat on one side of the table in the Interview room and watched the faces of parents as all little remaining hope was taken away from them and they had to face the ultimate truth. Their faces must have mirrored mine 7 months ago. I do not watch bravely. Twice, I have begged colleagues to take patients that I feel I cannot look after without becoming too swayed by my emotions. There have been many children with the same condition as Casey’s: 2, 8, 13 years old. Some have died, others have survived. It is hard to watch their parents pacing, disempowered and for once unable to protect their children. I feel I have to remain on my side of the clinician-parent barrier. And so we each pace, one side in acute fear and abandonment, the other in memory and longing.
email me: piokiwi@yahoo.com.au
Piokiwi 4:58 am
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