by Barbara A.Rope
Tension mounts in my stomach as I walk towards the room, its windows are covered in closed, almost colourless, Venetian blinds. I’ve no choice, I have to enter and meet the mother and child. I take a deep breath and knock gently to announce my arrival. A soft female voice answers. I enter the room and smile towards the young woman who has just risen from her chair. She looks about twenty years old, but could be younger. Her hair hangs in an unkempt tangle to her shoulders. Her face tired and drawn, yet she forces a welcoming smile. I acknowledge her and look towards the child.
I find it hard to break the silence and walk to the bedside reaching out for the child’s hand.
“So this is Amy,” I say trying to keep any emotion out of my voice.
“Do you want me to leave?” asks the mother.
Now the awkward silence has been broken I turn to her.
“No. You can stay if you want. You know why I’m here don’t you?”
I run my thumb across the back of Amy’s tiny warm hand as I speak to her.
“Yes I know,” she replies smiling a weak forlorn smile. Her eyes rimmed with red, from tears and lack of sleep.
I desperately want to hug the young woman whom I have never met before in my life. Where do people like her find such courage and kindness I think? But I’ve work to do and I arranged my equipment accordingly.
“Will Amy feel anything when you do the test,” the mother asks.
I shake my head as she observes my every move. The clicking and hissing of the ventilator by the bedside accompanies our every comment. I turn my attention to Amy.
Tension mounts in my stomach as I walk towards the room, its windows are covered in closed, almost colourless, Venetian blinds. I’ve no choice, I have to enter and meet the mother and child. I take a deep breath and knock gently to announce my arrival. A soft female voice answers. I enter the room and smile towards the young woman who has just risen from her chair. She looks about twenty years old, but could be younger. Her hair hangs in an unkempt tangle to her shoulders. Her face tired and drawn, yet she forces a welcoming smile. I acknowledge her and look towards the child.
I find it hard to break the silence and walk to the bedside reaching out for the child’s hand.
“So this is Amy,” I say trying to keep any emotion out of my voice.
“Do you want me to leave?” asks the mother.
Now the awkward silence has been broken I turn to her.
“No. You can stay if you want. You know why I’m here don’t you?”
I run my thumb across the back of Amy’s tiny warm hand as I speak to her.
“Yes I know,” she replies smiling a weak forlorn smile. Her eyes rimmed with red, from tears and lack of sleep.
I desperately want to hug the young woman whom I have never met before in my life. Where do people like her find such courage and kindness I think? But I’ve work to do and I arranged my equipment accordingly.
“Will Amy feel anything when you do the test,” the mother asks.
I shake my head as she observes my every move. The clicking and hissing of the ventilator by the bedside accompanies our every comment. I turn my attention to Amy.
*
I run my hand across her little chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. She looks like a doll, her face like a Botticelli cherub. The rainbow coloured dungarees outline her tiny frame. She looks lost in the bed surrounded by equipment. I stroke her pink cheek with my finger and look trance like at her long curling eyelashes that cover her closed eyes. Slowly and gently I start to undress her, the smell of baby powder permeates the air.
“It was an accident you know?” the mother starts to explain.
“Yes. I know,” I answer.
“It all happened so quickly,” she speaks in a rapid fashion.
She needs me to know it wasn’t her fault.
“She’s only eighteen months old. We were crossing the road and we came to an island in the middle. I didn’t realise the strap holding her in the pushchair wasn’t fastened. When I went down the kerb she fell out onto the road,” her voice stops.
I turn to look behind me at the young woman in the chair. She sits motionless, reliving the horrendous moment when her child’s head had made contact with the road.
I have my moment and bend down to hug this poor desperate woman. She doesn’t weep or cry she holds me close and hard, almost bruising my upper arms.
After a while I brush back the damp tangle of hair on her forehead.
“Would you like a cool drink or anything? I’ll stay with Amy if you want me to?” I ask.
“No. I know I haven’t got much longer with her. I’ll stay here, if that’s alright?”
I nod, choked that this traumatic accident should involve this lovely young woman and her child. I continue to undress Amy, talking to her as if she were awake.
“It was an accident you know?” the mother starts to explain.
“Yes. I know,” I answer.
“It all happened so quickly,” she speaks in a rapid fashion.
She needs me to know it wasn’t her fault.
“She’s only eighteen months old. We were crossing the road and we came to an island in the middle. I didn’t realise the strap holding her in the pushchair wasn’t fastened. When I went down the kerb she fell out onto the road,” her voice stops.
I turn to look behind me at the young woman in the chair. She sits motionless, reliving the horrendous moment when her child’s head had made contact with the road.
I have my moment and bend down to hug this poor desperate woman. She doesn’t weep or cry she holds me close and hard, almost bruising my upper arms.
After a while I brush back the damp tangle of hair on her forehead.
“Would you like a cool drink or anything? I’ll stay with Amy if you want me to?” I ask.
“No. I know I haven’t got much longer with her. I’ll stay here, if that’s alright?”
I nod, choked that this traumatic accident should involve this lovely young woman and her child. I continue to undress Amy, talking to her as if she were awake.
*
I press my thumbs onto the adhesive electrodes so they become less sticky therefore less painful on removal, not that it matters. I place each one onto the appropriate area. I record the electrical activity of Amy’s heartbeat and read it as it comes out of the machine. She has a healthy normal heart.
“Is it alright?” asks her mother.
“Yes. That’s fine,” I answer.
I gently peel off the electrodes from Amy’s porcelain like skin. Write on the recording to identify each measurement, my work almost complete.
“Will you be with her when…”asks her mother.
“Yes. In about an hour’s time, we have everything ready. The doctor will be here soon to explain everything, if you have any more questions.”
The mother rises and escorts me to the door.
“Thank you,” she says.
My eyes well with tears as I reach forward to her and take hold of her hands
“Thank you,” I emphasise. “Not many people have your strength and wisdom at a moment like this,” I continue holding her hands.
“Will you look after her when they operate,” she asked.
“Of course,” I answer.
“Is it alright?” asks her mother.
“Yes. That’s fine,” I answer.
I gently peel off the electrodes from Amy’s porcelain like skin. Write on the recording to identify each measurement, my work almost complete.
“Will you be with her when…”asks her mother.
“Yes. In about an hour’s time, we have everything ready. The doctor will be here soon to explain everything, if you have any more questions.”
The mother rises and escorts me to the door.
“Thank you,” she says.
My eyes well with tears as I reach forward to her and take hold of her hands
“Thank you,” I emphasise. “Not many people have your strength and wisdom at a moment like this,” I continue holding her hands.
“Will you look after her when they operate,” she asked.
“Of course,” I answer.
*
A team of theatre staff prepare for the arrival of Amy. She arrives with all her equipment and we commence the surgery. The healthy beating heart is removed and quickly transferred to an icebox, whisked away for transplant into a more fortunate child.
Amy’s small body lies colourless, like a waxen doll. I peel of the electrodes and help to wash her tiny frame. Great love and care is given as I take out the drips and pressure lines, they are of no use anymore. I along with some of the nurses kiss Amy gently on her forehead as she is wrapped in a mortuary sheet.
Amy’s small body lies colourless, like a waxen doll. I peel of the electrodes and help to wash her tiny frame. Great love and care is given as I take out the drips and pressure lines, they are of no use anymore. I along with some of the nurses kiss Amy gently on her forehead as she is wrapped in a mortuary sheet.
I sit in the staff room with all the team; none of us feel like talking. But the day is young and we all have more work to do. Two hours later whilst we are preparing for our next patient the telephone rings. Amy’s heart has been successfully transplanted into a baby girl. The gift of transplant has given hope and happiness for the future to some unknown child. My spirits lift as I think of the courage of the young mother and the strength shown by her. Baby Amy has given new life and in doing so has touched the lives of so many other people.
