Cold.
You are five minutes into your morning shift. You have just logged on to your computer, looking through the already mounting list for the day.
You hear the chaos first, the rush of footsteps against the tiled floor. You pause your scrolling, considering your next move, while maintaining your calm. Then, more clearly you hear it, “Doctor! Doctor!! Doctor!!!”
Just as you get off your seat, grab your stethoscope and take the first step, the door to your consulting room swung open, a woman crying, dressed in pajamas with a wrapper loosely over her chest runs in, a nurse trailing behind her. The woman grabs your hand and begins to pull you out. “Doctor please come! Doctor please come o!!”
You dash into the emergency room, adrenaline pumping, premonition stirring.
The gloomy look on the face of the nurse checking the vital signs already tells you everything. But you proceed, unfazed, your expression blank.
You touch her extremities. Cold.
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You place the bell of your stethoscope over the left side of her tiny chest. Silence.
You hear the prayers outside, thick as a cloud as other parents joined in.
You check her pupils with your pen torch. Fixed and dilated.
You look at the bedside monitor, it’s cables now connected to her wrist. Flatline.
You mutter under your breath, find your tongue and turn to her parents.
“No, no, no, doctor, don’t tell me that! Do not tell me that!! She is just three months old. I fed her barely one hour ago, she was just sleeping, do something, oxygen, anything.”
And as her words fell, so did her body against yours.
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