Her patient was flat-lining.
Doris punched the room’s intercom button. “Code blue 1604!
Code 1604.”
A moment later, a calm, authoritative voiced oozed from
overhead speakers. “Code blue, 1604. Code blue, 1604.”
The ten-year-old’s eyes twitched. Her body shook. She soiled the bed.
Doris pushed back the bed curtain, the side table, and anything
else that might hamper the code team’s action.
“She’s coding!” Doris told the first doctor to enter the room.
Dr. Gregory Wall studied the monitors. He stood tall, calm, his face an impassive mask, but his eyes told the real story. Wall was black, in his thirties, and just a year out of the Navy Medical Corps, and, at six feet two inches tall, could be a bit intimidating. Yet he was a champion for children, and every pain they felt hurt him.
The rest of his medical team appeared at the patient’s side. One pushed the crash cart into the room.
Wall rattled off commands. “Adrenalin. Five hundred CCs.”
A second later one of the resuscitation nurses handed Wall the demanded drug.
“Okay, little one,” he whispered, “let’s not ruin a perfectly good day.” He stabbed her chest with the needle. “C’mon, give me something …”
“We’re losing her.” Doris’ words were steady but awash with
fear.
Wall swore. “Compressions.”
An intern began CPR.
Wall called for the defibrillator and with practiced motions placed the paddles and sent an electrical charge across the child’s heart.
She gurgled. The monitors showed no heartbeat.
“Clear!” Hands raised in the air and bodies moved from the rails. The girl’s body jumped again from the electrical surge, then shook as it fell back on the sheets. The doctor tried again to revive her. No change. She went limp. The team bowed their heads. An intern took notes while a nurse wiped a tear from her eye. Dr. Wall faced Doris.
“We could try …” he offered.