We arrived at the scene in an ambulance to see the usual collection of bystanders clustered around a body. It was a child. She was still alive. A pale grey face, mumbling and moaning, eyes half shut and flickering. There was blood pooling from a wound to the back of her head and one of her legs was facing the wrong way.
The five-year-old girl had been struck by a car. The driver hadn’t been speeding or driving recklessly. The road was quiet. She had been out on her scooter. Suddenly, with a child’s spontaneity, she rode her scooter off the pavement and onto the road. The driver didn’t have time to brake.
We started high-flow oxygen and inserted a plastic airway into her mouth to stop her tongue blocking her airway, taking extreme care not to move her head in case she had a spinal injury. A dressing was placed under her head and her leg was realigned to a neutral position to prevent further tissue damage. Although she was breathing and her lungs sounded normal, we placed a bag valve mask over her mouth.
I shone a light into the child’s eyes. The right pupil was fixed and dilated. I advised the rest of the team of my finding and a colleague started to cry as she knew it meant bad news.
When the helicopter arrived, the doctor administered anaesthetic drugs and passed a tube down the child’s throat to manually control her breathing.
At some point the parents arrived. I can’t remember when, but it was before the helicopter had landed. I remember the mother running up to our huddle of green paramedic shirts and seeing her daughter lying there, her hands clamping over her mouth in horror. I cannot begin to imagine what she was going through. Seeing your small child, grey, moaning, bleeding and unable to respond to you is something no parent should experience. We encouraged her to kneel next to her daughter’s head, hold her hand and keep talking to her. Even now, years later, I’m crying while typing this.
As the crescendo of the ascending helicopter became a distant clatter I reflected on the picturesque setting. This was a tranquil village – in complete contrast to the trauma that had unfolded at its centre.
In the post adrenaline-fuelled, great-team-work atmosphere we bantered with each other. There was dark, dark humour as we checked over our shoulders to make sure the bystanders were out of range. Lots of swearing and jokes that only paramedics remain hardened to. Each of us adding another layer of veneer to shield our bravado.
After a quick debrief back at base we were back on the road, dealing with all the usual mundane shit.
I thought I would be ok.
When I got home my seven-year-old wanted to dance with me in the kitchen while my wife was preparing dinner. I remembered how three short years ago he had been riding his green scooter around our neighbourhood, carefree and happy, jumping off curbs crying: “Watch me do this, watch me do this.”
During dinner I held his hands and remembered how I had held smaller hands a few hours earlier, my blue examination gloves sticky with blood.
I remember an anecdote about a city where the ambulance service went on strike. The police were called upon to fill the gap in emergency medical response. When someone dialled the emergency number they would turn up, throw the patient in the back of a police car, no matter how serious the condition, and rush them to hospital. It was reported that patient survival rates significantly increased during this period, which caused the public to question the utility of the ambulance service.
I was left with similar questions. Two ambulances and a helicopter didn’t make any real difference to the outcome for this little girl. We made a difference to the parents and the bystanders. For as long as we were still treating their child, they held on to the fragile hope that everything would be ok in the end.
I guess sometimes that’s the only difference you can make.
Some details have been changed.
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