My hands moved faster than I could think. Clamp, suture, initiate bypass, repair. The anesthesiologist kept a steady stream of vitals coming. I tried not to panic.
There were a few terrifying moments when his pressure plummeted, and the EKG screamed. I thought this would be my first loss — a child I couldn’t save. But he kept fighting. And so did we.
Hours later, we weaned him off bypass. His heart beat again, not perfectly, but strong enough. The trauma team had cleaned and closed the gash on his face. The scar would be permanent, but he was alive.
“Stable,” anesthesia finally said.
It was the most beautiful word I’d ever heard.
We moved him to the pediatric Intensive Care Unit (ICU), and once I peeled off my gloves, I realized how hard my hands were shaking. Outside the unit, two adults in their early 30s, gray-faced with fear, waited.
The man paced. The woman sat frozen, her hands clenched white in her lap, staring at the doors.
“Family of the crash victim?” I asked.
They both turned to me, and then I froze.
The woman’s face, older but instantly familiar, knocked the wind out of me.
