A Child is Dead

Seeing a child die is never easy. I picked up the little, broken body and carried her across to a bed on the other side of the emergency department. A more comfortable bed to lay her down to rest, as her little body started getting cold.

Minutes ago, we searched for some tiny morsal of life with which we could run by – where we could start some form of life saving intervention. But then, in the air, I could feel her tiny presence slip away into eternity. Her stillness made me hold my breath. And for a moment I needed to remember I was still alive and had to take another breath of air.

The doctor we were working with, lowered his voice and called the time. The time of departure of a precious life. The time a child dies.

My heart broke for the parents. When we shared the loss of their child with the father, I saw a slow fat tear passing down the father’s cheek. The mother was oversees for work – I can just imagine what her terrifying, soul piercing cry would sound like, when her husband shares with her – that she would never see her child again.

For a moment, I rested my warm hand on the still little forehead. I wished that she would open her eyes and smile up at me. But alas, she lay motionless, as if in a deep sleep.

I walked out of the emergency department aimlessly and uncertain, until I found myself at the helipad, at the highest level of the hospital. Looking out into the distant setting sun, I felt a warm tear roll down my own cheek. I looked up into the sky, felt the last warm rays of sun on my face, closed my eyes and said a short prayer. There was nothing else for me to do in that moment, but be still. A moment between just me and God.

And when darkness came that evening, the world was a child short. Somewhere in the hospital, her motionless, little body still lay, now cold awaiting family arrangements.