When He Was Brought into the Hospital’s Mortuary, It Was Clear He Was a Drowning Victim…

30February2024

Tonight I was on nightshift in the Accident & Emergency department of StMarys Hospital, Manchester. The February air was bitterly cold, the sky a sheet of leadgray, yet there was no snow on the ground. A sudden wail cut through the quiet as an ambulance thundered into the courtyard, its siren like a wounded animals howl.

Seems theyve brought in someone heavy, the senior registrar muttered, his tone halfjoking, halfserious. The doors to the reception area swung open and a flood of voices rushed in:

Open the door, quickly! Bring him in!

A man, clutching a small child on his hip, stumbled through the doorway. Trailing behind them, a woman clutched both her hands to her forehead, her face ashen, whispering desperately:

Is he alive? He has to be alive.

I was the oncall surgeon, a role I never relish, especially on a weekend. Weekdays blur past in a blur of patients, labs, radiology reports, and endless decisions that must be made in seconds.

The mans voice cracked as he pleaded, Please youre a senior doctor, you can help. He broke down into tears.

Our senior consultant barked, Lay the child on the trolley, DrBennett, examine him, and call the paediatric intensive care team.

I stared at the infant, frozen. A year earlier Id faced a similar emergency in December, deep snow covering Manchesters streets. A frantic mother had come looking for her son whod vanished from the playground after a sledding outing. Wed searched the whole town, finally digging through a frostfilled cellar where the child, dressed in a blue jacket and a red cap, was found lifeless. The memory still haunts me.

The father, his voice hoarse, answered, They found him in a ditch, still breathing, but we had to start artificial respiration in the ambulance.

Step aside, please, I instructed, trying to steady my hands. I undid his cap and unzipped his jacket. The boys cheeks were a ghastly blue, his pupils wide and unresponsive, his pulse and breath gone.

Did any water get in his lungs? I asked.

Looks like not.

We began mouthtomouth ventilation, pressing my knee into his back to expel water that surged from his mouth. I turned him onto his stomach, applied firm chest compressions, and forced air into his tiny lungs.

The cold night made me wonder if his brain might still be alive; I have heard of people surviving under avalanche snow for days. The wall clock ticked slowlytwo minutes, three, fivewhen a faint sound emerged, like a kittens soft purr. The boy let out a hoarse, adultsounding gasp, as if fighting his way out of deaths grip.

Take him to ICU, we need to switch him to controlled ventilation; he wont breathe on his own for long, I shouted.

Is he really alive? the mother, Sarah, whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice trembling as if shed just woken from a deep faint.

Lets hope, the team replied, We need to call for paediatric airambulance support.

We carried Tommy, as we called him, to the intensive care bay. The room was hushed, only the soft glow of monitor lights and the steady hum of the ventilator breaking the silence. His narrow, skyblue eyes flickered, a tiny sign that life still clung to him.

Two hours later the airambulance team arrived. After a swift examination they declared, The child is not viable; hes been clinically dead for too long, the brain is irreversibly damaged. Turn off the machine.

A startled silence fell over the bay. The paediatric intensivist, DrHarper, protested, If the pupils still react to light, the brain must be functioning.

The senior consultant replied, Its been too long; water in the lungs means the resuscitation we performed was ineffective. His organs are failing.

I interrupted, We dont have a paediatric catheter, but perhaps you have one?

Sure, we have one, but what will it achieve? a doctor from the airambulance squad asked.

Lets try, a nurse suggested, her voice barely above a whisper.

They fed a thin, ambercolored catheter into the boys airway. Instantly a spray of warm, yellowish fluid erupted, soaking the startled staff.

Hes alive! Hes alive! we all shouted in unison.

Well keep him on for a few more hours, then well see if he can breathe on his own, the senior warned.

Three hours later, Tommy was stable enough to be airlifted to the specialist centre.

Two years have passed since that night. The memory lingers like a shadow. One quiet Saturday, a knock sounded at my front door. A middleaged man stood there, his face familiar yet distant.

Do you know me? he asked.

Im sorry, I cant quite place you. Did we work together? I replied, uneasy.

Remember the boy Tommy?

From behind him a bright, cheeky grin emerged. It was Tommy himself, now ten, hair tussled, eyes sparkling.

Tom? I stammered.

Yes, Alex. Come meet your rescuer, he said, gesturing to his mother, who smiled warmly. Sorry we took so long to visit. Your address got lost in the shuffle, and we travel a lot, but here we are now.

I welcomed them in, still reeling from the unexpected reunion. Tommy raced around, inspecting my collection of seashells, holding them to his ear as if listening to the sea.

Dad always said you must learn to swim, otherwise youll drown. Can you swim? he asked suddenly.

Of course I can, I answered, my voice steadier than I felt. Enjoy the water, lad.

Later that afternoon, while reviewing patient files, a tall, impeccably dressed captain of the Royal Air Force, Squadron Leader James Whitaker, entered my office.

Good afternoon, DrBennett, he said in a deep, resonant voice, Ive long wanted to meet you.

Good afternoon, Captain Whitaker, I replied, glancing at his badge, Do we know each other?

More than you think.

His striking blue eyes held a flicker of recognition.

Alex? Tommy? I asked, unsure.

Yes, its me. I just returned from the academy and tracked you down. My wish is fulfilled. Im a RAF officer now.

I stared at him, the weight of the years and the intertwined lives settling over me like a soft blanket.

Reflecting on that night, I realise how thin the line is between life and death, and how fate can bring us back to the very moments we thought were long gone. The hospital walls have heard my breath, the monitors have whispered the rhythm of countless hearts, and tonight, in the quiet of my diary, I finally give voice to the gratitude that has lived inside me ever since.