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

15February2025 Manchester Royal Infirmary, Night Shift

When the stretcher was wheeled into the emergency bay, it was obvious we were dealing with a drowning victim. Outside there was no snow, but the sky was a heavy leaden blanket, promising another storm. A distant siren wailed as the ambulance pulled up.

Looks like theyve brought someone heavy, muttered the senior registrar, his tone deliberately grave.

The doors swung open and a chorus of shouted orders filled the corridor:

Clear the way, get him in here at once!

The emergency doors creaked, and a man appeared, clutching a child on his hip. Trailing behind them, a woman clutched her head with both hands, her face ashen, whispering frantically, Is he alive? He must be alive.

I was on night duty, a role I dread on a weekend. I hate working nights; weekdays rush by in a blur, but when the whole team nurses, radiographers, pathologists is on hand, decisions are made swiftly.

Where do you want him taken? the man asked, his voice cracking, pleading for help from the oncall doctor.

The senior surgeon barked, Put the boy on the trolley, Ill examine him, and call the resuscitation team.

I glanced at the child and felt a chill. A year earlier Id faced a similar case in December, snow blanketing the streets of Leeds. A local shopkeeper had panicked when her son vanished after a brief trip to the park. Hours later we discovered him in a frozen ditch, his tiny body wrapped in a blue jacket and a red knitted cap. He was the same age, the same size.

How long have you had him? I asked the father.

I dont know, he replied, eyes wide. The neighbours found him floating in the drain, still breathing weakly. The paramedics started artificial respiration in the ambulance.

Step aside, colleagues, instructed the duty registrar. Let the paediatric team take over.

I stripped the childs cap and unzipped his jacket. His face was a sickly blue, pupils dilated and unresponsive, pulse and breath absent.

Was any water removed? I asked.

It seems not, a nurse replied.

We began mouthtomouth ventilation, filling his lungs with air. I rolled him onto his stomach, pressed my knee against his back and delivered a hard thrust. Water spurted from his mouth. I placed him on the trolley, gave a forced inhalation, then performed three chest compressions, trying to coax his tiny heart back into rhythm.

The cold may have preserved his brain, I thought, recalling stories of people rescued from avalanches after days. The wall clock ticked slowly: two minutes, three, five then a faint sound, like a kittens purr, emerged from his chest.

The boy let out a guttural gasp, as if fighting a death grip.

Take him to intensive care, we need controlled ventilation; he wont breathe on his own for long, I instructed.

His mother, still pale and trembling, cried out, Doctor, is he really alive? Can you save him?

Well do everything we can, we replied, calling for a paediatric airambulance.

We carried Alex to the ICU and waited for the specialist team. The room was hushed, the monitors amber lights flickering, the ventilator laboring to keep his little body alive. His narrow, almost glassy eyes hinted at life.

The airambulance crew arrived after two hours. After a quick assessment they declared, The child is clinically dead; his brain has suffered irreversible damage. Shut the machine and await the outcome.

A junior paediatrician protested, If his pupils still react to light, his brain must be functioning.

The senior consultant responded, Time since submersion matters. Water in the lungs and the resuscitation we performed may have been too late; necrotic changes are already set in.

I interrupted, We have no paediatric catheter at hand, but perhaps you have one?

Yes, we do, but will it help? a doctor from the arriving team asked.

Well try, the nurses replied in unison.

They handed us a slim, bluetinted catheter and, as they attempted insertion, a sudden spray of bright yellow fluid burst forth, dousing the team.

Alive! Alive! we shouted.

Well keep him on the ventilator for a few more hours, then well see if he can breathe unaided and take him home, they decided.

Three hours later Alex was stable enough to be transferred out.

Two years have passed since that night. The memory of Alex stayed with me, even though I never learned his eventual fate. One Saturday, a stranger knocked on my front door. He was a man with a familiar face.

Do you know me? he asked.

Im not sure, I replied, Did we treat you together, or work together?

Remember that boy we couldnt save?

From behind him a youthful grin appeared. It was Alex, now grown, his eyes bright.

Alex? I stammered, shocked.

Yes, its me, Alex. I wanted to thank you. After the accident my family moved around the country, and I lost touch. We finally tracked you down.

He recited a poem, ran around the room, examined my seashell collection and pressed them to his ear, listening to an imagined sea.

Dad always said you must learn to swim or youll drown. Do you know how to swim? he asked.

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

Now, as a consultant surgeon at a city health centre, I see many emergencies. The night Alexs life hung by a thread taught me that even when the odds are stacked against you, perseverance, quick thinking, and a willingness to try the untried can turn a hopeless situation into a miracle. The lesson I carry forward is simple: never dismiss a faint sign of life; sometimes the smallest spark is enough to reignite hope.