15years ago, in the early hours, a nurse rushed from the admissions area into the oncall ward.
Critical patient in the second operating theatre! she shouted.
I was already there, the surgical team assembled, and on the table lay a little girl, about six. While I was scrubbing and donning my sterile gown, the details came in.
A car crash had involved a family of four: a mother, a father, and twin childrena boy and a girl. The impact struck the righthand rear door where the girl was seated, and she bore the brunt of the collision. The parents and her brother emerged with only scrapes and bruises; they were treated on the scene.
The girl suffered multiple fractures, blunt force injuries, deep lacerations and massive blood loss. Within minutes the blood results arrived, and with them the grim news that we were missing a crucial third unit of blood. The clock was ticking. We swiftly typed the parents blood groups: the father was typeApositive, the mother typeBnegative. Then we remembered the twin brotherhe was typeABpositive, the third unit we needed.
They were perched on a bench in the admissions lounge: Helen wept openly, Robert looked gaunt, and James, their son, stared at us with desperation, his clothes splattered with his sisters blood. I knelt beside him so our eyes met at the same level.
Your sister is badly hurt, I said.
Yes, I know, James choked, rubbing his eyes with his fist. When we crashed, she hit the dashboard hard. I held her on my knees; she cried, then she stopped and fell asleep.
Do you want to save her? I asked. Then we need to take some of your blood for her.
He stopped sobbing, glanced around, drew a shaky breath and nodded. I waved over a nurse.
This is Aunt Susan, I introduced. Shell take you to the procedure room and draw the blood. Shes very gentle, it wont hurt much.
Alright, James whispered, inhaling deeply, then reaching for his mother. I love you, Mum. Youre the best. He turned to his father. And you, Dadthanks for the bike.
Susan led him away, and I sprinted to the second theatre. After the operation, once the girl was transferred to intensive care, I returned to the oncall ward. I spotted our little hero lying on a cot in the procedure room, a blanket pulled over him. Susan had let him rest after the draw.
Wheres Poppy? James asked.
Shes asleep now. Shell be fine. You saved her, I replied.
And when will I die? he asked, his voice trembling.
Not any time soon, ladperhaps when youre a very old man.
At first I didnt grasp the weight of his question, but then it clicked. James believed that giving his blood would cost him his life. He was saying goodbye to his parents, convinced he was about to die, and was willing to sacrifice himself for his sister. The bravery he displayed was genuine, the kind of heroism that stays with you.
Even after all these years, the memory still sends a shiver down my spine whenever it surfaces.
Lesson learned: true courage often comes wrapped in the smallest hands, and the willingness to give of oneself can change the course of anothers life.
