Men are born as boys.
About fifteen years ago, late one night a nurse rushed into our surgical ward from the reception area.
Critical patient in Operating Theatre Two! she shouted.
I was already there; the team was assembling, and a little girl of about six lay on the table. While I was putting on my sterile gown I learned the details.
A car crash had involved a family of fourfather, mother and twin children, a boy and a girl. The girl had been hit hardest; the impact struck the right rear side of the car where she was seated. The parents and the boy suffered only scrapes and bruises and were treated on site.
The girl sustained multiple fractures, bluntforce injuries, deep lacerations and massive blood loss. Within minutes the blood test came back, and with it the alarming news that we did not have a unit of the rare thirdpositive blood type she needed. Time was running out; the girl was in critical condition and could die within minutes. We urgently typed the parents blood. The father was secondpositive, the mother fourthpositive. Then we remembered the twin brother; his type was, of course, the missing thirdpositive.
The family sat together on a bench in the reception lounge. The mother wept, the father looked pallid, and the boy stared with despair. His clothes were smeared with his sisters blood. I knelt beside him so our eyes were level.
If you have that blood type, longevity is practically guaranteed, I said.
Your sister is badly hurt, I continued.
Yes, I know, the boy sobbed, rubbing his eyes with his fist. When we crashed she was slammed hard. I held her on my knees; she cried, then she stopped and fell asleep.
Do you want to save her? Then we need to take some of your blood for her.
He stopped crying, looked around, breathed heavily and nodded. I gestured for a nurse.
This is Aunt Sarah. Shell take you to the procedure room and draw the blood. Aunt Sarah is very skilled; it wont hurt much.
Okay, the boy whispered, taking a deep breath and reaching for his mother. I love you, Mum. Youre the best. He then turned to his father. And you, DadI love you too. Thanks for the bike.
Aunt Sarah led him away, and I sprinted to Operating Theatre Two.
After the operation, when the girl was being transferred to intensive care, I returned to the ward and saw our little hero lying on a cot in the procedure room, tucked under a blanket. Aunt Sarah had let him rest after the blood draw. I knelt beside him.
Wheres Poppy? he asked.
Shes sleeping. Shell be fineyou saved her.
And when will I die?
Well not anytime soon, perhaps when youre very old.
At first I didnt grasp his question, but then it struck me. He believed that giving his blood would kill him, so he was saying goodbye to his parents, convinced he would perish. He had truly sacrificed his life for his sister.
That was a genuine act of heroism.
Years have passed, yet every time I recall that night a shiver runs down my spine. It reminds me that courage isnt the absence of fear; its the willingness to act despite it, and that love can turn ordinary people into extraordinary saviours.
