Men are born that way.
About fifteen years ago, on a cold night, a sister from the admissions ward hurried into our oncall bay.
“The critical case is in the second operating theatre!” she shouted.
I was already there, the team assembled, a little girl of about six lying on the table. While I dressed and sterilised my hands, the details were handed to me.
A car had smashed into a family of four a father, a mother and twin children, a boy and a girl. The girl had taken the worst of it: the impact struck the right rear door where she was seated. The parents and their son escaped with only scratches and bruises, receiving firstaid at the scene.
The girl suffered broken bones, blunt trauma, torn wounds and massive blood loss. Within minutes a blood test arrived, together with the grim news that we lacked the thirdmostcommon positive blood type at that moment. Time was critical; the child was heavy, every minute counted. We swiftly ran the parents samples. The fathers was the second most common, the mothers the fourth. Then we recalled the twin brother his type, of course, was the missing third.
They sat on a bench in the reception area. The mother wept, the father looked pallid, the boy stared with desperation, his clothes smeared with his sisters blood. I knelt beside him so our eyes met.
“If you carry that blood group, youre in for a long life,” I said.
“Your sister is badly hurt,” I added.
“Yes, I know,” the boy sobbed, rubbing his eyes with his fist. “When we collided, she hit hard. I held her on my knees; she cried, then fell silent and slept.”
“Do you want to save her? Then we must take some of your blood for her.”
He stopped crying, looked around, took a heavy breath and nodded. I gestured for a nurse.
“This is Aunt Sue,” I told him. “Shell lead you to the procedure room and draw the blood. Aunt Sue is very gentle; it wont hurt at all.”
“All right,” the boy breathed deeply, then turned to his mother. “I love you, Mum. Youre the best!” He then faced his father. “And you, Dad, I love you too. Thanks for the bike.”
Aunt Sue escorted him to the procedure room while I raced to the second theatre. After the operation, when the girl was being transferred to intensive care, I returned to the oncall bay. I saw our little hero lying on a cot under a blanket, having rested after the blood draw. I approached him.
“Wheres Emily?” the boy asked.
“Shes sleeping. Shell be fine. You saved her.”
“And when will I die?” he whispered.
“Well not anytime soon, perhaps when youre very old.”
At first I didnt grasp his final question, then it clicked. He believed his own blood would be taken and that he would die, so he was saying goodbye to his parents, convinced he was sacrificing his life for his sister. He truly gave himself up for her a real act of heroism.
Many years have passed, yet each time I recall that night a chill runs down my spine, and I remember the bravery of a boy who gave everything for his sister.
