Tuesday Blog Block

Not much is going on today, so I thought I just tell this story. Get a tissue 'cause Daddy says this makes everybody cry...

It was six a.m. on a bright Sunday morning in April. A solemn, blond six-year old boy was admitted to our small paediatric unit for a procedure not very common to young children: phlebotomy - that is, blood donation. Todd and his four-year old sister shared a rare, genetic blood condition and now Jenny was to undergo major cardiac surgery to save her life. The operating room crew was briefed on the procedure, a heart-lung machine was procured, in-service on every aspect of Jenny's nursing care was presented, and a week-long lecture series by the eminent physician and his assistants was offered to everyone connected in the paediatric unit.



One of the complications that the doctor was anticipating was haemorrhage, and since Jenny's blood was almost impossible to match from another donor, the parents were asked to bring Todd in for phlebotomy the day before the scheduled operation. So it was that Todd, Jenny, and their parents were greeted by a hushed atmosphere of suppressed excitement.

At six years, Todd was already a veteran of multiple surgeries to correct his clubfeet. He had been a patient of ours many times, and his shy, serious face and gentle manner had won our hearts long ago. Jenny was a skinny out-going redhead. A tendency to tire easily was the only outward evidence of her life-threatening heart condition. Once Todd had been admitted and his height, weight and vital signs taken, he took his sister by the hand and led her around the room, showing her the decals and pictures that had entranced him as a four-year old. The way he held her hand and looked at her revealed many unspoken things about the special relationship that existed between them.

Geri, the head of the paediatric department moved quickly about the room setting up the transfusion equipment, and Jenny's mother and father found a chair and sat down. Just then the doctor breezed in, briefly patted Todd and Jenny on the head, then turned his attention to the parents. With one hesitant question from Jenny's father he launched into a dissertation on certain technical aspects of his procedure. It was heavily laden with high-sounding medical terms, and Jenny's father took notes furiously. About this time I was called in to serve in the capacity of assistant, equipment holder and procurer of needed supplies.

I loved watching Geri's technique with children. Todd was now lying face up on the bed and Geri was talking quietly as she swabbed his arm prior to inserting the needle. Her voice was friendly and easygoing. "O.K. Todd, just a little stick and that's all you will feel." Todd's face was grim and pale. I remember thinking I'd never seen him endure a procedure in such stoic silence before, but I attributed this to the adoring presence of his little sister, who by this time had climbed up on the bed and settled in beside him, thumb in mouth, a doll clutched in her arm.

Half an hour went by. I had gone after a glass of orange juice and on returning I stopped in the doorway. From that vantage point the room resembled a three-ring circus; the parents still listening raptly to the doctor's monologue, Geri was fussing over the stubborn I.V. equipment. But in the core of this field of nervous energy Todd and Jenny seemed to form an island of stillness. Todd lay stiffly on his back, his face impassive as he watched the dark, red blood travel slowly down the clear plastic tubing. Jenny sucked her thumb intently, her head on his shoulder.

It seemed to me that Todd was trying to get Geri's attention. I was about to intervene when the speaker paused and Todd's quavery voice came through: "Geri excuse me, but how long will it be now?"

"Well, Todd, what do you mean exactly? All of Geri's attention was on him now.

"I mean, how much time before I die, after all my blood is gone out of me?"

In the shocked silence that followed there was an exchange of looks between us. Nobody trusted his voice enough to speak. In a series of still-life pictures that remain forever etched in my mind, I saw Jenny's mother put her hand to her mouth and look away; I saw his father break a pencil and hurl it down; and Doctor Sutter mutely contemplated his shiny black shoes. I am ashamed to say that I could only stand frozen in the doorway. Only Geri, bless her - had the composure to speak. She crouched down until her eyes were level with his and said in a soft voice, "No sweetie, you aren't going to die. Your body is making more blood right now."

With that, Todd's body crumpled. He turned away and buried his face in the pillow, shoulders shaking. Gone was every last shred of pretence.

As we came to our senses we became aware of the full magnitude of Todd's sacrifice for his sister. On that bright, clear morning we felt grateful to have witnessed an unparalleled gesture of love. As mother and father blindly groped to embrace their two children, the rest of us crowded around awkwardly. The doctor made faltering attempts to express the emotion he was feeling.

We had something intangible in that hospital room, the five of us. And though we may never attain his level of selflessness, we had learned the most valuable lesson in love from a little child.



See you tomorrow!
~Hon!