I have surprised myself to write along the lines of this post. From the outset, this blog was meant to be about me and things apart from my job. Simply put: the non-doctor me. However a recall of the events of this afternoon, stirred in me an urge, strong enough that I have made this post. I might even make a series of this title if the urge is sustained.
To start with, I woke up today with the temptation not to go to work. I had a strong alibi and I had told those I spent the weekend with that I did not feel like working on Monday. Well, I made it to work eventually and the morning went without much ado. As I made to park my car upon returning from lunch, my work place colleague called. His words were along the following lines: the out-patient was crowded; there is pregnant female being taken to theatre whose CTG reading indicated foetal distress; could I just go to straight to the theatre and commence anaesthesia; he will make an attempt to reduce the queue of unseen out-patients and then join me as soon as soon as the pregnant woman has been “doped”.
On getting to the operating theatre, I went to the waiting area, introduced myself to the pregnant woman - one of those un-booked ones, confirmed her consent to the procedure including to blood transfusion if it was necessary and then got her into a conversation on the size of her family; the latter a ploy of mine to calm an obviously apprehensive patient. She was also HIV positive and I did well to let my colleague know before he started the Caesarean Section.
Indeed it all went well until the infant was delivered. With an estimated weight of about 1.5kg, my colleague went on to “scout” if there was a twin. The woman had repeatedly said she was about 8-month pregnant and her baby-bump was quite a size. Before the futile search for a second infant was given up, the one already delivered was handed over to the nurse to take to the Radiant Warmer by the operating table. Within a minute, I was called to see. I left my position by the anaesthetic machine to inspect the infant. He was limp, blue and showed no obvious respiratory movements. I proceeded with the resuscitation process. In between this, I shouted out instructions to the make-do anaesthetic assistant. Within the seven minutes or so that resuscitation lasted, I really thought we had lost him. But then, he came around and started that whining, much to the jeer of the theatre workers.
As I made to return to the “head” of the table to continue with the monitoring of the anaesthesia, my colleague who all this while kept on with surgery said to me with relief: “you have brought him back!” I replied, “The theatre nurse and yourself did not want him to go to heaven yet”. We all laughed. It was routine stuff and as it were nothing extra-ordinary had happened.
As I recounted part of the event to someone later this evening, I thought to myself that the life of that limp, blue and non-breathing child was saved. I cannot take the credit for it. Maybe indeed the child was meant to live but we did our part to ensure that. It gives me a sense of privilege.
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