Page 10 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

A Code Blue alarm tears through my consciousness just as I'm gathering my supplies for the helicopter. For one terrible moment, I know — deep in my gut, in the marrow of my bones — which room it's coming from. I clutch my lucky pen while waiting for confirmation of my worst fears.

“Code Blue, Room 305. I repeat, Code Blue, Room 305, Dr. Winters,” I hear, and my world crumbles.

Holly's room.

Damn it, I'd already requested authorization from both the hospital and transplant center. This can't happen. Not this fast.

The scene I walk into is pure hell. Holly lies pale and motionless in her bed. The monitors scream their warnings in a cacophony of beeps I never wanted to hear. Vivian sobs in a corner, her hands covering her mouth, endless tears streaming down her face.

“Ventricular tachycardia!” a nurse shouts. “Blood pressure dropping!”

“Give her one dose of epinephrine,” I order, moving to Holly's bedside. “Start compressions while we wait for the crash cart. Where's that fucking crash cart?” I yell.

The resuscitation team bursts into the room with everything we need in the blink of an eye, and time seems to slow to a crawl.

“Charge to 50,” I command. “Clear! Shocking in three, two, one. Shock!”

Holly's body jumps on the mattress, but the monitors show no change.

“Shit, damn it, don't give up now, please,” I whisper, biting my lower lip until I taste copper. “Again, up to 100 joules.”

I glance upward and position the right paddle under her clavicle, the left one automatically going to the left side, level with the nipple. It's a procedure I've performed hundreds of times, but today feels different. Too different.

“Clear! Shocking in three, two, one. Shock!”

A faint burning smell mingles with the conductive gel. A nurse beside me lets out a sob, unable to contain her tension. From the corner of my eye, I see Selene frozen in the doorway, her face as white as the snow falling outside. Tears glisten in her eyes. It hurts to see her like this. She's witnessed the worst of humanity in war, and now this little girl is breaking her apart inside.

“Second round of epinephrine. Continue compressions. We have to get her back, damn it!”

Each second feels like forever, time slipping through our fingers like water. Holly's heart is giving up, stopping its fight much sooner than I expected.

Then suddenly, a rhythm change on the monitor. A collective sigh fills the room.

“Blood pressure rising, Dr. Winters,” announces one of the nurses.

“Pulse returning. Oxygen saturation improving,” adds another.

I breathe deep and, though I'm not particularly religious, I thank whatever's up there. At the door, Selene wipes her tears with her palm and mouths “thank you” followed by a beautiful smile.

“That's it, little one, keep fighting a bit longer,” I sigh, brushing my thumb across the child's cheek.

I stand and walk to Vivian. One of the nurses should have taken her out during the resuscitation, but I guess seeing a seven-year-old like this affected the whole team too deeply.

“Dr. Winters… Is she…”

“She's stable right now, but we need to adjust her medications and…”

“She's dying? I mean, she's really dying now, isn't she?” she asks between sobs.

Nothing in this world prepares you to tell a mother her seven-year-old daughter's life is slipping away. No amount of experience or mental preparation helps. Nothing does.

I just hug her and try to whisper something in her ear.

“If we don't do the transplant in the next 24 hours…”

I can't even finish the sentence.

Vivian slowly nods her head as fresh tears roll down her cheeks. She looks at her daughter, then at me, then back at her daughter. And when our eyes meet a minute later, a whispered “please” is all that escapes her lips.