Stand back, everyone, please.’
They took a pace back while Patrick held the paddles to the boy’s chest. ‘Shock, please,’ Patrick said.
The boy’s body arched and flopped, and the trace suddenly corrected itself. As it did, the boy’s lips turned less blue and he started to fidget.
‘I’ll give him a minute and then we’ll try him off the ventilator,’ Patrick told them, and bent over the boy.
‘Simeon, it’s OK, you’re going to be fine,’ he said calmly, his voice reassuring.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered up and he started to fight the ventilator. Patrick disconnected him from the machine and watched to see if he could breathe alone. To their relief his chest rose and fell gently. ‘Good,’ Patrick said, and, letting down the cuff, he withdrew the endotracheal tube from the boy’s mouth.
He coughed, his breath rasping, and Anna replaced the tube with a mask connected to a nebuliser. Warm, damp air flowed into his lungs, and within minutes he looked much better.
‘My chest hurts—I want my mum,’ he said in a small voice, and beside her Anna felt Patrick almost sag with relief. He was all right; the fight for air had been won before it was too late. Another few seconds and he could have suffered irreversible brain damage.
Even so, Patrick was worried about him.
‘I think he ought to go into ITU for a day or so, if the paediatrician agrees,’ he said quietly to Anna.
She nodded. It was standard procedure to overprotect their young asthmatic patients, because attacks of that severity rarely happened in isolation and in ITU everything necessary was there at hand.
The paediatric consultant, Andrew Barrett, arrived then and took over, examining the boy and chatting quietly to him.
It seemed they were old friends—the boy a frequent visitor to the paediatric ward. This time, though, Andrew agreed with Patrick. It had been a little too close for comfort, and they were erring on the safe side.
Just as he left the department Jack and Kathleen Lawrence came back in, staring at the trolley in surprise.
‘Was that Simeon Wilding?’
‘Yes—asthma attack. He arrested,’ Patrick told them economically.
‘What?’ Jack looked shocked.
Patrick smiled slightly. ‘He’s OK—well, apart from a rib I may have cracked. He’s going to Paediatric ITU for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. He stopped breathing, but he’s spoken to us and he’s OK—at least for now.’
Jack’s mouth tipped into a cynical curve. ‘Of course he is—after all, it’s only asthma.’
Anna heard the bitterness in his voice and understood it. Asthma was so common that it tended to be ignored, underestimated, almost brushed aside until a crisis forced it into view.
An event like this brought you up hard against reality, she thought. Most of their critical asthmatics made it, but every now and again they would lose a patient to it, even though it was ‘only asthma’.
They all felt so helpless then, and Jack hated being helpless. Patrick, too, she realised, looking at them as they shared a frustrated smile.
‘Oh, well, we do what we can. Well done for saving him,’ Jack said, and rested his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
‘I’ve been meaning to give you a guided tour of the department all morning—but I guess you’ve seen Crash now?’
Patrick laughed. ‘Yes—thank you.’
‘How about a coffee?’ Kathleen suggested.
Just then the phone rang, and as one they all turned to look at it, then shrugged.
‘So who needed coffee anyway?’ Kathleen said philosophically, and picked up the phone.
PATRICK stood up to leave. The elderly man in the chair by the window regarded him without curiosity.
‘Are you going now?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The old boy shook his head. ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure, but I can’t see why you should want to.’
Patrick quelled the pain. ‘Would you rather I didn’t come?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh, no. I enjoy your company, young fella. Too many old girls in this place for my liking. No, I was thinking of you. I just can’t see the attraction in talking to an old codger like me.’
Patrick smiled, a sad half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘I find you very interesting. You’ve had a fascinating life.’
The man snorted. ‘You must have a very boring life, young man, if you find mine fascinating. Very boring.’
Patrick thought back over the last few years, and gave a wry, quiet laugh. ‘It’s quite exciting enough for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
They shook hands formally, and Patrick turned to leave. As he did so the man called him back.
‘Patrick?’ he said.
He turned towards him again. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know who you are, young man, but I’d be proud if you were my son.’
Patrick’s face twisted slightly. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you very much. Goodnight.’
He went out, waving a greeting at the sister who was busy wheeling another resident through the grounds, and slipped behind the wheel of his car—his father’s car, in fact.
For a moment he remained motionless, letting the pain ease away, giving himself time. Then he started the car and drove back to the lovely Tudor house where he had grown up, and where he was now staying with his mother.
She was in the front garden when he pulled up, and she straightened and went to greet him with a kiss. ‘How was he?’ she asked.
Patrick shrugged. The same.’
‘Still doesn’t know you?’
He shook his head. His eyes blurred, fogging his vision, and he blinked hard. ‘I miss him,’ he said unevenly.
‘So do I,’ his mother said sadly. Oh, Patrick, I’m so glad you’re home.’
They hugged each other, drawing comfort from the contact, sharing their sorrow. The lump in Patrick’s throat grew, and he eased away.
‘I’ll put the car in the garage, then I need to change.’
