The resident does as I command. A second later, I have defibrillator paddles in my hands and Millie’s hospital gown is open, exposing her pale, almost translucent skin. The intern Margate told not to leave Millie’s side hugs the wall by the door, watching with terror in his eyes.
The defibrillator makes a high-pitched whining noise and then an alarm sounds, signaling that it’s charged. “Clear!”
The resident throws his hands up. I plant the paddles on Millie’s little chest, and I administer the charge. Her body jumps, her muscles tautening and releasing in quick succession. The heart rate monitor beside the gurney continues to shriek, the peaks and troughs of Millie’s heart beat spiking erratically. It didn’t work. Damn it, it didn’t work.
“Still arrhythmic. Charge again.” I won’t stop until she stabilizes.
The defib whines. I call clear. I shock her again.
Still nothing.
I do it again. I increase the voltage beyond what is safely recommended for the body of a little child. I feel like I’m swimming under water, not breathing, dying for oxygen, and yet I know I can’t come up for air until I save the little girl in front of me.
Still, nothing.
“Dr. Romera, we have flat line.”
“Charge to five hundred. Clear.”
“Dr. Romera—”
“I said charge to five hundred!” I can hear the monotone pitch of the flat line alarm on the heart rate monitor, but I refuse to accept it. I refuse to acknowledge it. I know all too well that the defib won’t work if Millie has no pulse at all—how can it regulate her pulse if there isn’t one to begin with?—but I can’t give up now.
The resident standing by the defib looks uncertain. He must read the desperation in my eyes, though, because he does as I tell him to and he punches in the new voltage.
I shock Millie. Her head bounces on the gurney, her blue lips parting slightly, the tips of her tiny teeth showing, and still the heart rate monitor remains the same.
“Flat line, Dr. Romera. No pulse.”
I throw down the paddles and link my hands together, starting compressions on Millie’s chest. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,… I count to thirty, and then I start counting all over again.
Fuck.
At some point I feel a sickly crunching beneath my hands: I’ve broken Millie’s ribs. I pause, barking at the resident. “Check for a pulse!”
He does. His eyes tell me what I need to know. Again, I start compressions.
“Dr. Romera, she’s gone. You should…you should probably stop now.”
Someone’s hand is on my arm. I rip it off, growling under my breath. “Step back. Step back right now.”
…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty… All the way to thirty again. I lean back, hands raised up by my head. “Check for a pulse.” The resident heaves a deep breath, shaking his head. He presses his fingers into Millie’s neck, eyes on the heart rate monitor, which is still reporting a flat line, and he sighs.
“Still nothing. She’s gone, Dr. Romera. We need to—”
I ignore him. I link my hands together again and I get to work. Everything becomes hazy. I know I ask for the resident to check her pulse one more time, but I don’t hear his response. I focus on pumping Millie’s chest up and down, pushing her blood around her body. Her cells need oxygen. Her brain needs a continuous blood supply. When Margate gets here, he’ll be able to do something. He’ll fix it. He’ll—
“Sloane.”
The sound of that voice cuts through the spiraling madness taking over my mind. I look up from Millie’s rapidly cooling body to find Zeth standing in the doorway of the MRI suite. His eyes are pinned on me, solid and grounding. “You need to stop now,” he says quietly. His voice is low, but it contains a commanding timbre that halts me dead in my tracks. “There’s nothing more you can do,” he tells me. “It’s done. It’s over now. It’s time to stop.”
A deep, unwavering pain settles on my chest, making it hard to breathe. “But—she’s only six,” I whisper. “She’s only a baby.”
They say all doctors get one. You can go through your entire career as a medical practitioner, treating your patients with the cool, calm reserve you need to be good at your job, and then one day, out of the blue, you’ll lose someone and it will feel like that loss will kill you. I’ve never broken down over a dying patient before. My hands have been steady, no matter what. Today, all of that changes. Poor little Millie, so young and so full of life, is my one. The one that will break me. My legs feel like they’re about to go out from underneath me.
“What am I going to—what am I going to tell Mason?” Tears streak down my face. God, this isn’t how a senior resident is supposed to conduct themselves in front of their subordinates. I can’t seem to get a handle on myself, though.