This story will always remain with me because it reminds me that even in the chaos of pediatric wards and failing breaths, hope is not a cliché. It’s real. And sometimes, it’s wrapped in the silence of a tiny baby who forgot to breathe.
This little baby was three months old.
I was about two or three weeks into my pediatric posting at the time. And honestly, it had been hard. We had lost some babies. It felt like every call, somehow, either a new patient would come in and not make it, or one we’d been managing would deteriorate and eventually die. So I started dreading calls, not only because of the work, but because we were always trying to resuscitate someone. And more often than not, we lost them.
Then this baby came in. She came in badly. Very badly.
I was at the Emergency point when they walked in with her. She wasn’t breathing. At all. I wanted to be sure it wasn’t a brought-in-dead (BID) case. So I asked to be sure. And as the caregiver was trying to respond, she suddenly started gasping again. The caregiver said, ‘That’s the problem. She just stops breathing, then begins again.
So, of course, we took over and started working on her.
Days went by. Then weeks. And still, she wasn’t improving. She wasn’t getting better at all. At some point, I genuinely began to lose hope. Because we’d seen babies who didn’t even come in as bad as her, and they didn’t make it.
She was having apneic episodes (short periods where she would stop breathing) multiple times a day. During ward rounds, while we were discussing her case and the next thing to do, she’d just stop breathing. We’d stimulate her, then she’d start again. It was like that every day.
We did a lot for her. At some point, we even had to do an exchange blood transfusion. My team and I were literally on her. She was our project, our prayer, our burden.
And still, Nothing. She wouldn’t even cry. All that time, she was completely silent.
But then, something changed.
She started feeding. At first, just a little, and we were cautious. Then gradually, she began to tolerate it. And then, she cried.
The first time she cried, it startled all of us. It was a weak cry, but it was there. And the next time, it was louder. If she wasn’t comfortable, she’d cry. They’d carry her. She started acting like a baby. A real baby.
One day, the caregiver told me they had been looking for me. She said the food we were giving wasn’t enough. I smiled because, you see, this was the same child we weren’t even sure would make it. But now she was crying for more food.
I told them we still needed to take things easy. She was just picking up, and we were still weaning her off oxygen. We didn’t want her to take the food the wrong way and land us back to square one.
We never got a clear history from the caregivers. Nothing explained why she came in that badly. No mention of medication overdose, no confirmed aspiration, nothing to tie down a diagnosis. So we managed her as septic shock. That’s all we could do, based on what we had.
She started to gain weight, and started feeding by mouth (instead of the NG tube). She stayed off oxygen.
And one day, we discharged her😊😊😊.
Whenever I see a child whose case looks hopeless, I remember her. That baby gives me hope. She reminds me that outcomes are not always written in stone, that sometimes what looks like the end is just a pause.
They came back for a follow-up. They even brought her to the emergency unit to look for me and my team. Just to show us how she was doing.
And every time I remember, it’s like she breathed life not just into herself, but back into me.
This is a story by Dr Comfort Acheme
Please share to inspire or encourage others.
PS: Do you have a story to share, too? Please, send me a DM 😊