Mine

This week, I am rotating on anesthesia in the pediatric hospital. Mostly this has been relatively boring, with lots of watching and very little doing. Today, the resident asked the attending if "the medical student" could "bag" the patient--that is, to hold the mask and squeeze the little balloon full of air to simulate breaths in the time period between the patient becoming unconscious and the patient being intubated and mechanically ventilated.

The act of "bagging" is relatively simple: hold a tight seal between the mask and the patient's face, lest any air escape rather than entering the lungs. Squeeze the bag at a rate that will allow for a normal respiration. Hold the patient's chin up to direct air into the lungs. I have seen this maneuver performed countless times, and it looks about as easy as it actually is. An important step, to be sure, but not terribly exciting.

The patient today was a beautiful little girl, about 3. Soft blonde hair, blue eyes. Anxious family members numbering into the double-digits. And the same disability as my sister. When we gave her the medicine that set her off to sleep and the resident handed me the mask and bag for the first time, it was just like I had seen a hundred times--except completely different. As the patient's own respiratory drive ceased and my hands took over, this was more than the movement of air, more than my hands performing learned maneuvers to bridge the gap to the ventilator.

In those moments, as the room buzzed and the attending searched for an IV and the nurses prepared the sterile drapes, that little girl became Mine. She was my sister, my safeguard, given over to my care and keeping. And I breathed for her.