9th March, 2004 - 3:51 p.m.

I don't know what I feel today. Numb, I suppose. I can't quite look at the world as a beautiful place.

We lost a child last night. In 6 months, it is the first time I've been in an unsuccessful resus. I've been around when they've happened, and I've heard from others, and I've seen slow deaths up on the ward, but this was infinitely worse.

A little three year old boy, who probably choked on something, and then went into respiratory, and then cardiac arrest. He arrived to us alternating between asystole and VF.

It's crazy what your mind does in that situation. I looked at this child being transfered onto the bed by the paramedics, and for a second, I thought "Phew. It's just a mock code, this isn't real."

His little body was like a mannequin. I honestly thought he was one of our practice dummies, not a real boy. He was so white, and simply LIFELESS. He had nothing about him that suggested a lively little boy owned that body. He wasn't anything anymore.

I was fine during the whole resus process. I was fine while we continued CPR and shocked him 2, 3, 4 times. I was fine when CB checked his pupils and they were fixed and dilated.

But when his father came in, well... I will never forget it.

He was wailing in physical pain. It was just...there are no words for it. None. I simply will never, ever forget the look in his eyes as they watched his little boy on that table. "He was a gift", he moaned. "He's really dead, isn't he? He's really dead."

That was in the first 1 1/2 hours of my shift. I had seven to go after that. There was no time for debriefing or counselling, and I felt as though I had no right to be upset - it wasn't as though I had lost a child of my own.

It was when I called Brian during my dinner break that the tears started. His voice message service came on, and I started.

"Hey Beautiful...." and I couldn't finish. I finally whispered that we'd just had a resus, and 'we lost the kid.' There was so much I wanted to say but couldn't make the words come out of my mouth. So I just cried into the phone and longed to hear his voice.

How do you go home from hospital without your child? How do you walk into that empty house, knowing it will always be empty from now on? HOW? How can you live with yourself, knowing that your child was choking in the next room and you didn't KNOW?

I fell into a dreamless sleep when I got home, thanks to a sleeping tablet. I didn't get out of bed today until 3pm; I just couldn't face the thought. I don't know how to answer people who ask how work is going. I don't want to leave the department by any means, and I know it's all part of the job, but that fathers' moans will haunt me for a long, long time.

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