Page 17 of Christmas On Call
Max was at the med cart, restocking syringes, when the sound cut through the quiet like a blade. Her body reactedbefore her mind caught up—feet moving, adrenaline spiking, every sense sharpening to a point.
Pod seven. Baby Chen.
She was running. So was Asha, converging from the opposite side of the unit, both of them reaching the isolette at the same moment.
Baby Chen—28 weeks, chronic lung disease, the fighter who’d been doing so well—lay motionless in his warming bed. His chest barely moved. The monitor screamed: O2 sat at 62 and dropping.
All personal conflict evaporated like steam.
“Bag him,” Asha ordered, already reaching for the IV line to check placement.
Max had the ambu bag in her hands before the sentence finished, mask sealed over the baby’s tiny face. She squeezed, watching for chest rise. Nothing.
“Bagging,” Max reported, voice steady despite the spike of fear. “No chest rise.”
“Suction.” Asha’s hand was already outstretched.
Max handed it over before Asha finished the word, their movements synchronized like choreography they’d rehearsed a thousand times.
Asha suctioned the airway—quick, efficient, gentle. Max repositioned the mask, squeezed again. This time, Baby Chen’s chest lifted, just barely.
“Better,” Max said. “Still dropping. Fifty-eight.”
Asha didn’t hesitate. “Increase oxygen to hundred percent. Prepare epi.”
Max’s hands moved on autopilot: adjusting the dial, pulling the medication, drawing it up in the syringe. She handed it to Asha, their fingers brushing again in the exchange, and documented the time with her free hand.
“Administering,” Asha said, injecting into the line.
They worked in perfect silence after that—no full sentences, just looks and gestures and absolute trust. Asha reached for the laryngoscope; Max had the correct blade size ready. Max called vitals; Asha adjusted vent settings without needing to be told. They moved around each other like dancers, like they shared a single nervous system.
Three minutes. That’s all it took.
Baby Chen’s O2 sat climbed: 65, 70, 78, 85. His tiny chest began rising and falling in steady rhythm. The alarm silenced, replaced by the normal beep of the monitor.
Asha stepped back, breathing hard. Max did the same. They stood on opposite sides of the isolette, the baby between them, both of them still riding the adrenaline high.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke. The moment was too honest, too raw.
The resident burst through the door, flustered and late. “What happened? Is he?—”
“Stable,” Asha said, not looking away from Max. “We’ve got it under control.”
Max nodded, barely perceptible. Asha’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something—something real, something true—but then she blinked and the professional mask slid back into place.
“Continue monitoring closely,” Asha told the resident, finally breaking eye contact. “Page me immediately if there’s any change in status.”
She turned and walked away, but slowly, like it cost her something to leave.
Max watched her go, her pulse still racing—not from the code, but from the truth she’d seen written across Asha’s face.
At 3:30 AM, Max went looking for her.
The break room was empty. The staff bathroom, dark. Max checked the charting room, the conference room, and finallystood outside the on-call room, where a sliver of light leaked from beneath the door.
She pushed it open slowly.
