On a recent trip out of town for training, a number of co-workers and I piled onto a commercial flight at stupid o’clock in the morning. We were scattered throughout the aircraft. Some at the window seats hoped to sleep, others on the aisle looked forward to crossing their legs, and the rest, stuck in the middle, hoped the flight would end far sooner than the three hours the pilot had announced.
At least, I think, it was three hours. It was hard to hear over the screaming of three young children nearby.
Many folks get on a plane and fear children being nearby. The baby will scream, cry, babble and throw things. Generally, they’ll be moderately less disruptive than the frat boys in the last row from that flight to Vegas a few years back.
As the plane reached altitude these three children, aged 8-months to 3-years, were in classic form, creating all manner of disruption, but most notable was the 18-month-old screaming at the top of his tiny lungs.
Looking around the cabin, most passengers were shooting dirty looks at the children and the parents, likely muttering something about “Stop crying baby!”
My co-workers seemed unfazed and I know why. On more than one occasion they have likely whispered “Cry, baby, please just cry…” to a child unable to cry. Paramedics deal with a variety of calls and situations, but the littlest of little ones can leave a tremendous imprint on us.
When responding to a pediatric patient in severe distress there are few tools in our arsenal that can help. It’s then that we revert to our human nature and simply beg the child to get better. Just such a call is fresh on my mind.
We were responding from another nearby call and arrived quickly. As we pulled up to the apartment building a young man came running up to the engine carrying a lifeless child wearing only a diaper. No sooner than my boots hit the sidewalk a child was in my arms, the father knowing I could do something to help. I was not so sure. The child was suffering from an allergic reaction to nuts, well known to the parents. My EMT had the medicine in my hand before I asked for it.
The child’s throat was swollen shut. We couldn’t force in air even if we wanted to. The only thing we could do was whisper, “Cry, baby. Please cry. Just once … you can do it.”
There is no greater fear than not seeing a child breathing, and no greater joy than seeing that same child gasp, then shudder, then begin to breathe.
We helped him take a few breaths using our bag valve mask and then he let us know just how unhappy he was that we were there. His cry gained strength from a soft complaint and grew to a scream that could be heard from 30,000 feet.
It was the greatest sound I have ever heard, matched only by the cries of my own children as they came to life soon after being born.
High above that scream on the sidewalk that brought so much joy, there was likely a commercial airliner with a screaming child drawing angry glares from passengers. The passengers of that airliner had no idea just how nice that sound could be.
As was said by a Chief at a promotional ceremony I attended, “A crying baby is a breathing baby.” Next time you’re in the vicinity of a screaming baby, just imagine how you’d feel if the baby didn’t scream, wouldn’t scream, couldn’t scream. I thought so.
