Diesel

Three-year-olds are a law entirely unto themselves. Having had two of them over the last 3 years, I'm only just recovering, just in time for them to be four- and five-year-olds. It's not much easier, but at least they can better articulate what it is that they're tantruming about.

So, with all my experience and battle-weariness, I know the following:

Three-year-olds should be active.

Three-year-olds should be vibrant.

Three-year-olds should be very, very good.

Although three-year-olds can be horrid.

Three-year-olds, however, should never, ever, be unconscious.

Or grey.

Or breathing shallow, useless breaths.

The nursery staff look at us with pleading eyes, their gaze shrieking more than their combined voices.

"He just collapsed. Just fell to the floor and stopped. Is he dead?"

I look at Jim, and he at me. There's no need for words between us, we read each other like books.

Oxygen goes on, and we help push it into Tyo's lungs.

Defib pads go on, but, thankfully we don't need to use them. Yet.

We carry Tyo down to the ambulance, Jim jumps into the pilot's seat.

A nursery nurse, tears streaming down her face, sits down in the back, flustered and frustrated at the fact she can't do anything to help.

I feel the same.

Just pumping oxygen in seems so mechanical, so basic, making me feel powerless and useless.

Usually I prefer to sit in the back with the patient, and let someone else do the driving. Seems to me to be the better job.

This time I think it's the other way round.

Jim's got the best job for now.

Whilst I'm force-feeding Tyo the oxygen,

Jim gets to force-feed the ambulance some diesel.