(Intro) “Pediatric arrest… all units respond…” Tiny shoes beside the bed, Silence where the crying was instead. Mother shaking, father pale, A hallway filled with oxygen and panic trails. (Verse 1) Time of arrest scribbled on gloves, Questions fired while compressions shove. Medical history half remembered fast, Trying to outrun the moments passed. Foreign body? Hypothermia? Medication bottle near the sink? Did they choke? Did they drown? How long before somebody realized they couldn’t breathe? Unresponsive beneath fluorescent white, No pulse under tiny skin tonight. Cardiac arrest in pediatric hands Feels heavier than anyone understands. (Pre-Chorus) Push hard. Push fast. One-third chest depth every pass. One-point-five inches for infants small, Two inches deep for children all. Switch compressors every two, Before exhaustion ruins what you do. (Chorus) Small chest, full code, Everybody moving under overload. One hundred twenty compressions deep, Trying to wake a heart asleep. Bag the airway, don’t hyperventilate, Every breath could change their fate. Because pediatric arrests don’t start in the heart alone— First the airway fails, Then everything goes. (Verse 2) Anterior-posterior pads in place, Shockable rhythm? Clear the space. Two joules per kilo for the first strike, Trying to pull electricity back to life. Four joules if the rhythm survives, Higher doses if the Ventricular fibrillation fights. Tiny body jumping beneath the charge, Everybody hoping for a miracle spark. IO drilled into fragile bone, Medications rushing cold. But drugs come second to CPR When circulation’s already gone too far. EtCO₂ tracing low at ten, “Compress harder” comes again. Goal above twenty if the blood still moves, Forty-plus means maybe ROSC broke through. (Breakdown) Don’t stop compressions for the tube. Blind insertion airway device first. Keep circulation moving. Because perfect airways don’t matter If the brain dies waiting for them. (Verse 3) Respiratory failure started the collapse, Children code slow before the final lapse. Croup. Epiglottitis. Secretions thick. Hypoxia tightening minute by minute. Tension pneumo stealing breath away, Electrolytes turning rhythms strange. Tamponade pressure around the heart, Acidosis tearing perfusion apart. Maybe toxins. Maybe trauma. Maybe congenital disease no one caught. And every provider in the room knows Pediatric arrests are rarely sudden— They’re disasters unfolding quietly Until the monitor finally tells the truth. (Bridge) Maternal arrest? Move the uterus left. Access above the diaphragm. Defibrillation still safe. Drowning? Hanging? Lightning strike? Ventilation becomes the fight. No pacing in cardiac arrest. No shortcuts. No magic left. Only training. Only teamwork. Only compressions through shaking hands. (Final Chorus) Small chest, full code, Pit crew moving under overload. Pulse checks less than ten seconds long, Then right back where compressions belong. Push hard. Push fast. Fight for every fragile chance. Because sometimes kids come back After everyone thinks they’re gone. And sometimes… Despite perfect compressions, Perfect teamwork, Perfect medicine— The room still falls silent. (Outro) Defib pads peeled from fragile skin, Empty syringes in the bin. Sunlight rising through ambulance glass, Another pediatric code in the past. And every medic driving home Hears phantom monitor alarms Long after the truck goes quiet.
