(Intro) “Pediatric arrest… CPR in progress…” Tiny chest beneath fluorescent light, Parents screaming in the night. Monitor cables stretched across the floor, Everyone praying for something more. (Verse 1) History gathered while compressions start, Trying to piece together a shattered heart. How long down? What happened first? Airway blocked or something worse? Recent illness? Fever? Croup? Foreign body they never knew? Congenital defects hidden deep? Or abuse nobody wants to speak? SAMPLE history through broken cries, Questions asked beneath terrified eyes. Terminal illness? Hypothermia? Searching hard for what stole the pulse away. No respirations. No pulse to find. Only silence on the monitor line. (Pre-Chorus) Push hard. Push fast. One-third AP diameter at last. Tiny ribs beneath exhausted hands, Trying to reverse what nobody can stand. (Chorus) When the monitor stays flat, We keep compressions going. One hundred twenty beats a minute, Refusing to stop hoping. Epinephrine every five, Trying to pull a child alive. Bagging breaths into the dark, Listening for the smallest spark. Because pediatric arrests Don’t happen all at once. Kids compensate— Until suddenly they don’t. (Verse 2) AED pads anterior-posterior placed, Tiny body swallowed by the space. IO drill bites into fragile bone, Access gained beneath the moans. 0.01 milligrams per kilo pushed, Saline boluses hanging rushed. Twenty mLs flowing wide, Trying to force perfusion back inside. Ventilation slow and controlled, No hyperventilating in the cold. One breath every two seconds now, Trying to protect the brain somehow. EtCO2 reading low at ten, “Compress deeper” comes again. If it spikes above forty suddenly, Everyone stops for half a heartbeat. Maybe ROSC. Maybe a chance. (Breakdown) Don’t stop compressions for the tube. BIAD first. Keep moving. Keep blood flowing to the brain. Because perfection means nothing If circulation dies while you try to achieve it. And somewhere behind the code room doors, A mother collapses to the floor. (Verse 3) Crew swaps every two minutes sharp, Fatigue creeping through every arm. Pulse checks under ten seconds long, Then straight back where compressions belong. Respiratory failure started this. Most pediatric arrests begin like this. Hypoxia before the rhythm dies, A slow collapse behind tiny eyes. Drowning. Suffocation. Hanging too. Lightning strikes cutting children through. Ventilation matters first tonight, Before the heart loses the fight. And still the screen remains unchanged, Flat green lines across the pain. No pacing helps this empty beat, Only CPR beneath our knees. (Bridge) The room gets quieter The longer it goes. No one says it out loud But everybody knows. Every medic in pediatric codes Carries those calls home. Because there’s nothing routine About compressing a child’s chest At three in the morning. (Final Chorus) When the monitor stays flat, We still don’t quit easy. Searching every reversible cause Before we let them leave us completely. Push hard. Push fast. Fight for every fragile chance. Because sometimes the miracle comes After everyone thinks it won’t. And sometimes… Despite everything… The monitor never changes at all. (Outro) Gloves dropped slowly in the trash, Defib pads peeled off at last. Sunrise breaking through ambulance glass, Another crew trying to process the past. And somewhere in the silence after, A medic hears phantom monitor tones Long after the screen went flat.
