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Abstract
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I was examining a patient in the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU) when I received the call. I ran to the emergency department (ED) to see Adam. He was intubated, waiting for transfer to the PICU.
Adam was a beautiful 7-year-old boy with spiky hair and blond highlights. He was rushed to the ED by his parents, still in his tailored suit and black bowtie after collapsing while playing the tambourine at his uncle's engagement party. He arrived pulseless; circulation returned after two cycles of cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR), his physical exam was nonfocal except for a pinpoint hole, as small as the tip of a pencil, on the left side of his head. Imaging revealed a penetrating bullet injury to the brain and the spinal cord. The bullet had entered from the left parietal brain, traveled through the corpus callosum and the medulla, and lodged behind T1 and T2 in the subarachnoid space.
When Adam's parents were informed of their son's diagnosis, the word "bullet" rippled across the room. The moment of comprehension was palpable, the room transformed into a scene from a horror movie: his mother and grandmother burst into tears, kissing his hands and face, his father sat on a chair next to them breathing heavily and listening to his uncle's screams: "I will find that shooter and send him to jail."
People take for granted the very poignant line drawn by the trajectory of a stray bullet. In an instant, a celebration irrevocably becomes a tragedy. Adam was another victim of a senseless tradition: celebratory gunfire. It is imperative to note that firearms are readily available in Lebanon--a country torn by past civil wars--and have become ubiquitous during celebrations and tragedies alike: a shower of hailing bullets to mark an engagement, a funeral, election results, and high school graduations. People fill the skies with bullets that eventually come back down claiming innocent lives, often children's, on their way.
Keywords: Celebratory Gunfire
Language: en |