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clarepreed · 3 months

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Neighborly

Story Content and Summary - 8,171 words. Larissa and Mitchell try to save a choking neighbor. Choking, on-site resuscitation, explicit sex.

Previous installment: Micro-Story: Larissa's Decision

Mitchell

Mitchell ruffled his hands through his hair and dropped them to his sides, his eyes on the boardwalk path ahead. They’d been home a few days, and the sunny weather tempted them out for a walk.

Larissa reached for his hand and he let her take it, curling his fingers around hers. The gesture felt right, despite everything that had gone on between them lately. Larissa, he thought, looked lovely dressed in blue, with her hair loose and her face freshly washed and free of makeup.

“I’m glad we’re home,” she murmured. “It was nice to see Momma and Daddy and Poppy, but I enjoy being home with you. Especially here.”

“I feel the same way, baby.”

They walked for a while until they approached the gate that closed off their boardwalk trail from the gated community behind their property.

“Keep walking?” he asked, smiling over at her. “I’d like to continue if you’re up for it.”

Larissa nodded, unlocking the gate and holding it open for them both. She had to release his hand for them to walk through, but she recaptured it once the gate closed behind them. “How’s your head?” she asked, referring to his recent accident at her grandfather’s home.

“My headache from this morning is gone,” he told her. He reached up and brushed the sore scar near the top of his head. “And it feels like there’s hair growing back.”

“It’s white,” she said matter-of-factly. “The new hair is silver. I peeked.”

“Oh.”

Larissa squeezed his hand. “I didn’t mean it in a negative way, honey. Just an observation.”

“I’m lucky it didn’t kill the hair follicles.”

“They make very fancy hairpieces now.” Larissa grinned and squeezed his hand again. “Which would be entirely about your vanity, as I would not be put off by a measly bald spot.”

“You have enough hair to spare some for a custom piece, I’m sure,” Mitchell said, rolling his eyes.

“I have enough hair in the shower in a single week to make you a hairpiece.”

Mitchell laughed. “Really?”

“I do clean up after myself, Mitchell.” She leaned toward him and kissed his shoulder, softening her retort.

They fell into companionable silence. The air was just north of cool, bathing his skin and keeping the humidity at bay. Mitchell reached out and let his fingers graze a leafy plant growing against the boardwalk handrail.

“We need hobbies.” Larissa spoke without preamble, her bluntness born from what sounded like nervous energy. He heard it in the slight pitchiness when she spoke. “Or part-time jobs.”

“Oh?” Mitchell bent his arm, pulling her hand up with his. He studied their interlocked fingers, then used his other hand to trace the hills and valleys of her knuckles.

“Don’t you miss having a task you can get lost in? Really set your mind to?”

She sounded so tentative that he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “What do you want, Larissa? Is there something you’d like to do?”

“Drawing classes,” she blurted. Mitchell watched as the cheek closest to him flushed pink.

“I’m certain we can find art classes for you on the island, baby. Or a private tutor. Whatever you’d like.” His brows dipped. “Surely you know that you are free to do whatever you’d want, Larissa.”

“So are you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell slowed to a stop and reached for her other hand. He pulled them both up and kissed the back of each hand, his brow furrowing as Larissa’s expression mirrored the tentative tone of her voice. “Of course, I would prefer if you sometimes showed me your drawings, if you wanted. And whatever we do, I’m always going to be happy to be with you at the end of the day.”

Her eyes took on a glassy appearance, as though she might cry. Instead, Larissa leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. When she rocked back on her heals, she asked him: “And what would you like to do, honey?”

Mitchell raised his eyebrows. He had an answer to her question, and the answer was that he did not know. Oh, he’d thought about it, surely, but—

“HELP!”

Mitchell whipped his head around. The shout was unmistakable, and not too far off.

“What is it?” Larissa asked. “Mitchell?”

“OH MY GOD! HELP!”

“Someone is shouting for help…” Mitchell released one of her hands and took a step toward the sound. He stopped, looking indecisively at Larissa.

“We should try to find them, then.” She tugged on his hand. “Mitchell?”

“We don’t know why they are calling out. If it’s safe.” His mind served up an image of Larissa sprawled by a fountain, dying from blood loss.

“PLEASE! STELLA! HELLLLP!”

Mitchell gritted his teeth. Larissa tugged on his hand. “Are they still yelling? We’re at home. Someone might be hurt! It’s safe enough, Mitchell.” When she tugged his hand again, he joined her, and they jogged down the boardwalk.

It didn’t take them long to find the source of the voice. A man half dragging, half-carrying a semi-conscious woman. He heard Mitchell and Larissa’s footsteps on the boards and turned, struggling to hold up the woman as her knees went out. Mitchell took in her half-open eyes and her darkened face.

“Oh, God! Stella, don’t—” The man caught the woman around the chest with one arm, her head sagging forward as he pounded her between the shoulder blades.

“Is she choking?!” Larissa exclaimed, her voice rising as Mitchell released her hand and they both ran to the couple.

“May I help?” Mitchell asked in a rush, a cold sensation dousing him from head to toe as he reached for the man’s weakly struggling burden.

The unnamed man all but shoved her at Mitchell, who caught her sideways and spun her in his arms. Larissa came around the front, her hands gripping the woman’s arms and helping to hold her upright. “My husband is going to help you! You’ll be all right!”

Mitchell drew his arms around the woman’s waist and searched out her navel with his right hand. He curled the left into a fist and pressed his knuckle just above his right hand, then moved that hand up to cover his left. He jerked in and up.

“Again, Mitchell!” Larissa almost shouted. “What’s her name?”

“Stella—”

Mitchell thrust his hands into the stranger’s abdomen again, grunting as he nearly lifted her off the boardwalk. Stella didn’t make any noises; he heard Larissa encouraging him to continue, and the male stranger babbling away in a panic. But he didn’t hear any air moving. No gasping or coughing. Not even gagging or choking. Another abdominal thrust, and the weak scratching at his arms stopped.

“Have you called 9-1-1?” Larissa asked, her fear evident in her rasping speech. He met her eyes inadvertently, saw his own remembered trauma reflected at him. He heaved hard up toward Stella’s diaphragm, his stomach hollowing out as he felt her knees give. Larissa reached out and grasped the woman’s face. “Stay with us, Stella. Keep your eyes open!”

Larissa

“Have you called 9-1-1?” Larissa managed, her eyes darting to the distraught man standing next to her. She looked back at the woman as Mitchell tried again to dislodge whatever was killing her. Stella’s face turned a dark reddish purple as she watched, her eyes and nose streaming and saliva dripping from her open mouth. As Larissa watched, the woman’s eyes rolled, and she saw Mitchell trying to keep her on her feet. Her heart pounding and her own eyes watering, Larissa reached out and cupped Stella’s face in her hands. Dark curls draped over the woman’s face, incongruously soft considering the circumstances. “Stay with us, Stella. Keep your eyes open!”

As she brought her face close to Stella’s, a hot and sweet scent tickled her nostrils and hit her with a wave of nausea that nearly made her lurch away from the other woman. Cinnamon candy.

“No, I… I’ll do it now! I’ll do it now. Stella, you have to cough it up!” To his credit, the trembling, panicked man immediately dragged a cell phone out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

Larissa shook her head and swallowed hard.

Mitchell performed a fifth abdominal thrust, the woman’s head pulling free of Larissa’s gentle grasp and tipping back against his chest. He shifted her, his leg slipping between Stella’s as he cradled her in one arm and pounded her between the shoulder blades with the other. Her arms swung limp and her head lolled, mouth gaping. Larissa caught her head in her hands again, gasping: “Mitchell, she’s losing consciousness!”

The man, standing on her deaf side, was barely audible as he spoke to the 9-1-1 dispatcher. Mitchell wrapped his arms around the woman again, his eyes huge as he desperately jerked his fist into her abdomen. Her lightweight sweater rode up, bunching beneath her breasts and leaving her abdomen exposed. Larissa looked down, watching as he pulled his fist hard into the reddened skin of her stomach.

Suddenly, the woman went completely limp, her head falling toward Larissa as Mitchell yelped and held her unconscious form against his chest. “Help me lay her down!” Together, they eased her flaccid body to the boardwalk, Larissa guiding the woman’s head as Mitchell laid her flat on her back. She was vaguely aware of the man kneeling beside her as she used a hand on the woman’s forehead and another at her chin to tip Stella’s head back.

“STELLA!” Larissa shouted at the woman before thumbing open her mouth. She used her finger to sweep between her teeth, hoping the position change had dislodged the unknown item. Stella’s brown eyes were half open, bloodshot, and staring up at the tree canopy. Larissa felt nothing but the woman’s tongue and teeth. Removing her finger, she leaned her good ear by Stella’s mouth. Mitchell reached out and pressed his fingers to the pulse point in the woman’s neck.

Rather than announcing that the woman wasn’t breathing, Larissa hastily swiped her hand over the woman’s wet mouth and then pinched her nose. She covered Stella’s bluing lips with her own and attempted to give her a breath. Stella’s cheeks rounded, followed by Larissa’s own. Then the seal broke, making her lips tingle as they buzzed against the other woman’s skin. She adjusted the tilt of Stella’s head and tried again, blowing harder. The air escaped between them and out of her own nose with a Pthhhbbt! sound. The other woman’s mouth was sticky from the candy that choked her.

Mitchell bent over the woman as Larissa leaned back, his hands tracing the woman’s ribcage and then stacking over the bottom of her sternum. He rolled his shoulders forward and then forced her sternum downward. The woman’s head wobbled in Larissa’s hands, and she saw her abdomen distend as Mitchell thrust his hands into her chest. “One, two, three, four, five…”

“Oh GOD! YES… yes, they are d-doing CPR. Oh, Stella…” Larissa looked at the man out of the corner of her eye. He had the phone in one hand, and a death grip on Stella’s hand with the other. She spotted a wedding ring on his finger.

“…fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…”

Larissa reached up and scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. Her face and hands felt tacky. A combination of panic, disgust, and shame rolled through her as she returned her hand to the woman’s chin. Leaning closer, she used her thumb to open the woman’s mouth further. The woman’s tongue was in her line of sight, keeping her from seeing into the back of her throat despite the bright sunlight.

“… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…”

Before she could talk herself out of it, she used her thumb to pin the woman’s tongue against the floor of her mouth. The moist muscles tried to slide free as she peered down toward her uvula.

“… twenty-six, twenty-seven…”

As Mitchell hit thirty compressions, Larissa slipped her thumb out of the woman’s mouth and took a deep breath. Closing her nostrils, she tried to give her two breaths. Neither were successful.

“One…” Mitchell thrust the heel of his bottom hand hard into the woman’s chest, repeatedly, at nearly two times per second. The woman’s neck looked tense, the vessels and tendons standing out. Her shoulders moved with each compression, lifting slightly from the boardwalk. Further down, her sweater still exposing her stomach, Larissa saw the force of the compressions seesawing the woman’s abdomen. “… nine, ten, eleven…”

“Oh my God! Stella?! Graham, what happened?!” A woman’s voice, loud enough for Larissa to hear, made her lift her head and look up the boardwalk. A pair of women a little younger than Larissa and dressed for running came to a stop at Stella’s swaying feet.

“She choked!” The man, evidently named Graham sobbed “She’s… oh, God!”

“… twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…”

“How can we help?” The second woman asked.

Larissa was already peering into the woman’s mouth again, ready to give her another two attempts at breath. As she bent to do so, she heard Mitchell respond. “Is there an AED in the clubhouse here? We may need it.”

“Yes!” the second woman exclaimed. “Amy, you’re faster—”

“Come with me. You can wait at the trailhead and direct EMS!” her partner exclaimed, taking her arm.

Mitchell resumed chest compressions as the two women quickly turned and sprinted down the boardwalk.

Graham

“W-We have someone going for an… an AED.” His voice was hoarse, barely making it past the clenched muscles in his throat. “And someone else who will wait at the end of the path.”

The dispatcher said something that sounded like a confirmation of that being the right course of action, though it was hard to concentrate as he watched a couple of strangers try to save his wife’s life. The man, maybe a decade older than himself, with silver-blonde hair and a determined expression, pounded his wife’s chest with a speed and depth that looked like he knew what he was doing. The procedure was ugly, harsh enough that he heard what sounded like cartilage or ribs popping in Stella’s chest. With each compression, her sternum sank and her stomach popped. Her green flats, her favorite shoes, swayed side to side almost comically as she lay there dead or dying.

Everything had happened so fast.

Moments before, they walked hand in hand, Graham yammering away as Stella unwrapped a hard candy and slipped it between her lips. She’d been about to respond to him when her inhalation stopped with a gurgle, an abortive cough, and then nothing.

She’d jerked her hand from his and come to a stop, fanning the air with one hand as she hit her fist against her chest. He’d figured out what was wrong but didn’t know how to help her, reaching around hesitantly to pound her on the back. At first, he expected her to spit out the candy and start coughing, but she didn’t. He pounded harder, and then she turned away from him and threw herself against the boardwalk handrail, slamming her abdomen against it and nearly tipping herself over the side. He’d come up behind her and helped her apply force, thrusting his body against hers, panicked enough now that he pushed past his fear of hurting her. But the candy hadn’t come up.

As the seconds flew by, Graham screamed for help. He pulled her into his arms and tried the Heimlich maneuver, though he couldn’t recall exactly where to place his hands or how hard to pull. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed sharply three, four times.

Then, against her silent, struggling protests, Graham lifted his wife and laid her down on the wooden boards, quickly throwing his leg over her body. Her wide, panicked eyes stared up at him as she clawed at her throat. Straddling her, Graham pushed his hands into her abdomen, right above her belly button, and shoved hard. Stella’s body bowed and jerked, but still she didn’t breathe. Her heels drummed on the wood and one hand darted out to grab his forearm. The other scrabbled uselessly at the planks of the walkway.

Graham continued his improvised abdominal thrusts, pumping her stomach hard and shouting at her to throw it up. Stella’s face went splotchy, then red. Her lips began to turn purple.

That’s when he truly panicked, heaving her upright again and dragging her back toward the trailhead, hoping someone who knew what they were doing would come along.

Now someone had, but he was afraid they were too late. The couple worked as a team, more competent than Graham himself had proven to be, though he could see from their strained eyes and frantic movements that even this couple felt scared. The minutes ticked by, coloring Stella’s face with frightening shades of blue and purple.

Graham watched as the strange woman pushed her long hair over her shoulder and pressed a life-saving kiss to his wife’s mouth, both women’s cheeks bulging with the effort. She performed the kiss again, and then exclaimed: “I still can’t get any air in her!”

“One, two, three…” The other man resumed chest compressions, sinking his hands deep into Stella’s chest. Stella, for her part, did nothing, her open eyes staring as the color faded from her cheeks.

“We will have an ambulance on-location in fifteen minutes,” the dispatcher said.

Mitchell

“Fifteen minutes!” the man, Graham, gasped. “Is there no one closer?! It’s already been…”

Mitchell closed his eyes briefly, though he didn’t stop the chest compressions. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Larissa staring back at him, stricken. Mitchell kept pushing into the woman’s chest, trying not to think of the fact that they weren’t getting any air into her. In another twenty or more minutes, the woman would be long dead, assuming she wasn’t already.

“… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…”

“Please, Stella… God, please…”

“… twenty-four, twenty-five…”

“Mitchell! I see it! Don’t stop!” Larissa jammed her fingers into the woman’s mouth again, two of them sweeping deep. She grunted and changed position, her body leaning far over the woman’s face as she twisted her wrist. “Don’t stop!”

“One, two, three…” Mitchell kept up his rhythm, forcing his hands deep into Stella’s chest and making sure he released the pressure completely each time. Graham suddenly dropped her hand and reached out to steady her head as Larissa tried to grasp the obstruction. The woman’s body jerked under his hands, though Graham’s grip on her chin kept the force from moving her head around. To Mitchell’s surprise and dismay, her legs drew up slightly, then stretched out again. The action repeated a few times before her arms joined in, her hands curling under. “… sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…”

“She’s moving!” Graham exclaimed. “Stella?”

“…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

“Roll her on her side, Mitchell!” Larissa cried out. “I’ve almost got it!”

Mitchell stopped compressions and seized Stella by her arm and her hip, rolling her onto her side, facing away from him. Larissa swept her fingers between Stella’s teeth again and dragged out a red, sugary disc. His heart lurched as she flung it to the side, but there wasn’t time, so he rolled the unconscious woman onto her back again. Her face was unchanged; pale in spots, lavender in others. Saliva glistening on her bottom lip. Dark eyes stared at Mitchell’s knees until Larissa righted her head.

He watched his wife quickly open Stella’s airway, pinch her nose, and seal her mouth with her own. This time, the dying woman’s chest rose. Her breasts fell when Larissa let the air escape, then rose again when she gave her another deep breath.

“Stella? Stella!” Graham cried out, as Mitchell pressed his fingertips hard into her neck, sliding them over until he found the spot where her pulse should beat. He waited. Counted out the seconds.

Shaking his head, Mitchell quickly restarted chest compressions, pumping Stella’s chest hard and fast. Now, he heard air huffing rhythmically from the woman’s mouth, held open by Larissa as she bent in wait for the next opportunity to give her needed oxygen. “…ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

His own breath came fast as he worked on her, his attention zeroing back in on the way her chest gave underneath his hands. Periodically, the woman moved, limbs spasming or her face grimacing. She let out a long snore.

“Stella?!” her husband gasped, subsiding each time when he realized Mitchell and Larissa weren’t stopping their efforts.

Mitchell hit thirty again, and he watched Larissa perform mouth-to-mouth. A soft sound escaped the women each time that her lips parted from Stella’s. Then came the soft puffing of air as he mercilessly beat her heart by pinning the organ between her spine and her sternum. The woman’s eyes rolled back, the discolored whites showing. “Huh… huh… hungh… hrrggggh…”

“…ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…” Mitchell wondered how far away the clubhouse was from the trail. Granted, he didn’t even know if an AED would do any good. He just knew they needed to try. This stranger spasming beneath his hands deserved no less. “… eighteen, nineteen, twenty…”

“Mitchell, I’ll switch with you after the breaths,” Larissa broke into his thoughts. She was correct; he needed to switch out with her. But he eyed her weak left arm, knowing she still struggled with pain and numbness.

“I’ll do it,” the woman’s husband blurted, setting his phone down on the boardwalk. “I put the phone on speaker and I will do it! I don’t know how, though.”

“Thirty! Come around beside me!” Mitchell barked, as Larissa gave the unconscious woman a full breath. She kept the woman’s nostrils pinched as she let her exhale through her mouth, then gave her another respiration. Mitchell resumed chest compressions as the woman’s pale, teary husband laid her hand down on the boardwalk and scuttled around to come in beside him. “…five, six… Hold your hands like this. Yes. Bring them right beside me. You’re pushing down at least two inches, twice a second. You have to come all the way up each time. This is what circulates her blood. Do you understand?” Mitchell’s voice shook from adrenaline and his exhaustive efforts. He paused again so Larissa could breathe for the woman, watching as Stella’s breasts rose. He lifted his hands and scooted to the side. “Get in place now!”

Graham slid in, his eyes wide as he pressed the heel of his clasped hands into the spot Mitchell had just abandoned. Mitchell guided his shoulders over his hands as Stella’s chest fell a second time.

“Go! Count out loud!”

“One, t-two…”

Mitchell watched carefully, nodding as the man pushed deep enough. “A little faster. Like this.” He clapped his hands to the disco song playing in the back of his mind.

“Come on, hon. Please… please!”

“You have to count, Graham. Just count and think about everything you need to do. What you’re doing is helping her.” Mitchell leaned back on his heels and tried to recover his breath, though the terrible excitement of it all kept his heart racing.

“… t-twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

Footsteps pounded down the boardwalk, the steps growing louder as the seconds passed. Then Mitchell heard a woman breathing hard and fast. The runner from before, Amy, came into view, arms and legs pumping furiously as she sprinted.

As Larissa curled over Stella and blew into her open mouth, Amy slipped the AED bag off her shoulder, dropped it onto the boards next to Mitchell, and then staggered past. Her momentum carried her into the handrail, where she caught herself.

Mitchell snatched up the case. “Keep going!” he barked sharply at Graham, jolting the man back into action. His hands made a dull thumping sound as he resumed pumping her chest. Unzipping the AED, Mitchell laid the device on the wood and turned it on.

“… seven, eight, nine, ten…”

“Apply the pads and plug in the connector!” the device barked.

“… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”

Mitchell tore open a packet of adult pads and dumped them out into his hand. He shook out the leads and connector, then laid them beside Stella.

“… twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…”

“Apply the pads and plug in the connector!”

“… twenty-nine, thirty!”

He found the trauma shears and cut through the bottom hem of Stella’s lightweight sweater. Amy dropped beside him and held the fabric taught as he cut up the center of the garment. The woman’s chest rose and fell with Larissa’s breaths as he clipped the center of Stella’s purple, lacy bra. Mitchell dropped the shears to the side and quickly parted the fabric of her sweater, moving the cups of her bra out of the way and fully exposing her chest. A bruise was forming over her sternum, with reddened spots spreading down beneath her left breast. More splotches marred her abdomen.

Graham resumed chest compressions without having to be asked. “One, two, three…”

“Apply the pads and plug in the connector!”

As the woman’s pink-tipped breasts wobbled violently and her soft stomach oscillated, Mitchell and Amy stripped the backing off the AED pads. Mitchell applied one pad beneath and slightly to the side of the woman’s left breast, while Amy applied one above the right. Mitchell rubbed them both several times for good measure as Amy found the connector and plugged it in.

“Analyzing rhythm!” the device interrupted. “Do not touch the patient!”

“Everyone, back off of her!” Mitchell called out, scooting back and raising his hands. “Don’t touch her!”

Graham lurched back and Larissa released Stella’s head.

“Shock advised.” Mitchell’s eyes closed briefly as the tiniest bit of relief washed over him. “Charging. Do not touch the patient. Charging. Do not touch the patient. Device charged. Do not touch the patient. Press the shock button.”

Mitchell’s hand hovered over the flashing orange button. “Don’t touch her!” He depressed the button with his index finger and heard a quiet whine. Stella’s torso tensed and released within the span of a split second, and her head tipped to the side. Larissa quickly righted it and reopened her airway.

“Shock delivered. Perform two minutes of CPR.”

Graham hesitated. “Did it not wo—”

“Chest compressions!” Mitchell urged, cutting the man off.

Graham made a sobbing noise, but he complied, his hands finding the bruise and his shoulders rolling forward. As he thrust his hands into the bottom third of Stella’s sternum, he resumed counting. “One, two, three, four…” Despite his upset, Graham performed compressions properly, shoving her sternum deep. Stella’s breasts jerked toward his hands with each compression, jiggling and wobbling with the force. Her abdomen, too, moved with the deep thrusts, bulging and then deflating, popping and heaving at a rapid rate. Her shoulders jerked and shrugged, pulling up toward her neck. Larissa kept the motion from moving her head, gripping the woman’s jaw firmly and keeping her mouth open with a thumb on her chin. Stella’s face was no longer a dark reddish purple, but he was concerned by her white cheeks and blue lips.

The motion of the chest compressions made her legs rock, feet swaying side to side. He could even see her thighs shaking through her leggings.

Gurgling, growling, and huffing noises occasionally escaped the woman’s open mouth. When Larissa gave Stella breaths, Mitchell heard Larissa’s exhalation, followed by the slight smacking sound of their lips parting. Then chest compressions resumed, Graham’s shaky counting accompanied by quiet thumps, huffs of air, and the occasional pop or crackle. “... f-four, five, s-six…”

Stella’s legs drew up further, splaying her thighs wide and making her hips jerk. Mitchell, uncertain what exactly to do, leaned over and held her legs down, trying to keep her left knee from bumping into Graham. He felt her muscles spasms beneath his hands. The pressure he applied kept her upper legs in place, though her lower legs shifted and her hips continued to jerk grotesquely.

“… twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!”

He watched his wife bend over the spasming body, left hand sealing the woman��s nose and her own mouth opening wide before she covered the other woman’s lips. Her exhale made the woman’s chest heave. Larissa drew back slightly, and he saw a string of glistening saliva stretch between them. Another breath, and this time, when Larissa broke the seal, she swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she quickly resumed holding Stella’s head in place as Graham pumped his wife’s lifeless chest.

Stella’s arms drew up toward her armpits, hands curling at the wrists and her fingers twisting. When he looked at her face, her eyes were closed.

“… twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

“They are?” Mitchell heard Amy ask. “Okay. Um… The ambulance is in the neighborhood. They should be at the trailhead soon.”

“… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…” Graham’s voice cracked. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty! Will they be able to help her?”

“The ambulance crew can do a lot of things we can’t,” Mitchell said, meeting the man’s tortured gaze. “And they can take her to the hospital, where even more can be done.”

“But…” Graham’s voice trailed off as the sound of Larissa’s second breath tapered off. He squared his shoulders and resumed his work over his wife’s body. “One, two, three…”

Mitchell looked at Larissa and found her staring at him. Her eyes were wet.

Larissa

Stella gurgled and growled and huffed as her husband forced blood to move through her heart. Larissa held her mouth and airway open, crouched low so she could quickly provide breaths after each set of thirty compressions. Her neck ached from the position, but it wasn’t the pain that made her look at Mitchell with tears in her eyes. As they gazed at each other, his lips thinned and he swallowed hard.

“…nine, ten, eleven, twelve…”

Larissa looked away first. Her eyes dropped to the woman’s gray face. Occasionally, her facial muscles spasmed, threatening to pull her chin from her grasp. She also felt the force of Graham’s chest compressions rocking up through her neck. His hands collapsed her chest harshly, his breath ragged. The other woman’s breasts swayed, her nipples erect. Below his hands, her belly popped up and down, bulging as his thrusts displaced organs and air. Further down, Mitchell gripped the woman’s legs in a gesture that was probably more about how upsetting it was to watch her gently seize than it was for any medical purpose.

“I can take over after the next shock,” Amy the runner said. “And then soon after that, the paramedics will be here.”

“I did not realize it would take EMS this amount of time to come out here,” Mitchell said, his voice so flat she wondered if he knew he spoke aloud. As it was, his voice was quiet enough that she barely heard him, her bad ear pointed in his direction.

“… twenty-nine, thirty!”

Larissa inhaled and pressed her mouth yet again to Stella’s, exhaling to make her chest rise and then lifting her mouth to feel the air rush back up into her face. She covered the cool, slack lips again, her eyes darting to the side to watch the woman’s breasts swell.

The bruise on her sternum disappeared under Graham’s hands. “One, two…”

“Do you know how to do chest compressions?” Mitchell asked Amy.

“I’ve taken CPR a few times,” she said, handing the phone over to Mitchell. “But you’ll have to let me know if I’m doing something wrong.”

Mitchell nodded.

“… seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty—”

“Analyzing rhythm,” the AED broke in. “Do not touch the patient!”

All four of them released Stella and shifted backward. She lay mostly still, her skin ashen, though her eyelids lifted enough to show the whites of rolled-back eyes.

“No shock advised. Continue CPR for two minutes.”

Damn, she thought, her hands automatically reaching out to reopen Stella’s airway. Simultaneously, Amy got into position and started chest compressions. Graham sagged back on his heels, breathing hard.

“One, two, three…” Amy’s compressions looked deep and fast, and Mitchell nodded in encouragement when she glanced at him. Short but powerfully built, Larissa could see the muscles cording in Amy’s forearms as she efficiently drove her hands into Stella’s sternum. “… four, five, six, seven…”

Distant sirens sounded in the distance.

“That’s more than one vehicle,” Mitchell speculated.

“… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”

The group fell silent aside from Amy’s terse counting and the soft huff of air escaping Stella with each compression.

“… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

Graham muttered something that Larissa didn’t catch.

“You got her help,” Mitchell responded.

“… twenty-nine, thirty.”

Another breath, pressing her mouth against the cool, damp skin that still smelled like sugar and artificial cinnamon. Larissa followed up quickly with a second breath, feeling just slightly lightheaded as the scented air wafted back into her face.

“One, two, three…” Amy rocked her body hard into Stella’s chest, her fingers pressing into the unconscious woman’s left breast and inadvertently brushing her taut nipple. Larissa kept finding that her eyes were drawn to the exposed flesh in front of her. Like driving past the scene of an accident, she needed to know what was happening, what the effects looked like. Her mind, stressed from what had happened now and in the past, superimposed her own naked body over Stella’s.

She saw her own long torso rippling as Amy pumped, her large, freckled breasts bobbing, nipples drawing circles in the air. Her chest sinking and her stomach seesawing up and down. The face below her was her face, her eyes staring and her mouth agape, a cinnamon candy lodged deep in her throat.

“… thirty!”

Larissa dragged in a deep breath, coughed as some of her own saliva went down the wrong pipe, and sucked in another. Then, cursing the seconds she lost, she forced another pair of breaths into Stella. Then compressions resumed.

“One, two, three…”

“Larissa?” Mitchell asked.

“I’m fine,” she protested, coughing again.

“… six, seven, eight…”

Mitchell shifted, obviously intending to spell her, when they both heard heavy footfalls on the boardwalk.

“… twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”

A pair of medics came into view, wearing gloves and carrying bags, led by Amy’s partner. Shortly behind them walked another pair, wheeling a gurney laden with more equipment.

“… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!”

As Amy sat back on her heels, Larissa gave Stella another two breaths, trying not to inhale directly as the cinnamon-scented exhalations wafted up toward her face.

“Keep going until they tell you to stop,” she heard Mitchell say, and Amy resumed her position.

“One, two, three, four, five, six…”

The medics moved with purpose, but without running or rushing about. They did not immediately take over, instead setting down their bags as one of them stepped closer. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.

“She choked on a piece of candy,” Mitchell responded, hanging up Graham’s phone. “We tried back blows and abdominal thrusts until she lost consciousness. Then we started CPR. We eventually got the candy out. She’s had one shock from the AED, but the last time it did not advise a shock.”

“…thirty!” Amy called out. Despite the presence of the medics, Larissa leaned over once more. Their cheeks rounded as she exhaled once, then again.

“Thank you, ma’am,” a woman behind her said. “I can take over now.”

“Who is her next of kin?” The lead medic asked.

Graham

Everything sped up. The medics spoke with his neighbor, who, he learned, was named Mitchell. The women were relieved by paramedics, who checked Stella’s pulse and then continued CPR. Graham was asked to move back, and he complied, feeling numb as he walked over to stand next to Mitchell and his wife, who directed him to sit on a nearby bench.

From this angle, he couldn’t see her face, but he could still see her abdomen popping up in rhythmic waves as the gloved hands plunged into her chest over and over again. One of her shoes had fallen off. She’d neglected to wear socks, and he could see the flat brown mole in the center of her left arch.

The youngest-looking medic of the four peeled away the AED pads and turned the device off, setting it to the side. Graham opened his mouth to ask if they’d given up, when Mitchell leaned over and murmured: “They have their own pads that connect to their defibrillator.”

Sure enough, the young medic applied a set of larger pads, smoothing them quickly to her skin. The medic performing chest compressions resumed her efforts, thrusting the down into Stella’s breastbone. Shortly after, the monitor alarmed and he saw a series of lines crawl across the screen.

“Pause compressions for analysis. Asystole.” The lead intoned. He said several other things, most of which Graham couldn’t make out or interpret. He just knew they hadn’t stopped yet. They were still trying.

“They won’t be shocking her right now, so they will continue CPR and give her IV medication. They are going to suction her airway and put a tube in to make sure she’s getting plenty of oxygen.” Mitchell spoke quietly and slowly, his eyes on Stella.

“Is she going to live?” Graham asked.

Mitchell hesitated long enough that Graham knew he had his answer. But the other man spoke anyway, his eyes on his own wife as she spoke with Amy and her partner. “I don’t know. They don’t know, either. But I’ve seen… people beat the odds before. And I hope to see that happen again.”

Graham returned his gaze to the scene surrounding Stella. A couple of firefighters had joined the four medics, creating a busy ring around his wife. Still, he could see enough of what was going on. One medic crouched by her arm, holding it in his lap as they cleaned the inside of her elbow. The medic who acted in charge lay stretched out on his stomach, with some sort of metal device opened up in Stella’s mouth. As he watched, a firefighter opened a long package and used gloved fingers to extract a tube, which he handed over to the lead. Another medic unbuttoned Stella’s jeans and slipped two fingers just inside.

“There’s a pulse there,” Mitchell told him, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows. “They check pulse points during CPR to make sure the blood is circulating.”

“You know a lot about this. Are you some kind of doctor?” His hands were shaking again, and he thought he might have to get up and pace soon. Wishing he had something to do, he instead talked with this unfamiliar but very helpful neighbor.

“No,” Mitchell murmured. “Sometimes I wish I was.”

“Pause for analysis.” Compressions paused, and he watched as one firefighter traded places with the medic who’d been performing them. “Asystole. I want sodium bicarb now and another epi right after. Oxygen is up to ninety-three. Jim, come swap with me. I’m going to suction her.”

The firefighter started chest compressions as soon as the word “asystole” was out of the lead’s mouth. Graham realized that since they’d intubated Stella, the compressions didn’t stop at thirty. The firefighter pushed hard and fast at the same rate as before, Stella’s belly moving in sync with his hands. Instead of a mask pressed to her face, they’d attached a bag to the end of her breathing tube and squeezed it regularly, at a much slower rate than the chest compressions.

Graham ran over the moment she choked. Was it his fault? Had he made her laugh, knowing she’d just put a piece of candy in her mouth? Was it his expectation that she keep up her end of the conversation that made her draw breath at the wrong moment? He saw her face staring up at him after he laid her on her back and started pumping her abdomen. Terrified, eyes bulging, tears and snot and saliva running down her face. Her body jerking each time he plunged his hands into her stomach, nails clawing at her throat and his arms and the boards beneath her.

She’d held on so long. Long enough for help to arrive. People who seemed to know what to do. And yet it hadn’t been enough, and Graham watched her slip away, her body slowly changing as it reacted to the lack of breath and heartbeat. He’d felt a momentary flash of relief when Mitchell’s wife swept the disc of candy from Stella’s mouth, only to have the relief die a quick and bitter death. Everything had gone downhill from there.

Graham stood abruptly and walked a few paces down the boardwalk so he could see her face. The medic named Jim had her head in one hand, holding her head back at an angle. His other hand squeezed the giant bulb attached to the end of the tube. The tube itself jutted up from between her teeth. They’d secured it in place with medical tape wrapped around the tube and stuck to her face. Stella’s eyes were closed now, her lashes resting on her discolored skin. Her dark hair fanned out beneath her head, the curls tangled. At this angle, he could see the firefighter’s gloved hands pumping hard and fast, sinking her chest in the requisite inches before allowing it to recoil. Each time he thrust downward, her stomach bulged and her feet rocked. They had a blood pressure cuff wrapped around her left arm, and defibrillator pads stuck to her chest. The leads wound over to a display that Graham couldn’t interpret. Beeps and whooshes and thumping sounds filled the air. The medics surprised him by how little they spoke to each other.

“Pause for analysis,” the lead said, eyeing the monitor. The firefighter lifted his hands from Stella’s bruised chest. “V-fib. Charging to three-sixty, continue compressions until we are ready to shock.”

The firefighter snapped out a series of deep thrusts into Stella’s chest.

“Alright, everybody off. Disconnect oxygen.” The firefighter lifted his hands, Jim disconnected the bag, and everyone backed away. The lead made a quick check around the group. “Clear. Administering shock.”

He pressed a button, and Stella’s torso flinched. Her head lolled to the side, toward Graham’s feet. Jim quickly righted her head and reconnected the bag as the lead leaned in and started chest compressions. Graham’s eyes rested on the man’s gloved, interlocked hands. They sank down and snapped back up over and over. Pump and pump and pump and pump, with her breasts exposed for everyone to see, wobbling endlessly. He couldn’t stop staring. Her chest crushed down, re-inflating again and again. The man’s shoulders bobbing as he pushed his weight down through his arms. Her abdomen rippling down into the open waistband of her pants.

“Marked increase in tidal volume… pausing compressions,” the lead said abruptly, his eyes on the monitor. “Pulse check! Sinus rhythm on the monitor.”

To Graham’s surprise, multiple gloved hands plunged into Stella’s neck, wrists, and the crease of her thigh. Mitchell got up and joined him, gripping him by the shoulder. “‘Sinus’ means they got her pulse back, Graham.”

“Sinus confirmed,” the lead said. “Any attempts at breathing on her own?”

“She’s alive?” Graham asked, his voice gravelly. He looked from the monitor with its bouncing heart rhythm that he did actually recognize down to his wife’s face. She didn’t look any better, not yet. The only difference was that they weren’t having to beat her heart for her.

“Get her prepped to go while I update her next-of-kin,” he heard the lead say. Graham let out a shuddering breath.

“Do you need us to drive you to the hospital?” Mitchell asked.

“Millie and I will take you, Graham.” That made sense. They were his next-door neighbors.

“I’ve given Amy my number,” he heard Mitchell’s wife say.

Graham watched the lead medic approach. “You got her back,” he said, his face contorting with tears he was trying not to shed.

“Yes, sir.”

Graham doubled over, his hands grabbing his knees. He felt Mitchell grip his shoulder hard. His legs shook. “Hang on, Stella. I’m here…”

Mitchell

Fifteen minutes later, Mitchell and Larissa walked in silence back the way they’d come, her hand gripping his as tightly as he gripped hers. He let them in to their gated path, their steps growing faster and faster as though to carry them away from the previous scene.

When they finally spilled onto the grassy path that wove between flower beds, Larissa stopped and turned toward him, nearly crashing into his shoulder. Mitchell released her hand and wrapped his arms tight around her. He felt her chest heaving against him, her hands clutching at his shirt.

“Larissa…” he murmured, though he didn’t know what to say.

She tipped her head back, eyes wild and lips parted. Mitchell met her in a kiss that immediately deepened, her mouth opening for his tongue. Mitchell gathered the back of her dress in his hands, pulling up the skirt until he cupped her ass in his hands and pulled her tight against him. Her hands scrabbled for the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath and running up and down his back. One of her hands came around to the front to unfasten his belt and unbutton the fly. Larissa made quick work of the task, her dexterity making him grin. She ran her hands around his hips and then down the back of his pants and into his underwear, her nails digging lightly into his bare skin.

Mitchell found the tie of her wrap dress and pulled it loose, letting the dress part in the front. He dipped his head and nibbled his way down her neck and along the tops of her breasts. Slipping his hands inside the dress, he reached around to unfasten her bra. Then he lifted her breasts free from the loosened cups and gathered the soft globes together so he could move quickly back and forth between her nipples, licking and sucking and biting. Larissa moaned and reached into his boxer briefs, pushing the fabric down and pulling his hardening cock free. She worked him with her hand, moving up and down and running her thumb over the head until he was rock hard and throbbing.

He pushed her dress off her shoulders and let it puddle in the grass, followed quickly by her bra. She reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head. Their mouths met again in a needy kiss. Mitchell slipped his hand down into her underwear and found her wet, dragging some of that moisture up to her clit and massaging.

“Mitchell!” she cried out, and then she pulled him down to the grass with her, her hair fanning out around her head. He stripped off her underwear, and she laid back, coaxing him to lie between her thighs. His belt jingled as he thrust against her, running the head of his cock up and down her slit. Her hips jerked up against him, seeking. Then he thrust home, sinking all the way to the hilt and groaning as she cried out.

Mitchell began a forceful, punishing rhythm. Their bodies smacked together, Larissa’s breasts jerking and bobbing as his body met hers. She clawed at his back, letting out guttural moans and squeezing her eyes shut. He kissed her, their tongues thrusting against each other as she writhed beneath him. He grasped her hips for leverage, fingers curling into the soft flare of her body.

Larissa gripped his shoulders, mewling, rising to meet him. Mitchell scooped one hand beneath her ass, shifting the angle and squeezing his own eyes shut when she threw back her head and cried out his name. She was close, she had to be close, she’d better be close—

He tore his eyes open, watching her as she came, her mouth falling open and a wail of pleasure tearing out of her. Larissa shook and spasmed beneath him and around him, and he followed, burying his face in her neck as he whited out with the force of his release.

As their mutual spasms subsided, Mitchell held himself up on his elbows, surprised to feel himself trembling. Larissa, breathless from exertion, reached up and stroked her fingers through his hair. He knew he should get up, help her to her feet, and go inside. They could clean up and cuddle on their soft bed. Instead, he found himself unable to move, resting in the cradle of her pelvis. He dipped his head and kissed her beauty mark.

Larissa cupped his cheek and pressed her lips softly to his. Then she laid her head back in the grass and closed her eyes, the tension of the last forty-five minutes draining out of her. Mitchell gathered his fleeting energy and slipped his softening erection free. Then he bent and kissed the scars above her heart and down her arm.

Rolling to his side, he collapsed onto the grass. Mitchell gathered her close, slipping his arm over her stomach and nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.

Larissa took a deep, slow breath and whispered: “I love you, too, Mitchell.”

#resus writing #female resus

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clarepreed · 5 months

Text

Pulseless

Story Content and Summary - 7,080 words. Paul and Andrea are home alone when she has a heart attack. Heart attack symptoms, on-site resuscitation, non-detailed mention of vomit, Stryker LUCAS 3 device.

“Are you sure you feel up to going?” Paul asked his wife. Andrea sat on the edge of their bed in her underwear and a lacy top, looking peaked and a little sweaty. “Maybe we should stay home. What if you have the flu? Or COVID, for that matter?”

“I don’t have COVID,” Andrea grumbled, raking her hand through her salt-and-pepper hair. “Or the flu. I just overdid it in the garden this morning. Damn, everything’s sore. I pulled some muscles all up and down my left side...”

Paul gave her a sidelong glance and shook his head, then pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. He knew this was ineffective; he meant the gesture to be comforting rather than diagnostic. She’d been a little stiff and pale when they’d come inside, but her ill health had only really kicked in within the last half hour. “If you say so. Will you be alright if I take a shower?”

Andrea gave him a weak smile and reached up to massage her jaw and the back of her neck. “I’ll be fine. Don’t rush.”

“Alright.” Paul leaned close for a quick peck on the lips. “Let me know if you need something.”

“Can you lean my cane over by the bed? So I don’t have to hobble?” She gestured toward the corner. “I don’t know why I stuck it there.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Paul snatched up the telescoping cane and laid it on the bed next to Andrea. Then he hurried into the bathroom. He was fairly certain they would not be going out, but he needed a shower regardless. Before he closed the door, he looked one more time at Andrea; she was slouched, obviously uncomfortable and achy.

In the bathroom, he hurried through his shower, trying to listen in case she called out to him. He honestly wasn’t sure if she was sick or not; since their car accident, regular life activities took a greater toll on her body. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had to miss something because she was in pain or needed to rest, but Andrea was stubborn. Most of the time, this was a quality he appreciated.

Paul was rinsing the soap from his hair when he heard the bathroom door slam open, the toilet lid hit the front of the tank, and the unmistakable sound of vomiting. Paul cut off the water and pushed back the shower curtain, dismayed to see Andrea leaning over the toilet, bracing herself on the wall and sink with shaking arms. Her cane slid along the edge of the sink and then clattered to the floor

“Ah, damn. Looks like you’re sick after all.” Paul snagged his towel with one hand and reached for her elbow with the other. “Are you okay?”

Andrea flushed and shuffled over to the sink. “I want to brush my teeth. That was foul.” She sounded breathless.

Paul hovered behind her, quickly drying himself and reaching for the clothes he’d just taken off. Andrea rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth, looking all the while like she was agitated and in pain. Her hands shook, and she kept reaching up to rub her jaw.

He’d gotten redressed by the time she was done, and he reached for her, noting with concern how pale her lips were. “Come on. Let’s get you into your PJs and into bed where you belong.”

Andrea rubbed from her jaw down to her chest, her face contorting into a grimace. “That gave me heartburn. And God, but I have such a neck spasm…”

“I can get you some medicine for that. Both things.” Paul bent and snatched up her cane, handing it to her. Then he hooked elbows with her and walked her into the bedroom. She was breathing heavily by the time he sat her on the edge of the bed, so pale from head to toe that the scar down the side of her right leg stood out angrily. Paul laid her cane on the bed. Andrea panted while he dug through her drawers, looking for her most comfortable pajamas. “Hey, maybe we should go to urgent care?”

“No,” she gasped. “Ugh. If I… don’t have COVID now, then I will—Oh!”

Paul looked over his shoulder to see Andrea hunched forward and to the side, clutching at her left arm. He hurried over, leaving the drawer open behind him. “Andrea?”

Her eyes were screwed shut. She’d turned an even worse color, if possible. Gray. He kneeled in front of her, trying to get a better look at her face. Her lips were dusky.

“Andrea!” Paul reached out for her left hand. He’d never checked a pulse other than his own during exercise, but he wondered if he ought to try. She was moving around a lot, making pained sounds and gasping. He took a firm grip on her hand and ran the fingertips of his other hand down the inside of her wrist. He found her pulse but quickly realized he didn’t know how to judge. It seemed quick and maybe a little irregular, but he wasn’t sure.

Paul felt his own heart pound. “Andrea, I think I need to call an ambulance.”

“No!” she choked out, though she barely had enough air for the word. Pain etched her face. Her body spasmed and her hand pressed to the center of her chest. “Feels… squeezing…”

“That’s it! Where’s my phone?” Paul climbed to his feet, wildly looking around the room before he spotted his phone on the dresser. He jogged around the bed, mentally practicing the words he so far hadn’t been able to say out loud: I think my wife is having a heart attack.

He told himself: Most people survive these now, right?

He scooped the phone up in time to hear a thud, and when he whirled around, he couldn’t see her.

“ANDREA!” Paul shouted, sprinting back around to the other side of the bed. Andrea lay in a heap, her skin gray, a distant look in her eyes. As he watched, she let out a strange rattle and her arms contorted, hands rising into the air in front of her. He stood frozen for several seconds before dropping to his knees beside her, confused and terrified. “ANDREA!”

His hands shook as he dialed 9-1-1, tapping the speakerphone icon before he sat the phone on the floor next to Andrea’s head. Then he ran his knuckles down her cheek. He could hear the phone dialing as he reached for her spasming hands. Her head tipped to the side, soulless-looking eyes passing through him and her mouth sneering open.

The line clicked, and a man answered. “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“My wife… my wife, I think she’s having a heart attack!” He felt like he was having trouble getting enough air himself.

Calm down!

“What’s your name and location?”

Paul gave the man his name and their address, simultaneously shifting his hands to her face. He cupped her face in his hands, tipping it up toward him. “Andrea!”

“Is your wife conscious, sir?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so, actually. Her eyes are open, but she’s not responding.” Paul moved his hands to her chest and abdomen. “Andrea? She’s barely breathing! It’s more like a-a snore every so often! Not… not very often at all! Andrea, can you hear me?”

As if on cue, her chin jerked, and she emitted a snoring rattle.

“She wasn’t feeling well, and then she started having pain in her left arm—”

“Sir,” the operator interrupted. “How often is your wife breathing?”

“Twice since we have been on the call.”

“Are you willing and able to perform chest compressions until EMS arrives?”

“Oh, God!” Paul felt a flash of anguish, during which his eyes burned and sweat sprung out all over his body. “Yes! Yes, obviously! I…”

He touched her chest gingerly, groping for the right spot with clumsy fingers.

“Sir, Paul, trace the bottom of her ribcage your fingers toward her breastbone. You’re aiming for the bottom third of her sternum. Stack your hands there and interlock your fingers. The heel of your bottom hand should rest on the spot you identified.”

Paul quickly complied, nestling his hands between her breasts. The situation felt unreal as he said in a shaky voice: “Okay, how much do I push?”

“Two inches. I’m going to count along with you to get you started. One, two, three…”

The pace and the way it felt to push her sternum down toward her heart shocked Paul. Her ribcage flexed, and she let out a huff of air. He continued pumping, counting out loud with the operator and watching the effects the compressions had on her limp body. Andrea’s stomach popped and her thighs quivered with each hard thrust to her chest. Her head and feet rocked side to side.

He and the operator counted to ten over and over again until the operator said: “Paul, keep giving her compressions and counting out loud at that same rate. I’m communicating with EMS.”

“Okay! Two, three, four…” Paul breathed shakily between compressions, his eyes shifting back to Andrea’s face. She looked gone. Her eyes, usually snapping with emotion, were empty. Her lips were blue. He wanted to ask the operator why he wasn’t giving her breaths, though he vaguely recalled that might not be part of CPR anymore. Her shiny hair pooled beneath her head, though some of the strands clung to her face. As he watched, she snored in another strange, ineffective breath.

Paul hiccuped out a short sob, his shuddering breath coming too fast for him to count. He kept pumping her chest, desperate to help her in any way that he could.

“Don’t stop compressions, Paul,” the operator suddenly said.

“I know,” Paul gasped. “I won’t! Ah, Andrea! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”

“Paul, how will EMS get into your home?”

“The front door! It’s unlocked!” They lived out in the middle of nowhere, which meant they usually only locked up at night or when they were both leaving. Paul was afraid it might also mean Andrea didn’t have a chance of surviving. “How… long? One, two, three, four…”

“Ambulance ETA is… nine minutes. Volunteer firefighters have been dispatched and may arrive first. You’re doing a great job, Paul. Just keep those compressions at a two-inch depth and come up all the way each time.”

“Yes! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! One, two, three, four, five…” Andrea let out huffs of air with each compression. Paul was huffing, too, though too much adrenaline was coursing through him to feel tired. He mostly felt terror, terror that he wasn’t helping enough and that the real help was too far away.

The volunteer fire station is just down the road, Paul thought. Hope trickled through him. They can help!

“One, two, three, four…” Andrea’s ribcage protested under his hands, but he was pretty sure he was thrusting her sternum down no more than two inches. Andrea’s right leg suddenly flexed, and he almost stopped, though a look at her face told him this was more of whatever was causing the strange, occasional breathing. A growling noise escaped her, and Paul’s voice cracked as he continued counting. “…five, six, seven, eight, nine…”

She’d urinated on herself, he realized, eyeing the dark spot on the carpet under her hips. He didn’t know if that meant anything in particular, but he was glad when he realized he could hear sirens.

“I can hear the sirens!” he called out. He looked back at Andrea’s slack, ashen face. “Help is coming, sweetheart! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”

The sirens grew closer. Paul kept his arms straight as he drove his hands into her chest, trying to picture his efforts literally squeezing her heart in her chest and sending blood throughout her body and into her brain. This blood could—no, would—keep her alive and preserve her personality. They’d been married for almost twenty-five years, together for thirty-two. High school sweethearts. Paul wasn’t sure he remembered how to be himself without her.

He pumped and pumped and pumped, splitting his mind between his careful focus on rhythm and depth and his internal pep talk about how they would still be celebrating their anniversary together.

Andrea, however, remained lifeless beneath him. She huffed out air, made faint snarling noises, and otherwise lay there limp while he made her ribcage flex and her stomach round. Her shoulders shrugged in time with the pressure from his hands. She’d already put on earrings, he realized. The sparkly ones his sister had gotten her last Christmas.

Time seemed to crawl. Paul felt like he was stuck there forever, beating his wife’s heart while the sirens grew slowly closer. Then they cut off. An interminable amount of time, and he heard someone knock, then a voice call out from downstairs.

“SOUTH FORK FIRE, HERE FOR A CARDIAC ARREST CALL?” a man shouted.

“UPSTAIRS!” Paul screamed. He started shaking with relief, though he was careful not to let his compressions suffer. “END OF THE HALL!”

Oh thank God, finally…

He kept falling into her chest, over and over again, as he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Little hoarse sounds slipped out of her as he worked. The steps came down the hall and then two male volunteer firefighters entered the room and hurried over to where Paul kneeled over Andrea’s lifeless body. One was on the short side, the other tall; both were broad-shouldered.

“She had chest pains and collapsed!” he gasped out. His hands shoved down into her sternum. “Help her!”

The firefighters brought a couple of bags and cases with them, and sat them on the floor before one of them said: “Take ventilations and get the AED ready, I’ll take over compressions—Don’t stop until I tell you, sir!”

The firefighter who spoke kneeled in front of him and extended his hands until his were next to Paul’s. Then he said: “Now you can stop, sir. I’ve got her.”

Paul raised his hands and the firefighter immediately took over, gloved hands stacked where Paul’s hands had been. Paul watched the heel of the man’s bottom hand dig into his wife’s sternum, depressing her ribcage and making her stomach swell. The other firefighter was measuring a plastic piece against Andrea’s jaw. Paul watched him tip her head back, thumb open her mouth, and slip the plastic piece inside, turning it halfway around before he attached a mask to a clear, bulbous bag.

“…twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”

The firefighter with the mask pressed it to her face, one hand shaped like a “c” with his fingers lapped over her chin. The other firefighter paused compressions long enough for him to squeeze the bag twice. Andrea’s chest rose and fell, and then he sat the mask to the side and compressions resumed.

The tall firefighter, the one who’d assembled the mask, drew a pair of trauma shears from one of the bags and began cutting off Andrea’s shirt and bra. He cut up from the bottom hem, pausing briefly until the short firefighter raised his hands. He cut all the way up through her neckline, then snipped between the cups of her bra. Compressions resumed. Then he cut across the top of her shirt from armhole to armhole, finishing by snipping each strap. The shirt opened, and the cups fell to the sides, exposing Andrea’s breasts and stomach. Everything dipped and bulged and wobbled as the firefighter drove her sternum toward her heart

“…thirty!”

Another two breaths from the mask, then compressions resumed and Paul watched the short firefighter reach for the AED. Paul scooted back a couple more feet, then stood, uncertain what to do with himself. The resuscitation efforts were brutal to watch; her ribcage sank under the stranger’s hands, forcing her belly to jiggle and pop. The short firefighter quickly peeled the paper backing off a white defibrillator pad and smoothed it over her right breast, following quickly with another on her side close to her left breast. He plugged the pads into the machine and turned it on.

“Analyzing rhythm!” the machine called out. “Do not touch patient!”

The firefighter providing chest compressions lifted his hands, while the other quickly gave her two breaths from the mask.

“Shock advised. Charging!”

The tall firefighter leaned over Andrea, pumping her chest hard and fast until the AED let out a loud squeal and said: “Do not touch patient! Press the shock button!”

Then he lifted his hands and the other firefighter called out: “Everyone clear!”

Paul didn’t see him press the button, but Andrea suddenly jerked. It was subtle, and her head lolled to the side.

“Shock delivered. Continue CPR for two minutes.”

The firefighters switched positions and the shorter firefighter landmarked and began pumping her chest. Andrea, however, made a choking sound, followed by her eyes rolling back in her head and her arms drawing up toward her chest.

“Hold compressions,” the tall firefighter said, reaching around and pressing his fingers into her throat.

Paul’s own throat felt like his heart had risen to choke him. He waited, breathless.

In reality, he only waited about ten seconds until the firefighter said: “No pulse.”

As chest compressions resumed, Paul hunched over and gripped his knees. His mind shot to their daughters. Paige, working in England. Charla, at school in California. There was no way to get them there quickly.

This might not even be a fly in to say goodbye sort of situation, Paul thought, his eyes burning and his throat spasming. How do I call them and tell them their mother has died?

He wiped his eyes, unable to take them off of Andrea’s body. She continued to move now and then, her arms contorting, a knee bending. There was a gentle thumping sound each time the firefighter shoved his hands into her chest. His deep voice counting to thirty accompanied the thumps, along with other disturbing sounds. The operator occasionally cutting in. The whoosh of the mask that made her chest rise and fall.

She would be horrified, laid out so vulnerable on the floor, almost completely naked in front of strangers. She was sensitive about her surgery scars and the stretch marks on her belly, visible as her stomach rippled with each compression. Paul had not minded, hardly even noticed them, but he knew his opinion only counted for so much.

I’m sorry, sweetheart, he thought at her.

Then: I’ll call Jenna when I can disconnect from 9-1-1.

Jenna was his sister, and she lived only five minutes away. She might even be home.

“Analyzing rhythm! Do not touch patient.”

The firefighter performing chest compressions raised his hands.

“Shock advised. Charging.” The charging alarm sounded, and he watched as the short firefighter gave Andrea more compressions, keeping at it until the device announced: “Do not touch patient. Press the shock button!”

The bag was disconnected, and both firefighters scooted back. The tall firefighter called out: “Clear!” and reached down to push a flashing orange button.

Andrea spasmed again, her torso flinching and the motion making her hands and feet jerk subtlely. Outside, Paul heard sirens.

Chest compressions resumed, and Paul asked: “Did you leave the door open?”

“We did,” one of the firefighters said.

“Hah, hah, hah…” Air hissed out of her each time her chest was compressed. The resuscitation efforts looked rough, her body jerking and her rib cage seeming to collapse each time the man’s hands shoved into her sternum.

“EMS!” Paul heard a woman call from downstairs.

“UPSTAIRS!” he shouted.

“End of the hall!” a firefighter added.

Footsteps on the stairs and then a man and a woman entered the room. They were wearing gloves and weighed down by duffles and bags and a backboard they laid down in the hallway.

“The ambulance is here,” Paul said toward the phone.

“Alright, sir. Thank you. I will disconnect now.”

“Thank you,” he said automatically. He scooped up his phone and stood, climbing up onto the bed so that he could both be out of their way and have a better viewpoint as people crowded around Andrea.

The firefighters were assisting, the tall one performing chest compressions and the short one continuing to use the bag-valve mask while the medics were pulling things out of the bags they’d brought. One replaced the smaller AED pads with larger ones, connecting them to a cardiac monitor.

“Hold compressions,” she said. The other medic clipped a pulse oximeter to Andrea’s finger before unzipping an IV kit. “Okay. Patient is in v-fib. Continue chest compressions while I charge the defibrillator.”

Paul dialed his sister’s number. The female medic pressed a button on the monitor and a high-pitched whine kicked in behind the firefighter’s droning voice and the quiet thumping of his hands against her chest. The male medic quickly cleaned the crook of Andrea’s elbow.

“Hello?” Paul felt relief wash over him as he heard his sister’s voice.

“Jenna…” Paul whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Clear!” called out the female medic. She pressed a flashing button and Andrea’s torso jerked. The firefighters switched positions.

“Her saturation is at eighty. I’m going to intubate,” the female medic said.

“In addition to saline, administering one milligram of epinephrine,” the male medic said.

“Paul?” his sister asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you home?”

The female medic traded places with one of the firefighters and opened up a case next to Andrea’s head. The firefighter held onto a bag of saline, holding it up at the request of the male medic.

“Yeah, Paul. I’m home, but—”

“I need you to come over here, Jenna. Please?”

The female medic tipped Andrea’s head back and opened her mouth. First, she connected the bag-valve mask to a small oxygen tank and gave Andrea several breaths with the mask.

“I… yes, of course. Just let me tell Sara where I’m going.”

“Go ahead and bring her,” Paul said. “It’s, ah… It’s bad, Jenna.”

His voice cracked, and he sniffled involuntarily. The female medic held Andrea’s head in place as she inserted a silver scope, cranking it open and peering down her throat when a light came on. Then she picked up a wide tube and slid it down the side of the scope.

“Did something happen to Andrea?” his sister asked.

“I think she had a heart attack.” He sniffled again and swiped his hand across his eyes. “EMS is here.”

The medic withdrew the scope and carefully secured the tube with lengths of tape. Then she connected the bag to the end of the tube. “Pause compressions.”

“Paul? Paul, is she alive?” He could hear Jenna struggling to remain calm. “Sara, Andrea’s had a heart attack. We need to go over there now.”

The male medic listened with a stethoscope as the female medic squeezed the bag. “Okay, you’re in.”

“Not at the moment,” Paul said.

There was a long silence, and then Jenna said. “Okay. Okay, just hold on. We’re running to the car. I love you, okay? I love both of you.”

“She’s still in v-fib. We’re going to shock her again. Charging to three-sixty.” A whine from the device, ten more thumps, and then the female medic said: “Hold, don’t touch her. Clear!”

Andrea jerked again, her head tipping to the side and her chest flinching. This time, the female medic slipped in to start chest compressions, giving the firefighters a break. The huff of air sounded much different coming up the tube, a rattling growl with each compression.

“Administering one milligram epinephrine,” one of the medics said.

“Paul, we’re halfway there.”

“No… change,” he whispered, then cleared his throat.

“…nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five…” The female paramedic pumped Andrea’s chest relentlessly. Paul watched her ribcage sink, and her stomach and breasts shake. Over and over again, the paramedic forced Andrea’s heart to circulate blood. The male paramedic squeezed the bag every five or six seconds; Paul didn’t know anything about this equipment, but he did notice that they were no longer working off a ratio of thirty compressions to two breaths. Instead, both happened continuously. He hoped this was helping her.

“Paul!” he heard his sister say. “We’re here. Sara is going to drop me off and find a place to park the car, okay?”

“Upstairs. Central bedroom.”

“Hold compressions!” the male medic said, his voice startling Paul.

The female medic complied, leaning to see what the male medic was pointing at on the monitor. He continued squeezing the bag.

Movement at the doorway turned out to be Jenna. Her eyes were wide as she took in the scene.

“I’ll get her on a twelve lead,” the female paramedic said, reaching down to press two fingers into the crease where Andrea’s leg met her hip. “Alright, sir. Your wife has a pulse. We need to get some information about her heart, and then we will be taking her to the hospital.”

Paul motioned for Jenna to join him, though he was tempted to hop off the bed and kneel at Andrea’s side. He returned his attention to the paramedic who’s just spoken to him. “She has a pulse?”

The paramedic was already pulling more equipment out of bags, but she looked up and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re going to do a quick check on her heart, draw some blood, and then get her to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Jenna climbed up onto the bed to sit with Paul. She was wearing what their mother would have called “house clothes” and her running shoes. She reached for Paul’s hand and squeezed it. “Good, good news.”

“She’s so still, Jenna. And they’re breathing for her!” Paul watched as the female paramedic applied electrodes with colorful snaps across Andrea’s chest, concentrated on the left side. They even applied them to her wrists and ankles. Andrea laid pale and still on the floor, her body exposed. He could hear the mask every time the bulb was squeezed, sending air to her lungs.

The medics and firefighters were having minimal, task-based conversation that barely registered with Paul.

“Get her pressure for me, will you?”

“Sat is up to ninety-four.”

“Take over bagging, please, so he can get the LUCAS ready. We might need it.”

Then Jenna said: “Sara’s downstairs. She doesn’t want to be in the way. She just texted.”

“Pressure is eighty over forty.”

“Get her on a pump for norepinephrine.”

Paul was running down a list in his mind. He needed to bring a list of her medication with them when they went to the hospital. Both of their wallets. Phone charger. Her cane, even if they wouldn’t let her get up. Just in case, because if she woke up, and it wasn’t within reach, she’d be upset.

“Alright, I’m calling her in so they can be ready.”

“Grab the spine board. We need to get her on that first.”

“—I’m calling in a potential thrombolytic or emergent catheterization candidate. Twelve lead shows—”

“Slide it in next to her—”

“Paul?” Jenna asked. He blinked. “I think something important… I don’t know…”

The male medic rolled Andrea onto her side while one of the firefighters slid the backboard beneath her. He rolled her flat again and manually verified her pulse with his fingers pressed into the crease of her thigh. Then he unzipped a bag and pulled out more equipment: a smaller backboard, and a motor head with arms.

The equipment around Andrea seemed to multiply each time Paul blinked. A small pump connecting to her IV line. Defibrillator pads, electrodes, leads. Cardiac monitor. Whatever this new device was. As Paul watched, the male medic slipped some kind of plastic strap around Andrea’s face, holding the breathing tube in place.

As he watched, the female medic stepped between Andrea’s legs, grasped her wrists, and pulled her into a seated position. The firefighters held her head still while the male medic slid the small backboard underneath her and on top of the spine board. They laid her flat again. The female medic began strapping Andrea to the spine board while the male medic took the rest of the device and clipped it over Andrea. It arched above her, with what looked like a motor head and a suction cup at the top. The medic pulled down on the suction cup and nestled it between Andrea’s breasts. He was in the middle of strapping her arms to the device when Paul realized what the device must be for.

“They’re worried her heart will stop again,” he murmured.

Then, louder: “Can I touch her?”

The male medics were packing up bags and handing them to the firefighter, but the female paramedic looked up at him. She was squeezing the bag now, her gloves hands careful and steady. “Of course, sir. We need to move her soon, but there’s time.”

Paul quickly slid off the bed and crouched beside his wife, reaching up to cover her hand where it was strapped to the machine. He realized then that she wasn’t wearing her rings and decided that was for the best. His other hand reached in to brush her cheek above the plastic tube holder.

“Andrea. Sweetheart. It’s Paul.” His traitor eyes watered and spilled over. He cleared his throat and wiped his face on his shoulder. “You’re in good hands. You’re going to go to the hospital now. Jenna and Sara are going to drive me to meet you in their car, okay? I’ll bring your cane. You won’t need it in the ambulance, so don’t worry. Listen, I’ll talk to the girls. I’ll make sure they come to visit, okay? That’s what our savings are for. Don’t worry about anything. I love you. Jenna and Sara love you, too. The girls love you. Your brother loves you. I know… I know you love us, too. We’ve had a good life and we’re going to have more time, okay? Thank you.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d thanked her, but it felt right. Maybe it was just something that needed to be said, so he would feel more at peace if she didn’t make it. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was having a hard time imagining her coming home again.

Paul leaned in and kissed the back of her hand.

“Your family is going to drive you to the hospital?” the female medic asked. “Good. We’re about to move her downstairs to the gurney, okay?”

“Thank you,” Paul told her. He wanted nothing more than to stay with Andrea, but she didn’t need him right then and he was about to be in the way. He stood reluctantly. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“We’ve got her, sir. Thank you for asking.” She turned her attention to the other responders in the room. “Mac, take her head for me. I’ve got the bag and the monitor. Phil, is it? Take her feet. Miller, spot for me. We’re getting her out of the room, down the hall. Then the spotter needs to go down the stairs. Then Phil with her feet. We need to keep her on the wall side and leave me room on the other side, okay?”

Paul didn’t hear the responses because he was moving off to the side, hastily gathering up Andrea’s cane and gesturing for Jenna to follow him. He scooped his wallet off the dresser. “I’ve got shoes by the door. And her purse should be in the kitchen. That’s all I need. I can pull up her medications in the Walgreens app.”

They stood in the corner, watching as the female paramedic picked up the monitor and looped the strap over her head. Then the others lifted Andrea on the spine board and quickly but carefully carried her out of the bedroom he shared with her.

“Do you need me to call the girls?” Jenna asked, as they stood in the hall, watching them carry her down the stairs. His sister-in-law Sara moved into view, hurrying to open the front door and then looking up at Jenna with wide eyes. She had Andrea’s purse looped over her shoulder.

“I might,” Paul said. “I don’t know. It should be me.”

Jenna started to answer him, but an angry alarm sounding from the cardiac monitor distracted them both.

“Keep moving!” the medic barked. “We’ll check her at the bottom. We’re almost there!”

They fed her around the last turn, and then quickly laid the spine board on the gurney. Paul froze on the upper landing, his free hand clutching the bannister. His other hand gripped her cane in a white-knuckled grip.

“V-fib on the monitor,” she said, handing the device off to Mac, who nestled the monitor next to Andrea’s legs. “Start the LUCAS, but check the leads before we charge!”

Mac adjusted the piston arm of the device, verifying it was even against her chest. Then he reached up and turned a dial. The machine spewed out air and shoved the cup down into Andrea’s chest twice in rapid succession. Then it continued pumping at a fractionally slower rate. Paul couldn’t help but stare in shock, watching as the machine performed precise chest compressions on his wife. The cup slammed down, depressing her sternum and ribcage and forcing her stomach to pop. Then it recoiled, allowing her body to return to its normal state for a split second before the sequence repeated.

One of the firefighters took over the bag after a brief conversation with the female paramedic.

“Leads and electrodes still in place,” Mac said.

“Alright. I’m administering a milligram epinephrine. We’ll let it circulate for a minute and then analyze.”

Nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit…

The machine worked Andrea like a rag doll, swaying over her with each pump. It was both more efficient and more savage than the manual compressions, and Paul knew the sight and sounds would haunt him, even if Andrea pulled through.

“Oh God,” he gasped. “Don’t be dead, please, please don’t be dead…”

Jenna suddenly grasped his hand, pulling it off the bannister. “Don’t watch, Paul. You don’t have to watch!”

“I can’t do anything for her but watch…”

Nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit…

“Charging to three-sixty.” the female medic pressed a button on the monitor. “Everyone back, we are not stopping the device to shock.”

The firefighter disconnected the bag and stepped back.

“Everyone clear, administering shock.” She pressed the shock button and Andrea jerked, her body twitching harshly in the grip of the CPR machine. “Shock administered. Administering 300mg IV amiodarone…. Alright. We’re going to load her and analyze again before we drive.”

The firefighter reconnected the bag, and the crew turned the gurney toward the door.

Nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit nn-hit…

Paul pulled away from Jenna and hurried down the stairs. He stumbled out into the foyer in time to catch sight of Andrea’s face. She looked pale, her glassy eyes open again. From that angle, the CPR device was brutalizing her chest, thumping hard into her sternum. Her breasts wobbled and her stomach rounded and jiggled. Paul slammed his feet into the worn out trainers by the door, hurrying out after the crew working on his wife.

They got her down the front steps easily, then down the walk to the driveway. The CPR machine continued to beat her heart for her without pausing, the sounds echoing off the nearby retaining wall.

“I’ve locked the front door,” he heard Jenna say behind him.

“I’m going to get the car,” Sara said. “As soon as the ambulance pulls out of the driveway I’ll come up and get you. I’ve got her bag. The engine is parked on the street so we don’t have to worry.”

“Thanks,” Paul mumbled, distracted. They were loading Andrea into the ambulance, the LUCAS relentlessly hammering away at her. The last thing he saw before they closed the door was Andrea’s abdomen rounding mid-compression.

The firefighters hurried down the driveway toward their truck. Mac slowed long enough to speak to Paul: “We are taking her to McCormick General. Park at the ER lot and enter through the visitor entrance. Tell them her name and your relationship. They have an internal waiting room for families. She’s in good hands, right? I’ve got to go, but we have her.”

Mac jogged up to the front of the ambulance and climbed in. Soon, the lights and sirens roared to life, and the ambulance drove away.

It didn’t take long for Sara to bring the car around, but Jenna grabbed his arm anyway, holding onto him like he might collapse any second.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, leading him to the front passenger door. “You look like you might pass out.”

“She might be dead, Jenna.” He let her buckle him in. He still had a vice grip on Andrea’s cane, so she didn’t try to take it from him. “They just drove off with that… thing, that thing pumping her heart. I can’t call the girls and tell them that, Jenna! I can’t… I can’t…”

Jenna shut the door and climbed into the back. “I’m so sorry, Paul. Go, Sara. Drive as fast as fast as you can safely manage.

Later

“Paul Greene?” A surgeon stood at the front of the waiting room, calling his name.

Paul stood slowly and felt Jenna do the same beside him.

“Mr. Greene, come with me. Your family can come with you. There are plenty of chairs. We’re going just down the hall to a family conference room.” The surgeon held the door for them and then walked quickly to regain the front position. She kept talking, filling up any silence Paul might have used to ask after Andrea. He wondered if that was on purpose.

The surgeon led them into a small conference room, with several chairs, an oval table with two tissue boxes in the center, and a coffeemaker and water cooler in the corner.

“As soon as you have a seat,” the surgeon said, “I have an update.”

Update, Paul thought as he dropped into a chair. He still had Andrea’s cane, though he’d folded it. That sounds potentially positive.

“I need to tell you first, Mr. Greene, that Andrea is alive.”

“Oh thank God,” he blurted, slouching forward in his chair and covering his face with his hands.

This is why she wanted us sitting.

“She was successfully resuscitated shortly after arrival. Then she was immediately taken for cardiaccatheterization, rapid revascularization, and percutaneous coronary intervention. We simultaneously treated her with therapeutic hypothermia.” The surgeon raised her hand. “That’s a lot, and I’ll explain it in layman’s terms. You’ll be given literature shortly. We cooled Andrea’s body temperature down once she was resuscitated, and we will keep her there for twenty-four hours. This treatment reduces inflammation in the brain. Then we took her into the cath lab and threaded a catheter into her heart. We used a laser to quickly restore blood flow from one part of her heart to another. Then we put in a stent to open her coronary artery.”

“When will I be able to see her?” Paul asked.

“Shortly after we are finished here. I do need to prepare you. Only one family member is allowed in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit at a time. You will need to wear a mask and wash your hands. Andrea is connected to multiple monitors and an IV pump. A ventilator is breathing for her. She is unconscious and will feel cool to the touch.”

Paul nodded, though if he’d been asked to repeat any of that, he would be sorely pressed to do so.

There was a brief silence, and Jenna asked: “What’s her prognosis?”

“That depends on the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. She has been somewhat responsive at times, which is promising.” The surgeon clasped her hands on the table. “Andrea is in a very fragile condition, Mr. Greene. There is a chance she will not leave the hospital. Do you understand?”

“I… yes, I do.” Paul deflated.

“Her brain,” Jenna said. “He wants to know if there’s a chance she’ll be herself.”

“Yes,” the surgeon said, her voice firm. “Yes. There is a chance.”

Days later

Paul sat in his usual seat by Andrea’s hospital bed, a book in his hands. The book was upside down and open somewhere in the middle. His eyes were on Andrea.

Each day, she was surrounded by less and less equipment and paraphernalia. First to go were the cooling blankets, though those were replaced by rewarming blankets before those went. Then, even better, was the ventilator, replaced by a nasal cannula. While Andrea didn’t seem able to wake up, she was breathing on her own. He didn’t know what much of the equipment was, but anytime something disappeared, he took it as good news.

She had color in her face now, and muttered and moaned when the nurses came in to evaluate her. She’d even swatted at one who squeezed her shoulder.

Paul sighed and closed the book. Both of their daughters had arrived yesterday, and he’d taken the time to brief them before they saw her one at a time. They’d both come out in completely hysterical and nearly inconsolable, so he’d sent them home with Jenna.

Now it was just Paul and the hospital staff. And Andrea, in whatever measure that he still had her.

Paul rubbed his eyes again and looked up at her. Then he froze.

Andrea’s eyes were open, and she appeared to be focusing on him.

Paul stood, letting the book slide out of his lap. “Andrea?” He reached for her hand, taking it between both of his.

Her brow furrowed and her eyes watered. She closed her eyes briefly, a tear sliding down her cheek before she reopened them.

“Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. You’re in the hospital. The girls came to visit yesterday, and I’ll have Jenna bring them back, okay?” Paul reached out and wiped the moisture from her cheek. She leaned into his touch, and he felt his own eyes water. “You know who I am. Don’t you, Andrea? You know who I am!”

Her fingers twitched in his hand, and now he was the one crying.

“Oh, I’m happy to see you, Andrea! I love you so much. And don’t worry, okay?” Paul leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I brought your cane.”

#resus writing #cpr resus #female resus #medical drama

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