Chapter 4 #2
“I need one milligram of Epinephrine,” I instruct another nurse, Sarah, who nods with understanding. She bends over the IV and administers the life-saving medication, injecting it directly into Teddy’s IV.
Neal’s voice is a metronome as he counts off chest compressions.
I keep my eyes glued to the monitor, waiting to see the effect of the drug.
Nothing.
“Another milligram of Epi,” I instruct. With most irregular heartbeats, there’s a whole host of medications we give, but with the absent heartbeat of Asystole there’s only Epinephrine.
On a TV drama this is the point where the actor would get out the paddles and dramatically yell, “clear,” before shocking the patient, but that’s fantasy and this is reality.
Asystole is not a shockable rhythm, so I give Epi to Teddy, over and over again.
I don’t know how much time passes. Just that it’s slipping through my fingers.
Someone mutters, “He’s gone.”
“No,” I bite out, casting a baleful glare over the room. “Another milligram.”
By the fifth time, the rest of the staff start to give up.
I can sense the down shift of morale, the lessening of urgency.
It’s like when you’re watching a football game and your favorite team gets so far behind in points that you know that, no matter what they do, they’re going to be defeated. That’s the feeling in the room.
But not me.
In that moment, I think of my mom, of the countdown already ticking, of how I’ll lose her, probably sooner rather than later.
I think of how I’m not ready, how I don’t know how to say good-bye.
How it’s too much, too soon, and something inside me hardens.
My grief compresses under pressure, turns to diamond. Sharp. Unyielding.
I will not lose someone else I care about.
Not today.
“Keep the compressions going,” I snap. “Another injection,” I tell Sarah, praying this will be the one.
The miracle to bring Teddy back from the grave.
She gives me a doubtful look, and I meet her eyes with a fierce, “Now.” The medicine goes into the IV, and we watch to see if it has any effect.
The only motion is Neal. Tireless, he keeps going, pumping Teddy’s chest to manually force blood through his body.
We do another round of compressions. More drugs.
My hands are shaking, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
Live. Please live.
“Stop.” My voice is raw, cracking on the last syllable. “Let’s check for a pulse.”
Neal freezes, and we all wait. Minutes stretch into eternity. The beeping monitor is silent. The room holds its breath.
“Nothing,” Larry says, his fingers under Teddy’s jaw.
Sarah holds a syringe in her hands. “Should we call it?”
“No,” I say, again too sharply.
Sarah frowns, opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe not. I’ll never know because that’s when the monitor high on the wall goes…
Blip.
All heads turn to it.
A long silence.
Then.
Blip.
“His heart,” says Sarah, wonder tinting her words. “It’s starting back up.”
“Not fast enough,” I reply. “Resume compressions.”
Neal goes back to work, counting in his deep baritone.
After a round of CPR, I tell him to stop.
Tension is thick. In unison we all look at the monitor.
Blip. Blip. Blip goes the green line, and I swear my heart beats along with it in perfect synchronicity.
“Strong pulse,” confirms Neal as he palpates Teddy’s neck.
“Spontaneous respirations.” Sarah has her stethoscope on his naked chest.
I hold my breath as I watch the rise and fall of his sternum. The billowing of his ribs.
“How long was he pulseless?” I ask Lindsey.
She consults her paperwork. “Less than a minute.”
I gape, surprised. It felt like an eternity.
“Okay.” I wipe sweaty palms on my long, white lab coat. “We can work with that. Put in a STAT order for an MRI. We need to make sure there’s no brain injury.”
“On it.” Sarah heads for the door. The rest of the code team quickly clean up and trickle away.
I should go with them. I have other patients who need me, but I linger a few minutes longer than necessary.
I can’t seem to take my eyes off that monitor with its now steady blips and beeps.
There’s an unreasonable fear in me that if I look away his heart will stop again, which is silly.
That’s not how the human body works. I mentally chastise myself.
It’s not like me to be superstitious, but it’s not like me to have a one-night stand either.
“Good job. You brought him back.”
I jump at Larry’s voice, so loud and jarring.
“Hmm?” I turn to find Larry in the doorway, his expression carefully schooled. “Oh,” I say, shooting him a false smile, hoping he’ll let it go. “I guess the pearly gates didn’t want him yet.”
Larry doesn’t smile back. His gaze flicks to Teddy, then away, like he can’t stand the sight of him. He grips the chart so tightly the papers crumple.
I resist the urge to step between them, to shield Teddy from that look of judgment.
“I’m telling you,” he mutters, his voice low and edged with contempt, “guys like him never change.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because the second he says it, another voice rises from my memory. Teddy’s voice, warm and reckless, one year ago, whispered between kisses.
“Tonight, I’m all yours.”
Just one night. That’s all he gave me.
I stare down at him, brown hair against too-pale skin, chest lifting in shallow breaths. Alive, but fragile. For a moment, back then, I’d thought he might be someone I could hold onto, but I was wrong.
“Yeah,” I tell Larry. “He’ll never change.”