Page 79 of Axe-identally Married
“Yes, I’m great. I just wanted to ask—”
A loud crash sounded, interrupting her, and as we both spun. Scanning the space, we found a group of people gathered by the front door.
A loud scream startled me, sending me to my feet. My height gave me an advantage as I surveyed the scene. Immediately, I saw Mrs. Moran kneeling on the floor beside her husband, wailing.
Willa grabbed my arm, and together, we started to push through the crowd. “Back up,” she shouted, her tone authoritative.
I followed her, stretching my arms and gently pushing people back.
“It’s Bob,” a woman near me said, her voice shaky. “He was getting up to leave and collapsed.”
Willa dropped to her knees beside him and shook him gently. When he didn’t respond, she grasped his wrist and checked for a pulse.
“Help me lay him out,” she commanded, her voice calm but firm. “And push everyone back.”
Though she hadn’t looked up from Mr. Moran, it was clear she was talking to me, so I helped her maneuver him onto his back.
“Let me stabilize his neck,” she said, yanking off her sweater. Once she had it tucked under his head, she brought her ear to his mouth and nose to listen for breath.
“Bernice,” she shouted. “Call 911. Tell them we have a possible cardiac arrest.”
Bernice pulled a phone out of her apron and tapped furiously as she hustled away from the group.
Willa locked her sights on Mrs. Moran. “Your husband is unconscious. Do I have your consent to perform CPR?”
“Yes,” the older woman cried, a shaky hand pressed to her cheek.
With a nod, Willa shifted into action. Using her sweater to tilt his head back, she tipped his chin up. She listened for breath again, then moved back to his side.
Hands on his chest, one over the other, she locked her elbows and pushed hard. A hush fell over the crowd as she hummed to herself, her face a mask of concentration. The muscles in her arms tensed with every compression.
“Ambulance will be here in six minutes,” Bernice shouted.
Willa nodded, her focus never straying from her patient.
Pinching his nose, she bent down and put her mouth over his. As she breathed air into his lungs, his chest rose. After she’d given a second rescue breath, she went right back to compressions.
She repeated this process several times, her pace steady and her focus unrelenting, compressions followed by two quick breaths, over and over for what seemed like hours.
She never tired or looked away from Mr. Moran. Even as people cried and prayed and shouted updates about the ambulance’s arrival. Bernice and I pushed the crowd back, and when the EMTs arrived, she opened the door and flagged them down.
As they jogged into the diner, Willa looked up from her compressions. “Prep the AED.”
With a nod, one EMT lifted a small green box-shaped device. The other wordlessly took over compressions and rescue breaths while Willa cut open Mr. Moran’s shirt and placed sticky patches on his skin.
“Hands off,” she said
Quickly, both EMTs leaned back.
She studied the screen, and a moment later, she said, “Ventricular fibrillation.” Then, with her finger hovering over a button on the green box, she called out “clear” and pressed down, sending what looked like a powerful charge.
A hush fell over the diner as she studied the screen again.
“We’ve got activity,” she said. “Resuming compressions. Get the stretcher and the O2.”
One EMT rushed away, mumbling into his radio.
When he returned, they loaded Mr. Moran onto the stretcher. Willa never stopped compressions, and she continuously checked the screen.
