Page 129 of Lighting the Lamp
Beau’s ribs are visible under the porch light, each shallow rise of his chest barely moving against the shadows. The antiseptic sting hits my nose, chemical and clean, and it takes abeat before I realize it’s from the alcohol swab they’ve cracked open as they prep his arm for an IV. The scent makes my stomach pitch, but I force myself not to move, not to break my grip on him.
“Sinus tachy, irregular rhythm but no cardioversion currently required,” one EMT says, eyes on the screen. “Possible hypoperfusion. Check distal pulses and O2 non-rebreather at fifteen liters. Let’s get a line in.”
“Copy,” the other answers, his hands already steady as he threads the IV catheter. The antiseptic bite still hangs in the air as he slides the needle home, followed by the faint plastic snap of a saline flush. A cuff inflates around Beau’s arm, the hiss and click loud in the chaos. “BP ninety over fifty-eight, sats eighty-nine, heart rate one-fifty.”
The monitor gives a steady, mechanical beep that sounds too fragile to be trusted. I reach for Beau’s hand, threading my fingers through his. His skin is warm, but there’s no give in his grip. My breath shudders out of me, chest tight, and my throat raw. I lean in until my cheek brushes his, my hair sticking against his damp skin.
“I’m right here,” I say, voice low but unyielding. “You don’t get to check out on me, Beau Hendrix.”
Something flickers across his face—a twitch or a faint furrow between his brows—but it could be nothing, or it could be everything. Either way, it’s enough to keep my spine rigid when they lift him onto the stretcher, my legs tingling with the threat of collapse.
“Ma’am—”
“I’m riding with him.”
The EMT doesn’t hesitate and just nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The second they wheel him toward the ambulance, I’m right there, my hand welded to his. The world blurs into two sounds. The squeak and rattle of the gurney wheels over the drivewayand the faint rise and fall of his chest under the oxygen mask. Everything else is static.
Once we are inside, the doors slam with a metallic boom that reverberates through my ribs. The sirens pick up again, and the space shrinks to the size of my fear. I wedge my knees against the side rail, one hand gripping the cold metal so hard my knuckles ache, the other still tangled in his limp fingers.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, quieter now, like I’m afraid to wake him or maybe even more afraid he won’t. “We’re gonna get you through this. We’re gonna get you home.”
The ambulance lurches forward, jolting me hard against the railing. I tighten my hold until the tendons in my hand scream. We hit a sharp corner, and the sirens howl so loud they buzz in my teeth, the pitch threading through my skull until it’s all I can hear. One EMT leans over Beau, reading the monitor.
“BP’s dropping. Heart rate is still unstable.”
My throat closes, but I push closer, blocking out the rest of the world.
“You hear that?” My voice shakes, the words tripping over my breath. “They’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine. You were teasing me ten minutes ago. You were fine. You’re still fine.”
The ambulance hits another bump hard enough that my stomach pitches and my teeth click together. Beau’s lashes twitch slightly, but his eyes don’t open. The oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth, fogging with each shallow breath. I count them in my head—one, two, three—like if I keep the number steady, I can keep him breathing. My vision tunnels until there’s nothing but that faint misting of plastic.
And then the crash hits. Not against metal, but inside me. It’s like free-falling with no bottom. My adrenaline burns out so fast it leaves a hollow ache in my chest. My limbs turn heavy, my pulse slows to a sluggish thud, and my thoughts splinter into jagged edges. The tremor starts in my fingers, barely thereat first, then spreads until it’s everywhere. My grip on the rail loosens for a second too long, panic spiking before I force my fingers to lock again. My jaw aches from clenching, and my tongue tastes like copper.
Not now. Not here. I can fall apart later. I can let the fear take me under later.
I press my forehead to the back of his hand, breathing him in. My eyes burn, and I don’t know if it’s from holding my breath or from the tears pressing against the back of my eyes, desperate to escape. I swallow them down. My job—the only job that matters—is to keep my hand on his and my voice steady enough to anchor him when he wakes.
The ambulance slams to a stop. My head jerks up just as the back doors fly open, cold air flooding in. Steady, practiced hands are everywhere, sliding the stretcher out, the jolt making his arm shift against mine. I tighten my hold like a promise, and then we’re moving again. The gurney clatters over the threshold into the ER, fluorescent lights flashing overhead in bright, clinical bursts. Each one burns and feels too far from home.
The doors crash open, and we’re swallowed by the hospital’s noise. Voices overlapping, machines beeping in jagged bursts, and the slap of shoes against polished floors. The air shifts instantly to something more sterile, cold, and sharp with bleach that burns the back of my throat.
“Thirty-year-old male, collapsed at home. Monitored in the field with unstable tachyarrhythmia—rate one-fifty, irregular. Blood pressure low nineties over fifties, O2 sat eighty-nine on non-rebreather. One large-bore IV established en route.” The EMT’s voice cuts steady through the chaos as they wheel him inside.
We’re inside a curtained-off trauma bay before I can take another breath. Nurses swarm around Beau, a mixture of hands, wires, monitors, and blood pressure cuffs snapping into place.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat, stepping back just far enough to keep from blocking their work. My eyes stay locked on Beau’s face, all ashen and sweat dampening his hairline. He looks nothing like the man who had me pinned against the siding less than an hour ago. More leads stick to his chest now, the heart monitor’s uneven blips cutting through the air. Every spike and dip scrapes my nerves raw.
“What’s going on?” My voice is low but urgent. “He was fine?—”
“Ma’am.” A nurse’s voice cuts clean through mine, firm but not unkind. A gloved hand closes gently around my elbow, guiding me back. “You need to step outside the curtain.”
I shake my head hard, panic clawing up my throat. “No. I’m not leaving him.”
“You’ll be right here,” she says, gentler now, but unyielding. “We’ll update you the second we know more.”
It feels like a door slamming shut. Like someone’s pulling me out of the only space tethering me to him. My legs move anyway, stumbling backward until the curtain sways between us. The fabric is so thin I can see shadows dancing against it, but it may as well be a wall of glass. He’s in there, and I’m not.
