Page 21 of After Everything
I'd seen the signs five minutes before the monitors started screaming: oxygen saturation dropping, respiratory rate climbing, that particular kind of restlessness that meant someone's body was shutting down. By the time the alarms went off, I already had the crash cart positioned and was calling for the attending.
"V-fib," I announced, watching the monitor. "Starting compressions."
The next ten minutes were controlled chaos. Compressions, intubation, meds pushed, everyone moving in the choreographed dance we'd practiced a thousandtimes. The attending called it, adjustments were made, we shocked her twice, and then?—
"We've got sinus rhythm," the attending said.
I stepped back, breathing hard, my hands aching from compressions. Mrs. Ellis’ monitor showed a steady heartbeat. Still critical, still touch-and-go, but alive.
"Good catch, Emma," the attending said, making notes on her chart. "You got ahead of it."
I nodded, too wired to speak. This was what I was good at. This was what I'd trained for. Reading the signs, acting fast, keeping people alive.
This was mine. No one could take this from me.
"Take your break," the attending added. "You've been on for six hours straight."
I stripped off my gloves, washed my hands, and headed for the break room. My legs felt shaky, but that was normal: adrenaline crash, always happened after a code. I needed to sit down. Drink some water. Breathe.
The break room was empty. I sank into one of the plastic chairs and pulled out my phone.
Seventeen blocked messages.
All from David.
I'd blocked his number the day after I kicked him out, but the messages still showed up in a separate folder. Filtered and quarantined, like spam. I didn't have to read them if I didn't want to.
But sometimes, when I was tired or the shift had been particularly brutal, I looked.
Not because I missed him. Not because I was considering responding. But because there was something satisfying about watching his desperation play out in real time, knowing I didn't have to do anything about it.
The first week had been predictable.
Emma, please. Can we talk? I love you. I'm so sorry.
Standard cheater apology template. Nothing original. Nothing that suggested he actually understood what he'd done.
Week two got more specific. Long paragraphs about how he'd made a terrible mistake, how Sarah meant nothing, how he'd end it (like it wasn't already over), how he'd do anything to fix this. Promises. So many promises.
Week three, after I'd filed for divorce, the tone shifted. Anger crept in.
You're really going to throw away eight years over this? You're not even willing to TALK to me?
Like I owed him a conversation. Like I was being unreasonable.
Week four, back to desperation.
I signed the papers. I did everything you asked. Can we please just meet?Just once?
Week five:
I lost my partnership. They demoted me. I know you probably don't care, but I thought you should know.
He was right. I didn't care.
Week six:
Sarah won't talk to me either. I lost everything, Emma. You, her, my career. Was that what you wanted?
