Page 6 of Holiday Love
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 knowhowto 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. Ican’tstop.
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.
