Page 5 of Holiday Love
The heart monitor goes crazy, flashing red. I turn to watch Teddy’s heart rate fall like a rock thrown off a cliff.
80, 70, 60 beats per minute.
Larry isn’t watching the monitor. He stares at me, waiting for my answer.
Panic overrides rational thought. My lips move before I can stop them and I say, “Never seen him before.” The lie burns, a bitter pill I choke down knowing how wrong it is, but in this moment, I only have one priority.
Save Teddy.
Larry steps closer, his voice tense. “Helen—”
30.
A sickening, gut-churning dreadswallows me whole.
20.
“He’s going into bradycardia,” I yell, my stomach sinking along with his heart. Fear turns into terror when the rhythm suddenly shifts. Those slowing beeps transform into one long continuous wail of the monitor.
Larry hustles to the top of the bed. “He’s not breathing.” He places his fingers under Teddy’s chin, searching for the carotid artery. His expression turns grim. “No pulse.”
I stare at the monitor. Flatline. No more beats. No more blood pumping.
Dead.
Teddy’s dead.
I suck in the breath that he is no longer capable of.
He’s never going to laugh again, surf again, dance again…touch me again.
No!
I won’t accept that.
“Asystole! Get the crash cart. I need epinephrinenow!” In one fluid motion, I throw back the blanket that covers his chest, drop the bedside railing, and use my foot to lower his bed. I’m short so I need him beneath me for the chest compressions I’m about to administer to have any effect. I lace my hands together and press them to his bare sternum, right over his heart. Under my fingers, his skin is cold and waxy. Keeping my arms extended, I push down, counting out loud starting at one. Teddy’s chest caves in under my weight.
My hair hangs down in front of me, a swaying, straight black curtain. Teddy was right—last Christmas my hair came to my shoulders, but I haven’t cut it since. Now it reaches the middle of my back.
Larry’s still in the room. I shout at him over the cacophony of the monitors. “Epi! I need Epi!Go.”
He runs to the door, almost crashing into Lindsey, who sprints in just as fast as he’s running out. I’ve almost counted to twenty when suddenly the room erupts as the rest of the critical response crew rush in. Nurses, respiratory techs, and other team members crowd the small room until it’s claustrophobic.
All of them look to me for instructions.
Neal, my most-experienced nurse, enters with the rest of them. Without a word, I step aside and let him take over compressions. It’s not something we discuss. We’ve worked together long enough that this is a dance we’ve perfected. He’s strong and can do this for hours without tiring.
I move to the head of the bed, the standard position for the person running a code. Lindsey stands close to me with a pen and a sheet of paper. She’ll be the recorder. Her job is to write down exactly what happens. She’ll note what medications were given at what time and who administered them.
“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 andover again.
