The Last Heartbeat
A narrative essay detailing my firsthand experience with the death of a loved one.
CW // Death
Sixteen green lines darted across the screen; sixteen constantly changing puzzles needing to be solved, sixteen heartbeats, sixteen lives. Each line, each bump, could mean the difference between life and death. I allowed my mind to wander back to the first time I experienced death. After a visit with my dear friends Susan and Gary ran later than anticipated, I postponed traveling home until morning. That night, Gary died from a heart attack, and I was not able to save him; the experience became the catalyst for my career in telemetry.
The early morning stillness was shattered by loud thuds. A dull ache in my stomach alerted me that something was wrong before I heard Susan’s harrowing screams. I sprung out of bed, unaware that I was running towards a scene that I would revisit frequently in my nightmares. Gary’s “World’s Best Grandpa” mug sat undisturbed, carefully placed on the top step of the stairwell, still full of coffee. His joy was tangible whenever he talked about his newborn grandson. As I rounded the corner, I saw Gary convulsing at the base of the stairs. Blood seeped from a large wound on his head, forming a pool around his body. His wife, Susan, kneeled over him, alternating between CPR, and sobbing his name. Descending the stairs, I saw that his skin, normally full of color and life, had turned a sickly grey.
I sprinted back to the guest room, grabbed my cellphone, and dialed 911 with shaking fingers. Service unavailable — the call would not go through. I rushed through the house, finding only empty phone bases. I ripped through blankets until I found a phone tangled amongst them.
“A 52-year-old man fell down the stairs. I do not think he is breathing,” I said evenly, trying to hide the panic I felt. “We need help right away.”
The operator responded nonchalantly, not understanding the severity of the emergency. She inaccurately repeated information back to me; I corrected her multiple times. She promised that help was on the way. I ran through the brisk air, to the road, yelling and flailing my arms to stop the emergency vehicles as they flew past the house to the wrong address. The sirens faded in the distance. Five minutes felt like five hours. At last, they turned around, coming back. First responders flooded the living room.
“Clear!” They said, over and over.
Susan and I sat at the dining room table watching helplessly as they attempted forty long minutes of lifesaving measures. Bruises were beginning to form on her raw knees. We dared not utter the words. We both knew.
Gary’s heart had stopped. We were assured that there was nothing that we could have done. If he had not succumbed to the massive heart attack, the severe brain injury he sustained during his fall down the stairs would have been fatal. My own heart ached seeing Gary lying motionless on the gurney. I wished desperately that I could have saved him.
My mind wandered back to the telemetry screen, the past fading, as extra bumps in one rhythm caught my eye. These bumps indicated a complete heart block. The rhythm belonged to a young, healthy grandmother who was being monitored per protocol after an elective surgery. She was scheduled to be discharged the next morning. Without immediate intervention, she would die. The cardiologist was called, and the woman was scheduled for an emergency pacemaker. They told me it was a great catch. I could not save Gary, but I saved this woman, and now she would live to see her grandchildren grow.
