"Where's that damn cart?" I demand of no one in particular.
As if summoned by my frustration, I hear the rattle of wheels on tile. Medical staff arrive with practiced efficiency, pushing equipment and calling out to each other in the shorthand of emergency medicine.
I keep counting. Keep pushing. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. I won't be the one who stops too soon.
The medical team arrives with a gurney, and I don't break my rhythm. The count in my head is all that matters. When they position the gurney beside us, one of the nurses tries to take over, but I shake my head sharply. "I've got him. Just get me up there with him." Without waiting for permission, I shift my weight to maintain compressions while they transfer his body to the stretcher. The second he's secure, I swing myself up onto the gurney, straddling him awkwardly but effectively, my hands never leaving his chest.
"Ma'am, you can't…" someone starts.
"It's Doctor," I correct, not looking up. "And yes, I can. He's been down at least three minutes. We need continuous compressions until we get him on the monitors."
The gurney lurches into motion, and I adjust my balance, my thighs tensing to keep steady as we speed through the lobby. People scatter like startled birds, their faces blurring as we pass. Some stare. I don't care. The only face that matters right now is the one beneath me.
Sweat trickles down my spine beneath my silk blouse. I'll be a wrinkled, sweaty mess for my first day, but if this man walks out of here alive, it'll be worth every damp, rumpled second.
"Almost there," the nurse at my side says.
We burst through the ER doors like we're filming a medical drama, minus the dramatic soundtrack. Just the squeak of wheels, the slap of running shoes on linoleum, and my own voice counting under my breath. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." Two more breaths.
The ER is a storm of controlled chaos. It’s organized, efficient, but buzzing with energy. Monitors beep, phones ring, voices call out vitals and orders in a symphonic mesh of urgency and routine. We navigate through it all, aiming for a bay where a team is already waiting.
"What've we got?" a doctor asks, glancing up from a chart.
"Cardiac arrest, down approximately four minutes now," I respond automatically. "No visible medical alert jewelry, no ID yet. Started CPR immediately, no prior interventions."
The doctor's eyebrows lift slightly at my rapid-fire assessment, but he nods and takes command. "Get him on the monitors. Prepare to intubate. Where's that crash cart?"
We reach the bay, and the gurney locks into place with a metallic click. Hands reach in from all sides, attaching leads, inserting IVs, preparing equipment. I keep my position, keep pushing, until someone touches my shoulder.
"We've got him now," the doctor says. "Let us take over."
This time, I nod and slide off the gurney, my legs wobbly from the strain. I step back, catching my breath, as they connect theman to the monitors. A flatline screams across the screen, its high-pitched wail confirming what my hands already knew.
"Charge to two-hundred," the doctor orders, accepting the paddles from a nurse. "Clear."
Everyone steps back. The man's body jerks as the current passes through him. But the monitor continues its ominous tone.
"Again. Three-hundred. Clear."
Another jolt. Nothing.
"Push one epi. Charge to three-sixty."
I watch, my hands clenched at my sides, willing his heart to remember how to beat.Come on, I think.I didn't drag you this far for you to give up now.
"Clear!"
His back arches with the force of the shock. For a moment, nothing changes. Then, like a miracle translated into sound, the monitor shifts from a continuous wail to a series of rapid beeps. A rhythm appears on the screen—irregular, but there.
"We've got a pulse," someone announces.
Relief floods through me, so powerful I take an involuntary step backward right into something solid and warm. I spin around, hands coming up instinctively, and find myself staring directly into the darkest eyes I've ever seen.
Oh.
Oh no.
I know those eyes. I've seen them in medical journal photographs, conference headshots, hospital PR materials. They belong to the same face I've studied across lecture halls and crowded symposiums, hoping for a chance to introduce myself someday.
