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When the impact comes, it’s delayed as the world stills and the seconds stretch into minutes, but the delay does nothing to diminish the pain as I smack my ribs and head on the first step and the feeling of being skewered through my skull rips through me. With each hit, roll, bounce, the pain is excruciating. I give up my attempt to roll down the stairs in lieu of grabbing for anything to slow my descent.
It’s on the fourth or fifth roll I lose the battle—or maybe I win—with another strike to my head all goes dark, and I cease feeling anything at all.
I’m going to kill that son of a bitchis the first thought that crosses my mind when I see—even from my side view—the tears streaming down my Angel’s face and the sight of Austin’s hand on her arm as she jerks away.
I barely catch the end of their conversation, but it’s evident something is very wrong. She looks unsteady on her feet. My gut clenches, and I move with purpose to get to her before she can get to me.
But I’m not fast enough. Her wayward first step is catastrophic. The fear on her face and the terror in her scream has me bolting up the steps in horror as I watch her fall in slow motion. Her attempt to minimize it by rolling into a ball is admirable, but there is no way she’s getting out of this unharmed. I can see it happening, and I’m helpless to stop it. Once again, I’m not here in time to save my Angel.
I’ve heard the soundtrack of war. I know what grown men screaming in pain sound like. I know the sight and sound of flesh being ripped from bones. The cries and pleading of the enemy to have mercy on their souls.
But I will never get the sound of her body hitting the first step out of my head, or the sight of her bouncing to only hit again and again before I reach her.
When I finally do, I catch her head before it slams to the hard surface, but the impact of our meeting is not gentle. If it wasn’t for Austin coming from above, and Cameron hot on my heels, our collision—all 240 pounds of me slamming into her—could have caused her more damage than the fucking stairs. Somehow, in perfect timing they slowed our joining and each cushion a part of her body before it lands again and brace me to stop my forward momentum.
We still on the steps, frozen, afraid to move, our breathing the only sounds I hear besides the rush of blood in my ears as I look down at a lifeless angel.
“Frankie?” Breathlessly, I shout her name. When not much comes out, I take a deep breath and try again, “Frankie?”
Getting no response, I check for a pulse, careful to move her neck as little as possible.
“Is she breathing?” Cameron asks as Austin cries, “God, don’t let her die.”
“She’s got a pulse.” I keep my fingers steady, judging the strength of her heartbeat. “It’s strong.” Her chest moves with each breath. “She’s breathing.”
I tell Cameron and Austin not to move, and bark orders to anyone listening to call 9-1-1, and get the backboard and medical kit from her office. I’ve never been so happy I’m a medic in all my life. The training, the hard work, the pain, the tragedies I’ve seen and experienced have led me to this place of holding her life in my hands.
Once on the backboard, straps in place, we move her to the lobby where I assess the damage while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. She’s bleeding from a cut above her left ear. I place a cotton bandage against it and put Cameron to work holding it in place with slight pressure. Her lip is busted. Her nose is bleeding. Her eyes are swelling shut, but I’m able to confirm her pupils are reactive. The blood coming from her ears is concerning. I have no doubt she has a concussion, but a brain bleed will have to be assessed at the hospital.
“How is she?” Austin asks every few minutes.
Letting one of the other guys deal with his panicked state, I tune him out as I continue my exam. I go through a mental checklist as I feel across her collarbones, shoulders and arms. “Nothing broken.”
I lift up her shirt and ignore Cameron’s gasp at the sight of the contusion on her left side. “Probably broken ribs.” I note her right side seems to have taken less of a beating.
I move lower, palpating her abdomen, feeling her hips and down both legs to her feet. I glance at Cameron, his concern evident, but he’s keeping his shit together, which I appreciate. “I think it’s only her ribs and her head, but we won’t know for sure until imaging is performed.”
Sirens approach as I check her blood pressure again. It’s a little low, but steady. “She’s doing good. My girl’s a fighter.”
“Where did you learn to do all of this?” Cameron asks, adding more gauze to her head wound.
“I was a medic in the army.”
“He was Special Forces—a Green Beret,” Warren, the gym manager adds with pride.
Cameron’s eyes go wide. “Wow.”
“FormerGreen Berets,” I stress.
“Still. That’s impressive.” Cameron scans Frankie’s face. “She’s lucky you were here.”
“I’m not sure.” I sit back and hold her hand. The emotions I’m trained to hold back seep through my restraint, knowing the EMTs are close and my time to be the first responder is nearly up. I run a hand over my face. “Maybe she wouldn’t have fallen if I hadn’t called her name.”
REGRET AND SORROW ARE MY DAILYcompanions for two days now. My Angel hasn’t woken up. She’s banged up pretty bad, bruising all over her body. Her left side and head took the brunt of the damage. A few broken ribs, a concussion, and a face that looks like she lost a prize fight. But her scans came back clean, no internal bleeding, no brain bleeds, no brain swelling. She’s breathing on her own. IV meds to manage the pain and keep her hydrated. Yet, she still sleeps.
Rowdy hasn’t left her side, or mine for that matter. Yeah, I progressed from Cameron to Rowdy. He deemed me worthy. I guess it’s a good sign. If my Angel would just wake up, I’d have a chance of convincing her I’m worthy of her.
Though, I’m not. I knew it the first day I met her, and I reinforced it every day since, with maybe a blip or two where I really thought we had a chance. But the longer she stays unconscious, the harder I pray and the less I believe I deserve even a moment of her precious time.
