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The man wasn’t breathing.
John went to one side of our patient, and I knelt down at the other.
And the gathered people’s voices sounded out as if a single note of absolute heartache.
I attached the electrodes as John prepared the bag-mask.
And the song rose and fell in the sweetest sound of despair and love and desolation.
I switched the defib on, as John started compressing the bulb on the mask. The O2bottle hissed as it delivered its life-giving oxygen.
And the voices wrapped around us, filling the gaps inside my soul.
“Asystole,” John said, still compressing the bulb on the O2mask in a steady rhythm.
And the voices rose in harmony, the song changing in tone.
I started compressions, as John continued to breathe for our patient.
And angels sang a song of such sweet sorrow.
“Charge the unit,” John said when we paused to check the ECG.
The whine of the defib charging set a sharp counterpoint to the singing that filled the hall with such aching devotion.
“All clear?” I asked as John pulled the bag-mask back from the body.
The patient’s large form jolted, the defib made a sound.
And angels welcomed home one of their own.
We tried again. And again. When normally we wouldn’t. Neither John nor I said a word, other than to coordinate our movements.
And angels sang a song of grief and sorrow.
The lights blazed above us. The man didn’t respond to our efforts.
And angels sang a song of grief and sorrow.
My arms hurt. My back ached. John had started sweating.
And angels sang a song of grief and sorrow.
My face became wet with tears. John’s eyes shone too brightly.
And angels sanga song ofgrief and sorrow.
