I Tried To Save My Neighbour's Life With CPR. After He Died, I Got A Text From His Wife I Never Saw Coming. |
I Tried To Save My Neighbour's Life With CPR. After He Died, I Got A Text From His Wife I Never Saw Coming.
My doorbell rang twice that morning. I had no idea my life was about to change.
At first I ignore the ringing, assuming it was just a HelloFresh box being delivered. Two rings seemed aggressive, but they’d just leave it by the door. Rolling over in bed, I set a timer for 30 minutes. It was already getting late, and I needed to get up, but I wanted a little more sleep.
The doorbell rang again. After quickly throwing on a pair of athletic shorts and scooping up a tank top from the floor, I open the door as I put on my glasses. Standing in front of me is my neighbour, hair wet, holding a cordless phone in one hand and looking panicked.
Six-inch-thick walls separate me from the other lives being lived in my building, but suddenly my timeline was merging with another.
“Nathan,” my neighbour stammers. “Something’s wrong… he’s not moving.”
I rush to the apartment next door – an apartment I’d never been inside before – and see her husband in his leather chair sitting completely still. The bearded man has some slippers on his feet, pyjama pants, a grey T-shirt and a pair of black round glasses. His mouth is slightly open, which makes him look asleep.
“We have to get him down,” she says.
Instinctively, I grab his torso while his wife momentarily puts down the phone – she’s still on the line with 911 – and grabs his legs, and together we begin to pull. His body is heavy, and his head flings back. Sliding him onto the cold, hard tile floor, I immediately start doing chest compressions to the beat of the Bee Gees Stayin’ Alive, like I’d been told to do years ago.
I- I- I- I’m- staying alive… staying alive.
Suddenly he convulses. His wife gasps. Was it working?
A few moments later his daughter, who had been at work, rushes in. We’re both in our early 30s, and she’s an only child, just like me. Her father (I didn’t know his name at this point) was in his early 70s, just like my father.
“Where the fuck are the paramedics? Are they lost?” she asks breathlessly.
“They said they’re coming,” her mother replies.
The daughter leaves the apartment to go look for them.
All I can think about is this man’s dignity and comfort. I ask for a pillow and put it under his head in case he convulses again. His mouth is still open. Is he breathing? Does he have a pulse? There is no time to check. I hear their little white dog barking in another room.
I- I- I- I’m- staying alive… staying alive.
I look over and see one of his slippers has fallen off. I want to put it back on, but don’t want to stop doing CPR. He convulses again. His arm smacks the tile. I want another pillow. I want to be gentle, hoping not to break any of his ribs. If you’re doing it right, the ribs will crack, I suddenly find myself thinking. Am I doing it right? His chest is going up and down with every press.
Just as I am getting tired, the 911 operator asks me to allow someone else to take over.
“Are you sure?” the operator asks.
I’m not about to subject his family to that.
“Have you done this before?” his wife asks me.
I tell her I’ve never done CPR before. I wish I’d lied. I’ve never been part of anything like this.
I flash back to when I was 16 and had the opportunity to see my great aunt die in hospice care but refused. I’m too afraid of death. It’s the boogeyman. My mom told me it would’ve been a good experience for me. Later I learned my aunt’s death had been peaceful, and that as she went, with family around her bed, her body made sounds as all the energy from a life well-lived left her body.
But what was happening in this room was not peaceful.
“You need to lift his shirt and make sure the palm of your hand is between his nipples, and lock your arms,” the 911 operator instructs. I don’t want to do it – I want to preserve what little dignity I can for this man – but when I do lift his shirt, his skin is warm. Is he........