On a Sunday

It was about 8 oclock on a perfect summer evening. We were all out on the back deck.

The woman who rents the downstairs suite came up and strangely asked, "who is good under pressure....I don't think my husband is breathing...."

Jen and I flew down the stairs..."he's in the bedroom..."

I got to him and didn't find a pulse..."phone 911..."

I was pumping his chest. Vomit on his mouth. No breathing. Jen pumped him while I blew, inflating his chest a few time. Then I was back on his chest. The 911 operator wanted him on the floor, so we got him down. I blew again a few times and then was back working his chest.

The emergency crew arrived and took over.

Jen and I were out with the wife, as she struggled with the questions of the response team. More arrived. We had at least one ambulance, a fire truck, and a couple of cop cars.

A machine was breathing for him, and the team alternated on CPR. Pretty soon they were bathed in sweat.

They worked for a very long time until they decided to move him. Was that a good sign, or bad?

Jen drove the wife to the hospital, and stayed with her.

The team had left some equipment behind. I got the firemen to collect it.

The apartment looked like a hurricane had blown through, for of course, it had. I didn't think she should have to return to that. I vacuumed up the floor, and picked up the wrappers and such, and a spent needle. The firemen had tried to get it all but that would have been impossible. I put the furniture back. Oliver washed the stained bedding.

We went back upstairs. A text came from Jen.

Chris was gone.