I Got You

“Doug, stop snoring. Doug, Doug!

What the hell? I’m trying to sleep and wake up to this nonsense. If he’s being too loud just go sleep on the couch already.

My mom gets louder, “DOUG! STOP! Wake UP!” Is he serious right now? Our bedrooms share a wall. I don’t hear him, so her annoyance can’t be worth all this commotion.

More desperately now, “DOUG, WAKE UP! HELP, HELP, GREG, WAKE UP, HELP, HELP!”

I’m wide awake. I jump out of bed and instantly am in their room. The smell is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. A sour, sickly odor fills the room. My mom is pushing my dad back and forth violently. “DOUG, DOUG. WAKE UP!” Dad is sucking air into his lungs with a horrid rasp “Hrrrrrrk, hrrrrrrrk.” Mom is frantic, “Greg, help.” I pull her away and look at him. “Mom, call 911!” She runs to the kitchen to grab the phone off the wall. Never in my life have I seen someone’s skin so pallid. His year-round tan has turned waxen-yellow. When I touch him I can feel a thick, cool clamminess coat his skin. His body has gone rigid. Already, too much time has passed in the last thirty seconds. He’s not breathing, so I start CPR. I’ve never had formal training, but I know the guidelines, fifteen compressions and two breaths. Putting my two hands together, I start pumping on his chest. Every time I push down, he sinks down into the mattress. I need to get him off the bed. One arm under his neck, the other under his legs, I lift this 5 foot 7 giant up. Not one part of him bends. He seems weightless as I place him on the floor.

I start again with the compressions. His chest pushes into his body so much I’m afraid I’m going to break him. When I breathe into his mouth I can feel just how cold his skin is. An eternity has occurred in the last three minutes. My mom comes back into the room. “They’re sending an ambulance.” It needs to get here. It needs to be here now. I continue with the compressions and breaths, “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.” Two breaths. “One. Two. Three . . .” I’m hoping for Dad to have a dramatic recovery like I’ve seen in TV shows and movies. Instead, I just keep pressing, keep breathing.

The silence hits me. It’s worse than the rasping and nearly causes me to stop. Dad isn’t making any sounds now. I pause to check his breathing. I listen, nothing. I put my hand by his mouth to feel air, nothing. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Is he alive? Is he dead? Where is the ambulance? “Mom, call 911 again. Make sure the ambulance is coming. See where it is?” She scrambles back to the kitchen.

“I called for an ambulance . . . Are you sure? . . . Do you know where it is?. . . Please hurry.” She hangs up and comes back to the bedroom. “They said it’s on the way. They couldn’t give me an exact location.” Each time I breathe into Dad’s mouth, I can see and feel his chest fill with air. At least that is working.

The ambulance will be here soon. “Mom, get dressed,” I direct.

“What, why?” she confusingly replies.

“We need to be ready to leave when the ambulance arrives.”

“OK.” She’s in the room, but I don’t even notice her changing her clothes.

All of a sudden, flashing lights from outside fill the room. The ambulance must be here. “Mom, unlock the door, leave it open.” Still I keep pumping Dad’s chest. The EMTs are still outside. They need to be inside already. Mom’s not in the room. She must be outside. Impatiently, I jump up and look outside the bedroom door. I try to see what’s going on outside, but I just see shadowy movements through the blinds. I’m struck by the brightness of our apartment. The oddness of all lights being on at 2:30ish in the morning creates a surreal atmosphere. The light stretches into every hidden nook of the apartment. The normally cluttered dining room table is remarkably free of all the odds and ends that are normally deposited there because they don’t have a permanent home. The shadows from outside are closer. The EMTs are coming in.

Mom directs them to their room and they quickly get to work. Mom stands back and watches. They quickly take over CPR and attach a breathing bag to Dad’s mouth. They start asking questions, one after another. When they ask if we performed CPR, I feel like I’m being interrogated. Did I do something wrong? The paramedics continue to work. The small bedroom and dining room quickly become crowded. Since I need to be ready to leave, I go back to my room and change clothes. By the time I come out, the EMTs already have my dad on the stretcher and are taking him away. Mom is still watching. Angst and fear show in her face. I hold her. She seems so frail. “It’s going to be OK. He has help now,” I tell her, not sure if I am comforting her or lying to myself.

One of the paramedics tells us they are taking him to Illinois Masonic Hospital. They’ve loaded my dad into the ambulance by the time we get into the car. I expect to follow them as soon as they leave, but a fire engine blocks the street. They are putting away their gear. I don’t have time to wait, so I back down the one way street. The ambulance is out of sight now. I get to the corner and turn. I want to scream or cry, but I look over and focus on Mom, pale and shaking. As I put the car in drive, I reach out my hand and grab hers. “I’m here. I got you.”