That Look

The Picture on the Wall

She looked happy. And beautiful. She wore a white wedding dress that flared at her hips and followed her physique well. The dress looked elegant and very, very expensive. Her smile lit up the picture with those straight white teeth. He stood to her left with his hand around her waist. He looked happy, too. I could see in his eyes that any smile bigger than the one he was wearing would look goofy; he had to tone down his happiness to look “normal for the picture,” and that was… beautiful.

His eyes were dark and so full of life. They both had great tans, too. The picture was vivid, with green trees in the background, set in a vintage white gazebo with chipped paint and a rough look to the wood. The happiness seemed to jump out of the frame.

The Reality in the Hallway

The edge of the frame is where happiness ended. Outside that picture frame was a dimly lit wall, a dark blue paint with white trim, surrounding a bedroom door to the left and a bathroom door to the right. The lighting didn’t align right; this picture needed museum-quality lighting to pull that happiness further into the room. Not all pictures are worthy, but this one was.

This picture was surrounded by blue, slightly crusty walls, bad lighting, and death.

But that wasn’t them. That was a picture. Right now, she was behind me, down the half flight of stairs, pacing back and forth in the living room. He lay to the right of the picture, just outside the bathroom. He was wearing grey sweatpants with holes in them and a stained white T-shirt. His hair was messy and disheveled, unwashed for days, and the dirty hair was evident if you got close enough. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe forties, and nowhere near as fit as in the picture. He lay under that picture with his head awkwardly under a small table. Everything about his physical appearance could have been normal. Except for the fact that his face was a deep shade of purple, slightly swollen, and he wasn't breathing. He was dead.

You Are Never Going To Forget This

I heard three things at that moment. The mechanical whir of the CPR machine (Lucas Device) doing compressions, the shuffle of my coworkers doing their jobs without speaking, and a voice as vivid as someone speaking into an earpiece. Oddly enough, it was in my right ear, perhaps because he was to my right, whispering—almost pausing for effect—“You are never going to forget this.”

Five Seconds to Know

I was working the "writer" position that day, so I was first to the patient. I stepped out of the ambulance, reported "Rescue 1, Engine 1 on scene," and walked quickly to the door. I was greeted by the panicked wife, appearing older than in the picture but still attractive, with blonde hair, light blue panicked eyes, that great tan, and those straight white teeth. I walked into the house and said three words: "Where is he?" She pointed upstairs. As I took the stairs two at a time, I yelled back, "What's his name?" I don't remember her answer because in the next five seconds, I knew I wouldn't need it. His face was purple. He was dead. With experience, you gain a quick eye for it. I knew within five seconds that he wasn't coming back.

The Sound of Breaking Ribs

I immediately moved my hands to his chest, squared my shoulders, and pushed down hard. What happened next is something everyone who's done CPR remembers: the feeling of ribs cracking under your hands. It's usually the cartilage giving way in sudden pops, like the deepest, hardest back crack you can imagine. Pop. Pop pop.......pop. I hated it so much. It's like burning memories into my palms. The second worst part of my day was over. My crew arrived, and I shifted away, directing them to take over while I cleared the small table awkwardly positioned over his head.

The Fading Hope and The Official TOD

Downstairs, I began the interview with his wife. I typed on my iPad as she recounted his medical history, her voice becoming more distant. I knew that look ..that sound in her voice– the blank stare of disbelief. My job wasn't to comfort, but to gather information, even as I watched her hope fade. After thirty minutes of relentless ACLS, the cardiac monitor still showed the infamous flatline. I called the doctor, who agreed it was time. I received the official TOD (time of death).

"I Don't Know What To Do"

I went downstairs, the final act feeling like a formality. She was pacing, but froze when she saw me, half-turned, her face empty. She knew. "Can you please have a seat?" I said in the most respectful, solemn tone I could muster.

She whimpered, "Oh god, I know what this is." My voice was shaky, but I had to be direct. "He is deceased." I felt cold, but it was my job. "I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am." She stammered again, "I don't know what to do." I knew exactly what she meant.

Cleared of the Scene

The worst part of my day was over. I had just told a woman her husband was dead. I've done it before, and it won't be the last, but I fucking hate it. As we cleaned up, there was a sense of solace among the crew. We all felt it, but this was the job.

The mood soon began to shift. Someone cracked a joke, and we all started laughing. As I settled in the passenger seat, I told dispatch, "Rescue 1 clear of the scene. We’ll be en route to the hospital for restocking.” I still had report writing to finish before lunch.

Lunch! I forgot that lunch was taco salad. Taco salad is my absolute favorite, and I'm excited to get back to it. I hope we don't catch another call before we can get back to the station.