How to Save a Life

They say that when you save a life you change. What happens to you if the person you’re trying to save dies? What if the man literally dies in your arms and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, even though you’re fighting like hell to save him?

I always wondered what I’d be like in an emergency. Would I panic? Would I know what to do or would I step back and let someone else take the lead? What if there wasn’t anyone else to take that lead? Could I step up?

I was riding my bike on a well-traveled trail three Marches ago. I took the trail farther than I had ever taken it before and was in a hurry to get back as time had gotten away from me. I was pushing hard and dreading the hill that I had never made it up before; the steepness necessitated me to get off and push it up the last third of the winding trail. Today I would make it up.

I pushed hard and geared down. Then I geared down more. I tried to gear to the lowest but I was already there and struggling, but sheer determination and the fact that I was riding with a friend who appeared to float up the hill with no effort forced me to dig deep, put the last ounce of strength into turning those pedals and finally, finally, crest the hill. We stopped to enjoy the view and the victory, panting hard, and saw a man who had pitched over the top of his bike, face down on the side of the trail, feet still tangled in the pedals and butt pointed to the sky. His head was grotesquely twisted to the side and he was not moving.

We tossed our bikes off trail and rushed over, wary that his neck might be broken from the angle his chin was laying on the ground. My friend cautioned me not to move him but I reached down and felt for a pulse. I felt, and felt again. Nothing. I moved over to his ankle, high on the pedals. No pulse.

I know we moved quickly but it felt like we were moving through jello. Another hiker happened on the scene and I directed him to help me carefully untangle to man from his bike and move the bicycle to the side. While I was supporting his head, we rolled him to his back and chest compressions were started.

I held his head. My friend is a large, ex-pro athlete and was amped up on adrenaline. Urged on by the 911 dispatcher, he was enthusiastically pumping on the chest. I was using my entire body to stabilize the man’s neck and head to keep his body from bouncing.

The man gasped. It was a long, raspy gasp that rattled deep. I thought that the eerie noise meant he was returning to consciousness. His mouth opened and I saw his teeth tinged with blood. I removed his sunglasses and immediately regretted it. At that point I knew he had died.

There’s something beautiful about eyes. They sparkle and shine and smile and show depth. His eyes had none of that. I have no fancy words to describe them. They were dead eyes. I knew. I regretted taking off the glasses.

We were on top of a hill with no real access. I could hear sirens coming but it took fifteen minutes for the first responders to get to us. Even though we were in the middle of a large city, we were inaccessible. The first EMT came running up the hill, carrying a large bag and panting. He was followed by a woman, also in uniform. They had to take a moment to recover while we continued chest compressions, fighting for this man with the dead eyes.

We moved aside and watched. They continued working on him as more and more police and emergency responders flooded the scene. We eventually gave our names to a police officer and remounted our bikes. The man was loaded on to a stretcher and carried out. We rode off in the other direction.

Two days later I found out he died. They told us he was probably already dead when we found him and did CPR. He had a pulmonary aneurism while on the trail. His wife had gone ahead of him and taken a phone call. When he did not arrive, she backtracked and saw us doing CPR on her husband, frantically trying to save him. His name was Michael.

I cried when I heard the news of Michael’s death. I cried for this man that I had never met but fought so hard to save. I cried for his family, his new wife and his teenage children. I cried for his life cut short, way too soon. I cried for myself, because I had tried so hard and failed.

People say that experiences like that change you. I disagree. You just get to see what you’re made of. You see your true self, tested. And it’s up to you if you like that person.

I discovered I am good in an emergency. I am clear thinking and I don’t panic. I discovered I care very deeply and I feel my feelings very hard. I discovered I am more empathetic than I thought and I am not as afraid as I believed. I like the things I found out about myself. And I still grieve for Michael, every March 18th.