Cardiac Arrest

“We’re losing her!”

My heartbeat quickens and the rest of my body struggles to keep up. Shaking in place, I peer around the room in a panic. Dr. Skidwell stands over me. His face wrinkles, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. Several nurses rush into the room. I take deep breaths, each like a hammer striking my chest. One nurse takes my hand as if that would help. Another shoves the scalpel and equipment to the doctor’s side. The machine attached to my body emits an earsplitting ring and my body descends into numbness.

“Hang on, Gaia!” The nurse lets go of me and places a device over my face, cupping my nose and mouth. I breathe in the chemicals as a calming sensation sweeps through. “Doctor, what should we do?”

“We have no choice but to operate,” says Dr. Skidwell, eyeing a nurse and pointing a shaking finger toward the door. “Get me the rest of the equipment.”

The nurse’s eyes widen. “Right now, sir? We don’t know if it—”

“I don’t have time for this, Jackie. Go!”

She nods and heads out of the room just as another nurse wheels in a large cart. What does he mean by “operate”? If my heart is failing, aren’t I dead either way? This is it. The end of my stupid teenage life. I wish Dad were here. I want to tell him I love him, that I didn’t want to leave him like this. Not after what happened to Mom.

The rush of footsteps and shouts begin to die out and my eyes become heavy. A part of me fights the anesthetic, wanting to hang on for just a bit longer. I’m too weak. It’s already running its course. My eyes shutting, I see Dr. Skidwell raising several gleaming medical instruments, one of them a scalpel. Sleep tugs at me. I try to squirm, fighting to get away, but my body lays still. I wish I could think good thoughts, yet only anger rises to the surface. It shouldn’t end like this. I’ll never get to go to college, eat pancakes at Sally’s, never realize I’m wasting my life on meaningless work. If only I just had a life to waste. I’m not good at dying, but it’s not like it makes a difference.

Goodbye, Dad.