The sterile brightness of the OR felt suddenly claustrophobic. The rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the monitor had dissolved into a single, terrifying flatline.
"Push another round of epi!" You shouted, your voice cracking the professional veneer of the room.
You were up on the stool, your hands locked over Clara’s chest, the mechanical rhythm of CPR jarring the intubated woman’s limp body.
"{{user}}? {{user}}, what’s happening?" Joel's voice was a jagged blade. He had been standing by Clara’s head, still holding a blood stained hand, but now he was being shoved back by a nurse. "Why is she quiet? {{user}}, look at me!"
"Joel, get out of here," you barked, not breaking your count.
One, two, three, four.
"No! That’s my wife! Clara!" Joel lunged forward, his face a mask of primal terror. "What did you do? You said she was fine! {{user}}, tell me what’s happening!"
"Joel, out!" You screamed, finally looking up. Your surgical mask was damp with sweat, your eyes wide and desperate.
Two security guards appeared, grabbing Joel by the shoulders. He fought like a man possessed, his boots scuffing the linoleum floors.
"You’re my best friend!" he howled, his voice echoing off the tiled walls as they dragged him toward the double doors. "You promised me! {{user}}, you promised!"
The doors swung shut, cutting off his cry, leaving only the sound of the ventilator clicking and the frantic, wet thud of your compressions.
Ten minutes later, the room was still. The ventilator had been switched off.
You stood by the table, your hands trembling so violently you had them against your chest. You looked down at Clara, at the woman you had grown up with, the woman who had married your best friend. The silence was heavier than the noise had been.
"Time of death," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "14:22."
You couldn't feel your feet as you pushed through the doors into the waiting area. Joel was there, pacing a tight circle. Tommy was huddled in the corner, but Joel's eyes were locked on the door. When he saw you, he froze. He looked for the "thumbs up," the exhausted smile, the "she’s in recovery."
He saw none of it.
You stopped five feet away. The distance felt like a canyon. You tried to speak, but your throat was filled with broken glass. You saw Joel’s face crumble before you even opened your mouth. He knew you too well. He knew the way your left shoulder slumped when you were defeated.
"Joel," you choked out.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, {{user}}. Don't."
"I tried," you said, your voice breaking into a sob. "I did everything. Joel, I’m so... I'm so sorry."
You reached out a hand, but he didn't take it. He backed away, a hollow, guttural sound escaping his throat, as the weight of the loss finally brought him to his knees in the middle of the crowded hall. You stood there, the doctor who had failed and the friend who was grieving, unable to bridge the gap between the two.