It was his heart.
I did CPR and all that shit, I knew it by heart, and I called 911 and I have no recollection of how I managed both at the same time, so I’ve second guessed myself ever since. I knew he was gone before I even started, after that last noise he’d made had died out…I knew he was gone. But I did what I was supposed to do anyhow, because you have to. And I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t.
The hardest thing I have ever done was call my parents on their one night out, to tell them to rush to the hospital. The EMTs were keeping him alive until they got there, not that I told them that because after all nobody had really said that. All the people cleared out in a rush, putting him on the gurney, beating his chest as I collapsed with fatigue (how could they keep on going like that?), and as soon as they were all out of the room, I started to cry, even as I reached for my phone to make that call.