Stan

I’ve been writing this blog in my head for several days now. The title and first sentence changes but the outcome is always the same. I’ve entitled this:

• I wanted the outcome to be different
• I can still taste him on my lips
• It wasn’t what I expected
• Life is immediate and so is death
• Sadness but no guilt

The list is ever changing, the experience fades to memory yet sometimes pops up to be relived in slices. Ultimately, I have settled on “Stan.”

I didn’t know Stan in life, but we were intimate. One Monday, Stan and his crew came to deliver our new hot tub. After 10 years, the old tub was no longer worth investing in – it leaked like a sieve. Shya and I had found the perfect replacement at a pool and spa store in Flemington, New Jersey. I sat in it in the showroom and we went for it, having it delivered before the weather turned wintery again – the day before Shya’s 84th birthday.

I had very little to do with the early part of the delivery, although I know Shya trimmed bushes and helped prepare the way. Stan and his crew showed up for what we later learned was their first delivery of the season – they didn’t do this kind of thing in the deep winter months. The weather was rather mild that day.

I offered them all a cup of coffee and they declined – Shya included. So I took my little cup of espresso to the office and settled in at the computer to handle emails and get on with my day.

Before long, Shya called my name. From the tone I could tell it was urgent. I jumped up and ran to the window. The old hot tub was standing on its side, a man was sprawled on the deck. Running down the spiral staircase I heard the shout, “Get water.”

I thought the man had passed out. I grabbed a glass I thought would be easiest to hold, filled it and ran outside. Shya was already on his cellphone with the 911 operator. The other two men were shouting, slapping Stan’s face. When I got close, they put their hands in my glass and sprinkled water on his face.

On my knees, I put the glass down. Felt his neck. Nothing. No pulse. No life energy either. Odd, flat. Training kicked in. Chest compressions – Go!

His compatriots were distraught – screaming to the woods, doubling over, running back and forth. One, two, three, four…. “What’s his name?” I shouted. (I didn’t know him, yet.)

“Stan!” they yelled in unison.

“Come on Stan. I got you. We’ve got you. We can do this. You gotta fight.”

Mahogany skin, eyes wide open, pupils wide and fixed. I pinched his nose and put my mouth over his. His was much wider and bigger than mine but I had to try. Biggest breath. Blow once, twice. Again: Pump, pump pump. Shya relaying info. The men screaming.

“Stop!” I commanded. “That isn’t helping.” Immediate quiet. “Okay,” the younger man replied.

Everything is immediate. Stan expels a couple of breaths. We think we’ve got him back. Brief pause, but no. Go again. Breathe for him again. His saliva coats my lips. I can taste him. Shya takes over. He does compressions. I grab a packing quilt that had been discarded on the deck. It’s bright blue. I slide it under my knees and take over from Shya once again. The 911 operator says to do 100 compressions per minute and to count.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, one, two, three, four…

On it goes. EMS is coming. The operator asks if our address is printed on the mailbox. I look up at the younger of the two men.

“I’ll wait at the end of the drive.” He volunteers and sprints off to the front.

Sirens in the distance.

“Here they come, Stan. Keep hanging in there. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

Soon a state trooper arrives. I keep compressing, keep counting, One, two, three, four, five.

More troopers. Finally EMS. I keep compressing, keep counting.

A man kneels next to me. I don’t glance at him. I keep compressing. From the corner of my eye I see white wrists and black nitrile gloves over his hands.

“Ready?” I say.

“Yes,” He replies.

“Go,” I say as I lift my hands and move out of the way so he can take over.

Stan’s life is now out of my hands.

The young black man standing near me, one of Stan’s companions, is stricken, in shock, horrified. I wrap my arms around him.

“I got you.”

He clings to me. We hold each other.

Frank is the young man’s name. Stan is his uncle. Men continue to pour from around the house and two emerge from our back door – they must have walked right through. A CPR machine is put around Stan’s body and it takes over the compressions. An intubation tube is inserted down his throat with an airbag affixed to breathe for him. Stimulant applied via injection. Multiple shocks. A port screwed into his shinbone and something injected directly.

Six men lift Stan onto the gurney and wheel him around front to the ambulance. Tall men all standing around, a closed circle, standing vigil. I am no longer needed.

I am now simply the “the homeowner.”

For the first time since encountering Stan, time slowed for me. I see that cars with flashing lights crowd our driveway and line our rural road on both sides of the drive and both sides of the street.

“Any news?” I ask.

Someone tells me, “Last I heard, his pulse comes and goes.”

A bit later, when asked, another trooper tells Shya, “They haven’t pronounced yet.” We took that to mean the paramedics hadn’t pronounced Stan dead, so perhaps there was still a chance.

The ambulance sat there as they worked on him. It ultimately pulled off at a more sedate pace than I would expect if one were trying to get to a hospital for advanced emergency care. I had the fleeting thought that Stan’s life was done and they needed to inform next of kin before saying anything more. I swept the thought aside. I hoped.

Soon all were gone except one detective named Dan – first or last name, I don’t know – and the two remaining delivery men. I stood next to Detective Dan as Shya helped Frank and his partner get things squared away before they left.

“Are you alright?” Dan asked.

“Yes. I have never been more happy in my life that I took two CPR classes. My husband called 911 within a minute of the collapse and I started CPR within a minute and a half, two at most.”

“If that man makes it, you have you and your husband to thank for that.”

“I was surprised,” I continued. “The other two were screaming and doubling over and slapping his face and wanted to sprinkle water on him. Stan wasn’t my uncle so I don’t know how I would have reacted, but still.”

“They’ve watched too many movies,” Dan commented softly as we watched Shya direct the fellow maneuvering the truck and trailer.

“Yes, I guess that could be true. I’m glad Shya is keeping them busy. I think it’s helping.”

Shya’s calm direction was grounding them, to be sure, but watching them while chatting with the detective was grounding me also.

After that, Detective Dan and I chatted about inconsequential things. It was good to be alive.

Before Frank left, I got his number so we could text, and throughout the day we exchanged some hopeful messages. Later that night, 10:56 pm to be exact, Frank sent me a simple text: He passed.

As I am writing this, I am profoundly grateful to be alive. Shya and I have become more intimate, sharing thoughts and feelings and speaking deeply, touching each other, being real. I have a newfound license to be me. I have a renewed feeling of being engaged and capable and real.

Life is continuing. At least for me. At least for now.

I am reminded about what Shya talks about from time-to-time. He tells a story of the very first seminar he attended and how at the end he was handed a little business card. On one side of the card it said, “Tuem Est Shya Kane”. On the other side it said, “Tuem Est is latin for ‘It’s up to you.’”

I am alive. What I do with this life is up to me.