Edge of Life: My CPR Story
I've written this story several times, and each time, I'm not satisfied with it. It's incredibly difficult to capture the moment when I died, the part that most people are curious about, and the part I myself am most fascinated by. The aftermath was undoubtedly challenging, and I still feel some effects to this day. But the thing about dying is that when it was happening, I knew it. The realization struck me with a terrifying clarity: I was dying. In that moment, the truth was so absolute, so undeniable, that acceptance was not a choice but an inherent part of knowing. In that moment, as my vision went dark, the closest thing to a last thought was, 'Well, I guess this is it.'
Whenever someone asks about my first aid and CPR certification, I'm taken back to that defining moment in my life. A tale that begins on an ordinary night, one that unexpectedly turned into a life-altering experience, shaping my perspective on life.
Let's start at the moment of my death. From there, I'll take you back to the beginning and then to what followed.
As I lay against the porcelain rim of the toilet, the world began to shrink, darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision. I felt my heart stutter, falter, then stop. A terrible calmness overcame me as my very life drained out of me. The darkness tightened its grip, swallowing my vision from the outside in, a closing ring. It wasn't pain I felt; it was absence, a void where my heartbeat used to be.
The evening began with a sense of newfound freedom. Having been nearly homeless before moving in with my sister in Pittsburgh, this was a turning point for me. A few weeks into my stay, I had finally found a job, and to celebrate, my sister took me to her favorite bar. In that setting, she was in her element, known and admired by everyone. Being just barely 21, I was eager for this new experience yet filled with anxiety. The bar represented a whole new world to me, one where I desperately wanted to fit in. Inexperienced but unwilling to admit it, I found myself mimicking the drink choices I had seen on TV and in movies – Seven and Sevens, Long Island Iced Teas, etc,.
The atmosphere was warm, welcoming. My sister's friends enveloped me in a camaraderie I hadn’t expected, their laughter and stories intensifying my need to relax, a feeling I could only satisfy through drinking. My sister, ever the social butterfly, moved through the crowd with an ease that had always eluded me. She would disappear into groups of friends, reemerging intermittently, her laughter a constant in the lively hum of the bar. In those moments, I was transported back to childhood, to memories of following her and her older friends, always feeling a step behind, a bit too young, a bit too out of place.
As the night progressed, my reliance on alcohol to bridge the gap between my social anxiety and the whirlwind around me grew. Each drink made me feel more a part of the scene, dulling the edges of my self-consciousness. But with each glass, I lost a bit more of my judgment, the line between enjoyment and excess blurring dangerously. In my quest to fit in, to chase the ease with which my sister navigated, I lost sight of my own limits.
Going home was a blur, a dizzying mix of streetlights and shadows. I stumbled, and swayed with the echo of laughter in my ears. The streets wobbled beneath my feet, an unsteady march. My sister's voice an anchor, her presence reassuring. At one point, I veered into the road, the sudden whoosh of a cop car startling me as its headlights swept across my vision. My sister's hand was quick, pulling me back, both of us laughing.
Back at her place, the world refused to steady itself. I sank into the couch, the room spinning around me. My thoughts were a jumbled mess, words spilling from my mouth in an incoherent babble. The cigarette between my fingers felt like the only solid thing in a sea of nausea and disorientation. I passed it to my sister, a clumsy exchange that left a trail of ash. Staggering to my feet, I made my way to the bathroom.
In the bathroom, the harsh light was unforgiving. Leaning heavily against the sink, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror – pale, ashen, I barely resembled the young man who entered the bar just hours earlier. The reality of my situation hit me in waves, each one bringing a fresh surge of sickness. I balanced on the edge of consciousness, the world swirling, my breathing labored, my heart unsteady, fluttering, the cold tile against my skin, I crawled to the toilet. It was here, in this small, enclosed space, that the night took its darkest turn.
When I awakened in the sterile, cold environment of the hospital, the first sensation was pain – a deep, all-consuming agony that seemed to have seeped into every bone, every muscle. The bright lights overhead blurred in a haze as I tried to focus, my mind muddled and disoriented. A man's voice cut through the fog, his questions distant and nonsensical. My thoughts were scattered, but one memory was crystal clear – the terrifying end of my heartbeat, the darkness.
My sister's recounting filled in the gaps. She described finding me unresponsive, the stench of my body's failure filling the room. Her actions, fueled by panic, saved me, but the image of her performing CPR on my motionless body haunts me to this day.
I was acutely aware of the bruises along my chest, each breath a painful struggle. The emotional toll was even more profound - Shame for having put myself in this situation, guilt for the burden I had become, embarrassment at the humiliating circumstances of my discovery, and a deep-seated anger at myself.
The hospital staff, efficient but detached, exacerbated my sense of isolation. Their clinical detachment, necessary for their work, felt like indifference to my suffering. There was confusion too, fragments of memory that didn't quite fit together, a side effect of the oxygen deprivation my brain had endured. It was a disconcerting realization that my mind, once sharp, was now struggling with the simplest of tasks.
This was a brutal awakening, a confrontation with my own mortality and the consequences of my recklessness. The journey to recovery was not just physical; it was laden with emotional hurdles – reconciling with the trauma, rebuilding my self-esteem, and facing the reality of my actions.
Reflecting on that life-altering night, it was clear how much of an amateur I had been in the world of drinking. Freshly 21, my knowledge of alcohol was limited, my experience even more so. I was a rookie, overconfident in my ability to handle drinks I had only seen in movies and TV shows. The severe consequences of that night were a result of inexperience colliding with poor judgment.
The fear and trauma of that experience were powerful enough to push me away from alcohol for a year. However, as the immediacy of the fear faded, I found myself gradually drifting back to drinking. It wasn't a sudden descent but a slow, creeping return. Ironically, it was after surviving this ordeal that I truly began to struggle with alcoholism. Over the years, what started as social drinking evolved into a deeper issue, a battle with addiction that was far more complex and enduring than the events of that fateful night. But that is a story for another day.
The experience gave me a resolve to master life-saving skills. It wasn't just about learning; it was about being prepared, responsible, and to make a real difference. This commitment has been a recurring theme in my life, a positive outcome from that harrowing night. Over the years, I've had the privilege of applying these skills in real-life situations. Each time, I'm reminded of that night and driven by the hope that, in each moment of crisis, I am doing my utmost.