Chapter 7 - Seven Minutes
"Place the heel of your hand in the center of his chest," the operator instructed.
"Push hard and fast. Count with me."
I placed my hand over Leo's tiny chest.
I pushed down. His ribs felt terrifyingly fragile beneath my weight.
One. Two. Three. Four.
"Tilt his head back, pinch his nose, give two breaths," she commanded.
I leaned down, sealing my mouth over his cold, purple lips.
I blew air directly into his lungs.
I felt his chest rise slightly, then collapse back down.
I tasted the bitter, chemical tang of the albuterol I had sprayed moments before.
I went straight back to chest compressions.
Sweat dripped from my face, stinging my eyes, pooling on Leo's cheek.
My arms burned with exhaustion.
A horrifying clicking sound echoed from his chest with every push, but I couldn't stop.
If I stopped, my child was dead.
"I'm sorry," I kept sobbing between compressions.
"I'm sorry, Leo, I didn't know, I'm sorry..."
Seven minutes passed on the phone call, feeling like a hundred years.
Suddenly, tires screeched in the driveway outside.
Heavy boots pounded up the front porch steps.
The front door slammed open, and three paramedics rushed into the living room.
A large man with a thick mustache shoved me out of the way.
"Take over compressions!" he barked at his partner.
"Get the bag valve mask! He's cyanotic!"
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I crawled backward across the floor, pressing my back against the sofa.
I watched in paralyzed horror as strangers swarmed my five-year-old son.
