The man who would not die

I’ve been wearing glasses and contacts for a decade and a half and have spent an unhealthy amount of time in my life having my eyes examined. <br><br>I’d been seeing this eye doctor for a few years. He was what you’d expect of a specialist in a small town; older, gentle, quiet, witty. Always ran on time, always gave good advice on eye care. When my son was born, he beamed with pride at the photos I showed him in the waiting room. I liked the guy just fine. <br><br>It was a routine visit on a winter morning, not a cloud in the sky. I’m sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a People magazine, when I hear a commotion from the next room over. <br><br>Sounds like a regular faint, someone’s trying to get the doctor, a woman is wailing. I’m just sitting there stupidly, thinking almost immediately to go help, but I don’t. <br><br>The doctor rushes towards the noise. He’s a short man and his scrubs are bright blue. I remember the color because it’s so bright against the beige waiting room. <br><br>He’s only gone for a moment before he stumbles backward out of the room, towards the front. I can’t see his face, but it’s clear from his posture that he’s on deaths door. <br><br>He falls into the wall as he goes down, his body goes stiff and his head rolls backward, showing me his white face. His eyes flutter. A woman rushes after him and grabs his head as he hits the floor. She starts yelling for somebody to call 911 and to get the defibrillator. <br><br>I’m still sitting in the waiting room, still frozen. A nurse rushes over to me to say the office will be closed and to go home and they’ll call to reschedule. I leave and walk back to my car, and as I’m pulling out I see them loading his body into the ambulance. <br><br>I’m sure by now you’ve guessed that my eye doc was the one who had the heart attack. I get a call in the summer from a new eye doctor in the same practice, saying they’d love to have me in for an appointment whenever I need one. <br><br>It turns out my old doctor had a widow, and two kids. I see his face in my dreams sometimes, his blue scrubs and his white face and fluttering eyes. I still feel guilty that I didn’t help. When my son was old enough to ask about death, I explained that sometimes we die unexpectedly. He asked me what I would do if he died unexpectedly. I told him I would call 911 and give him CPR and do everything I could to try and save him. <br><br>He asked if I would be sad. <br><br>I told him yes, but that I would still have to try and save him, no matter how sad I was. Even if I didn’t think I could save him. Even if I thought he was gone. <br><br>And if I couldn’t save him, even with CPR, I would still stay with him and hold him and be with him until the ambulance came, because that’s what you owe to your dead. <br><br>He asked what CPR was, so I showed him. <br><br>Then he asked if I’d ever learn the hard way. <br><br>I said yes.