I WATCHED A MAN DIE TONIGHT.

November 29, 2006

He didn’t scream. He didn’t clutch his chest or gasp out a dramatic last word. He just stared at me—steady, hollow, knowing. And then he was gone.

We got the call late. Chest pain, shortness of breath. He was older, maybe mid-60s, pale and sweaty when we arrived. BP wasn’t great. Skin was cool, but he was awake. Talking. Scared.

We loaded him, started a line, threw him on the monitor. Nothing jumped out—borderline vitals, some vague ischemia, but not the kind that screams *run lights and sirens or he’ll code in your hands*. It felt stable. Manageable.

Then, about five minutes from the hospital, his eyes started to drift. His words slowed. I remember calling his name and giving him a gentle shake. He looked at me like he knew exactly what was happening—like he'd already accepted it—and then he just… stopped.

No drama. No code. Just silence.

I called it in. The ER staff took him from us and started the dance—compressions, meds, the routine. But I knew. We all knew. He was already gone before we hit the bay.

I wrote this not because the call was remarkable. It wasn’t. It was quiet. Unforgiving. Another patient in a system full of them.

I wrote it because I didn’t cry. I didn’t shake. I didn’t feel. I just cleaned the stretcher, restocked the rig, and took the next call.

That’s what scared me.