You get quiet. Your heart rhythm has changed, the alarms go off. The crash cart gets wheeled in, and CPR has started. There is yelling, and more nurses come. I am just focused on your face though. I was just talking to you, how could this happen so quickly. Your body bounces from the shock as the paddles hit your chest. A doctor runs in and my view is blocked. I am pushed out of the room. I was taking up needed space, and I know that. I just wish that I could help. I wish I could shake you and tell you to wake up, to come back. I want to yell at you, and want to yell at them. I want them to try harder. I want the monitor to show a normal heart beep. I wish I could look through the doorway and see the nurses smile, I want people to leave the room, and for the doctor to give a sigh of relief and say “he’s back”. But that isn’t happening. The door opens and your bed gets pushed through to the hallway. They wheel you away at a run. And you are gone. Will you come back? The look on the doctor’s face tells me no. Later he will say that they tried everything. He will say that there was nothing more that they could have done, that your heart was just too weak. I just wish that I could go back to the moment before it all happened. When we were talking about Hospital discharge, about going home. When we were laughing and discussing the new dog, the upcoming holidays, and how much we would miss great grandma at Christmas this year. I want to go back before 12:47 pm, back before the light left your eyes. I wish I could go back. Back before you died.