Orlando Rivera

The address came through routine. Elderly female, unresponsive, no CPR in progress. The kind of call that doesn’t make your heart race anymore. You just… go. We rolled up in silence. No crowd. No chaos. Just the family out front with blank stares and trembling hands. You know the look, they’ve already said goodbye. They just want someone in uniform to confirm it. We stepped in. She was cold. Not the kind of cold you try to reverse. The kind that tells you you’re too late. I didn't feel...

I used to joke that I was the worst person to have a heart attack around. Because I’d always be the one running the code. Chest compressions? That’s muscle memory. Airway? Locked in. Defib pads? I could place them in my sleep. I’ve done CPR on strangers in restaurants. At gas stations. On flights. I’ve cracked ribs and restarted hearts. I’ve brought people back when everyone else gave up. I was  that medic .The one you wanted on scene. The one who  knew what to do . And that made me feel...

There’s this call that won’t leave you. You can feel it in your shoulders. Hear it in the shower. Smell it when the weather turns just a little cold. You remember the time of day. The patient’s name. The way your gloves stuck when you tried to open the IV kit. You remember the voice that screamed from the hallway. The sound of Velcro ripping as you cut through denim. The monitor flatlining after a last-ditch epi push. You remember the daughter clinging to your vest. Begging you to lie....