“Mrs. Eisenberg, are you okay?” I ask in a lowered voice, feeling all her weight fall into me. The last thing Mrs. Eisenberg would want is for me to make a scene, so I lean my mouth close to her ear to ensure she can hear my voice. As she attempts to respond, Mrs. Eisenberg’s answer comes out garbled, and I can see that the left side of her face is not moving as she struggles to form words. Her eyes are having difficulty focusing. As they dart around, I see fear in them when she recognizes what she wants to say does not sound like what’s coming out of her mouth.
With all the calm that I do not feel, I shift Mrs. Eisenberg so that both of my arms are securely under her armpits, and I whisper into her ear what I am going to do next.
“Mrs. Eisenberg, I’m not sure what’s going on, but I am going to slowly lower you onto the floor.”God, it feels so undignified to rest Mrs. Eisenberg on one of the germiest surfaces known to humankind. But there’s no other choice.“After I set you down, I’m going to call 911.” Something that sounds roughly like “please don’t” muffles out of the right side of her mouth.
“I have to, Mrs. Eisenberg,” I say with as much assuredness as I can fake. My arms supporting her, I bend at the knees and rest Mrs. Eisenberg’s upper back and head against my thighs as we go down. Thankfully we land as delicately as possible, and I’m able to keep her head elevated above her heart—I definitely do not want to add choking to the list of terrifying things that are happening.
With a tap on my shoulder, a young woman behind us apprehensively asks, “Is everything all right?” I’m as surprised as anyone that she doesn’t have her face buried in her phone, clueless to what’s going on in her surroundings.
“Call 911,” I instruct, too nervous to let go of Mrs. Eisenberg to fish around in my bag for my phone. With a resolute nod, the young woman dials while I lean forward to check that Mrs. Eisenberg is still breathing. She is. My eyes linger for a moment at the geometric-printsignature silk scarf Mrs. Eisenberg has tied around her neck. More than once she has referred to it as her permanent Botox, informing me that before Botox, women of a certain age relied on scarves to hide their necks. I issue an apology to Mrs. Eisenberg as I untie the perfect square knot and slip off the accessory.
“Okay, I called. Anything else I can do?” the stranger offers. I feel all the women lined up for the restroom beginning to shift uncomfortably, unsure if they should take action, step around us into the stalls that are opening up, or abandon their need to pee altogether and leave.
“Yes, in my bag there’s a notebook and my phone, can you get them out?” I cock my head at the bag, giving her permission to rummage around in the tote I had thrown to the ground to better support Mrs. Eisenberg.
“Got it.” She holds up the notebook, then dives back in for the phone.
“There’s a small piece of paper in the front of the notebook.” She opens it, and the piece of paper falls out. “Can you dial that number and hold the phone to my ear?” From the corner of my eye, I can see her fingers fumble with the paper, but I stay attentive to Mrs. Eisenberg.
One ring. Two. Three.
“They’re coming!” I hear another woman from the back of the line announce. “Move out of the way!”
Come on. Come on. Pick up.
“Hello?” the voice asks, puzzled, most likely due to the unknown number.
“Hi, Ash? This is, uh, Toni from SFO airport transportation services.” I try to keep my voice steady. In control.
“Sorry, who?”
Arrrgggghhh!Deep breath. Maybe he can’t hear very well from his car with traffic and planes taking off and landing overhead.
“Toni Arroyo. You gave me your number at the Cracked Cup,” I answer, my voice wobbling with emotion at the gravity of the situation. “I was in the class at Stanford where you were on the panel.”
“Oh right, right. Yes, I remember. How can I help you?” Ash asks with the formality of a work call. The paramedics have now arrived and are bombarding me with questions in one ear while I have Ash on the line in the other.
“I’m with your grandmother at the airport and she’s just collapsed,” I rush out as fast as I can. “I gotta go, the paramedics are here, and I need to let them know what happened. I’m sure they’re going to want to transport her to the hospital. I’ll call you back in a few and let you know which one.”
“Insist they take her to Stanford Medical, it’s the best,” Ash commands. “I’ll meet them there. And Antonia, tell the paramedics to spare no expense treating her.”
Even in an emergency, Ash Eisenberg is a snob.
STILL SATURDAY, MARCH 9
Even though my shift isn’t over for another two hours, I can’t bear the thought of Mrs. Eisenberg arriving alone at the hospital. A concerned male EMT engages me in a lightning round of twenty-five terrifying questions as the young female paramedic goes through the FAST assessment with Mrs. Eisenberg. Can she make her face smile, raise her arm, say her name? Mrs. Eisenberg is zero for three. Done with notating the events that just transpired, the first responders hook Mrs. Eisenberg up to an EKG machine to check her heart rate and blood pressure. Goddamn that apple fritter Mrs. Eisenberg begged for. Refined sugar on my watch better not be the end of her.
Guiltily, like I ate it, I share one piece of the story I had omitted, that Mrs. Eisenberg did have sugar. Lots of it. The female EMT assures me that the doughnut was most likely not the culprit. Low blood sugar can be a symptom of a stroke, and Mrs. Eisenberg’s is elevated, so maybe I saved her by honoring her secret request.
While her vitals are being recorded, I text my boss a cryptic and no doubt confusingImfinebutonmywaytothehospital. On the count of three, the paramedics lift Mrs. Eisenberg off my lap and onto the gurney like she’s weightless. With Mrs. Eisenberg’s body resting on me for well over ten minutes my legs had fallen asleep, but I didn’t move a muscle for fear that my need for relief might incite Mrs. Eisenberg taking her lastbreath. While the team raises the stretcher and the chatty male EMT speaks quickly into a walkie-talkie to I don’t know who, hopefully God, I roll forward onto my hands and knees and shake out my right leg and then my left, trying to relieve the pins and tingles that have congregated in my calves.
6:22 p.m.
Ninety years of age.
Caucasian woman.
Acute stroke.
