“Leon. Baby. Please,” I whisper, pleading with him to come back to me as I begin more compressions.
“Mrs. Hill, what’s happened?” A frantic voice appears, sounding startled.
“I don’t know. Call for help. The coast guard, emergency services, anyone. Now,” I shout, panting and out of breath, not looking at whoever asks me, and they dash off. After repeatedcompressions, I tilt my head back and scream into the night. “Don’t fucking do this to me. Not now. Bring him back to me.” I ask for help from the heavens; the serene, starry night turning into a nightmare I can’t escape.
I alternate compressions, breaths, counting, checking, listening, and adjusting, using every skill I’ve perfected in the ER. But this isn’t a hospital. This is my life. My love, lying motionless on the deck, the moonlight spotlighting us as he slips away from me.
I tilt my ear toward his mouth, and my eyes widen when I feel a gentle breath against the shell. Then I check his pulse, and there it is… a flutter.
My chest heaves with relief, and I weep while keeping his airway open because his pulse is weak and irregular. He’s alive, and that’s all that matters. “Don’t leave me. I’ve got you. Stay with me, you’re going to be okay. Stay with me, Leon.” I run my hands through his sticky hair.
“I need a compress. Now.” I don’t even know if anyone is nearby until several sets of hands arrive. One covering him with an emergency foil blanket to keep him warm, another handing me a dressing, which I quickly snatch out of their hand.
The dark, sticky blood makes it hard to see the exact wound, but I gently tilt his head, keeping his neck stable, and my hands stay steady despite the pounding of my heartbeat racing in my ears as I place the compress over the wound.
“Have you called the coastguard? Who’s coming? We need them here immediately,” I state firmly as cold dread settles in my gut.
“We’ve alerted the coastguard; they are en route, Mrs. Hill. They will take him ashore and transfer him to a helicopter for medevac off the island,” someone from above informs me.
I carefully lift the dressing off his head to examine the gash on Leon’s head, wincing at how deep and jagged the wound is. If he doesn’t get immediate attention, he’ll bleed out.
“Where are they?” I shrill, aware of how critical his situation is as I press the dressing firmly back in place.
Someone quickly assures me, “The coastguard will arrive soon, I promise.” I then recheck his pulse, every small irregular beat emphasizing how fragile he is, lying unconscious under the moonlight.
“Stay with me… stay with me,”I whispered, my voice barely audible over the gentle rocking of the yacht. The night is silent except for the distant sound of water, but inside, my chaos continues.
Every part of me aches at the thought of losing him here, under the stars.
I press my forehead against his, whispering,“You’re not leaving me tonight. Not now, not ever. You hear me? Stay with me, Leon. Stay with me.”
With my hands on his body, the surrounding voices fade away, and I cling to the desperate, fragile hope that he will wake as I fight for him.
The rhythmic sound of the engine from the rescue boat rolls across the water as it crashes through the waves, bouncing off my heart and every bone in my body. “Oh, thank the universe,” I weep. “Help is here, baby. Hold on.”
As it approaches, the searchlight cuts through the dimness, and I shield my eyes from the brightness.
The captain of the rescue boat skillfully maneuvers alongside the yacht, gently brushing the side and coming to a stop. Quicker than a bullet out of a gun, Leon’s crew opens the railing gate, then lowers a rope ladder to the rescue boat to allow the paramedic on board.
With calm precision, they climb the ladder holding a rigid stretcher and step onto the yacht.
Then everything happens so fast.
The paramedic moves with intention as I reel off Leon’s stats, informing him that I am an ER doctor. Gentle and efficient, the paramedic assesses Leon’s wound with gloved hands before confirming their destination: Papeete Hospital.
“I want to come,” I shout over the engine’s roar from the rescue boat. Leon’s captain wraps his arms around my shoulder and informs the paramedic and me that we are heading back to shore as Larry is on his way to pick me up and has prepared Leon’s private jet for takeoff to take me to Papeete.
“But I want to go with him.”
“You need to clean yourself up, Mrs. Hill.” I look down, gasping when I realize I am covered in Leon’s blood. “It takes less than an hour to get from Bora Bora to Papeete. You’ll be there in no time.”
An hour. That’s way too long, but I get it. “Okay,” I say, agreeing, while my eyes stay fixed on the paramedic, who has redressed Leon’s wound and is securing Leon onto the stretcher, checking and double-checking the security of the ropes for boat-to-boat transfer.
I wipe under my nose, then push my hands through my hair. Leon looks almost peaceful, like he’s sleeping; him not waking up is not a good sign, but I’m hoping it’s just a concussion.
“Ready,” the paramedic calls into his headset radio, and the stretcher is lowered smoothly from the deck of the yacht down onto the rescue boat, the paramedic joining him. A wave of relief hits me so hard that my knees buckle and I drop to the ground. He’s not out of danger, not even close, but now he has a chance.
When the rescue boat speeds away, carrying him to the safety and support he needs, I whisper in the wind, “I’ll be right behind you, Leon. Hold tight, baby. I’m on my way.”
