It should arrive any moment. Thank God.
"Please look around, Miri. Do you see any brightly colored items? Maybe a backpack or a jacket? We need something that can easily be spotted through the heavy rain." I do my best not to pressure her even though I know how crucial it would be for her to find something.
I receive no response. "The rain cover of my backpack. It’s neon yellow," she says finally.
Perfect. "Please take it off."
"But then our things will get wet." Her irrational reaction is another indication that she’s in severe shock.
I note her condition in the emergency card as well. The risk is high that she'll collapse when my colleagues arrive. "We’ll take care of that later. Please take off the rain cover now."
A plastic-like rustling reaches my ear. It lasts for a long time, too long. Miri has surely lost control over her fingers. "What now?"
She’s hardly asked her question when I hear the steady rumbling of the helicopter rotor in the background.
"Look up. Do you see the chopper?"
The noise grows louder. It’s probably already in her field of vision, yet she doesn't say anything. "Miri? Are you still there?"
No response.
Dammit. She must have passed out. I quickly type the information into our communication portal. I also addneon yellow backpack cover on the groundbecause that’s still the best clue I can give my colleagues now.
The noise on the other end of the line grows louder. I have to distance my headset from my ears. The rotor noise almost drowns out the voices of my colleagues, but not fully.
There’s Peter. And Martin too. Jakob announces that he’ll take care of Miri. Nina loudly demands more space. She’s probably unpacking the defibrillator.
I close my eyes and hold my breath.
"And clear!" Nina shouts at the top of her lungs.
In my mind, I visualize what is happening at this moment. Martin removes the resuscitation mask from the patient’s face, and Peter stops examining her limbs and raises his hands.
A split second later, the electric shock surges through the woman. Her chest rises and then falls back down. Someone checks her pulse.
It becomes quiet.
"Okay, we’ve got her." Peter’s voice ultimately gives the all clear.
With a heavy groan, I slump back into the chair. My heart is racing, and my palms are sweaty. My stomachfeels so constricted that I don’t believe I'll ever eat again.
"Everything is fine. She made it," I tell myself. I repeat these words incessantly until my breathing normalizes.
Then I push myself up and walk to the restroom, where I vomit until only bile comes up.
