“Pulse check, pulse check!” someone screamed from the back of the room.

I stopped compressions and checked for a pulse, the machine behind me scanning for signs, confused electrical currents hoping to find rhythm.

Blue lips, grey fingertips.

“Push epi, continue compressions.” 

My hands interlocked and began the brutal beating of the chest.

Again.

Beat, beat, beat.

Kick, kick, kick - my swollen stomach pregnant with my first almost gets in the way.

“Pulse check, pulse check!” they chorused.

My hands unlocked, two fingers pressed against veins and arteries whose supplier had failed to renew its subscription.

Now, cold skin scrapes against my hot hands, and sweat drips off my brow.

“Beep, beep, beep” the machine spoke in code.

Code blue…