Everybody Has a Story: ‘Picture Day’ will never be the same

“Picture Day” at a middle school always creates chaos and disruption for prepubescent students — but this particular day will always stand out as miraculous.

I arrived early to prepare for my day as a teacher at Pleasant Valley Middle School. I uttered my daily “good mornings” to the office staff and strolled into the library, expecting to see multiple photo stations.

But there was a hauntingly eerie feeling. Glancing to my left, I saw the photographer lying on his back and photography equipment strewn about. His daughter and business partner was frantic on the phone with a 911 operator.

Her father had stopped breathing and was unconscious. I never expected to witness someone dying, yet that is exactly the situation I had walked in on.

The core of being a teacher is helping others. Albeit, the help I usually provide is for students — with linear equations, volume of three-dimensional shapes, and applying the Pythagorean theorem. Today would be different.

I stopped for a few seconds to survey the scene. I remember commotion and people in a state of panic. The next thing I remember, our assistant principal and I were kneeling over the photographer, checking for a pulse and for breathing. By now dozens of teachers were gathering and making plans to divert students from the library.

These details are so vivid and burned into my consciousness, I’m sure I will never forget. Measuring the unconscious man’s sternum with three fingers, interlocking my hands, palms down, I prepared to start compressions on his chest. My partner, the assistant principal, tilted the photographer’s head back and checked the airway, preparing to start breathing. I took off my tie, as it was dangling in the way as we prepared to administer CPR.

Then we started. I heard the crack of the man’s ribs as I started compressing his chest. They seemed to break pretty easily, I thought.

One, two, three, four, five compressions, while my partner performed one, two, three breaths. We watched as the photographer’s chest rose and fell. Five cycles. Then we switched roles. As much as one can practice breathing air into a stranger, nothing will actually prepare you for the experience. I remember thinking, what if he vomits? Turn the head to the side. But the thought nearly rendered me frozen.

A smoker — he was a smoker! The odor was nearly nauseating. Yet, it was my turn to start breaths. My thoughts were racing. Another cycle, we switched again. I was becoming exhausted. No one ever told me that CPR was exhausting.

I yelled to the onlookers, “Where’s the ambulance?!”

“It’s on the way,” I heard someone say.

We stopped, checked for a pulse, still nothing. Damn it. Sweat was starting to roll over my forehead; the adrenalin was doing its job, pushing me onward. What was seven minutes literally felt like an hour.

Finally I saw two EMTs running to our aid. The assistant principal and I stopped CPR the second we saw them, our actions and body language saying what we were thinking: “Thank God you guys are here, what took so long?”

But one of the EMTs yelled at us, “Don’t stop!”

I thought, you are the professionals. Isn’t this where you take over?

Back to breathing and compressions while the EMTs opened their tool boxes. Boxes full of syringes, electrical devices with paddles, medications, gauze and other gadgets I had never seen before. Finally, they were ready.

“Step back,” they said.

We stood up and watched as they tore open the photographer’s shirt. They checked for a pulse, attached the paddles and shocked him.

This was life changing for me. I remember standing and watching, Did we do enough? Will he make it? My body started to tremble. The adrenalin was diminishing. Dazed, I walked to the teacher’s lunchroom with a colleague who consoled me. I remember hearing him say a prayer for the photographer and for me. I was obviously shaken, and he knew it. The finality of death was sinking in; I had never been that close to death before.

The bell to first period rang. How would I be able to teach the Pythagorean theorem now? My principal entered the lunchroom and told me to go home. He would find someone to cover my math classes today. I don’t remember how, but I drove home and told my wife what had just occurred.

I took a shower. I felt better. My thoughts were on the photographer. After returning to “normal,” I went back to school. I wanted to be there with my students and colleagues, and to revisit that place in the library.

I asked the front office to contact me the minute they heard from the photographer’s daughter. To say it was difficult to concentrate on teaching is an understatement. I called the office after every class.

Finally, word came from his daughter. The photographer had survived. CPR saved his life and he would undergo surgery for three blocked heart valves.

Although we never saw the photographer again, we did see his daughter several times. She was always filled with gratitude and updates regarding her father’s health.

“Picture Day” will never be the same again.

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.