A true story

This is an account of an event from over twenty years ago. Having told the story occasionally, I decided to put it into words.

The flashing lights and siren of the ambulance cleared traffic, as I followed in my car. Emily was already in the ER when I walked in. My heart was still thrumming from adrenaline—and from dread of what might come next.

In less than a half hour a carefree spring afternoon had become a horror movie. I am a beekeeper and had been helping a young woman choose a place for her first bee hive in a community bee yard. After we finished, Emily was taking off her bee suit when three bees stung her on the scalp. To escape, she jumped into my car and shut the door, laughing that stings are part of beekeeping.

While we were driving away from the bee yard, she suddenly said, “I really feel sick to my stomach.” As I stopped at the entrance gate, she began to wheeze and choke. “I can’t breathe.” I could barely hear her next words: “Help me!” I told her that everything would be okay because I carried epinephrine just in case something like that happened. I was scared shitless, though. I tore open the kit, scanned the directions, and then gave her one injection followed by a second, my hands shaking so much that I could hardly manage the syringe. This was before the Epi-Pen, so I had to give a real shot, like a flu vaccine, a first for me. I just shoved the needle in and pushed the plunger. I can still picture her pulling up her sleeve for the shot as she fought for air. It did not seem to help, though. Her breathing sounded like what I imagined a death rattle was like.

What to do? This was years before cell phones, but I remembered that a fire station was nearby. I raced there, skidding into the driveway as I leaned on the horn, relieved at being able to get help for Emily.

That was not to be, though. The firefighters were out on a call. After pounding on the door and yelling, I saw a 911-direct telephone on the outside wall. The dispatcher said an ambulance would arrive soon. “Soon” was the longest nine minutes of my life. All that time, Emily clawed the sides of the car seat, her hands white as she fought for every breath. I tried to comfort her, but I was no more than a helpless bystander who could hardly bear to watch her struggle.

The ambulance arrived at the same time as the fire engine, their sirens sounding hope. The two medics put Emily on a stretcher and carried her to the ambulance. I knew the situation was serious when one asked a fire fighter to drive the ambulance so both medics could attend to her. I followed the ambulance to the hospital, my teeth clenched, and hands sweating. Fear held my heart in a vise.

I walked into the ER and asked about Emily. The reception nurse just shook her head and told me a doctor would be out as soon as possible. I paced and pushed back fears—and my own nausea—until a doctor in scrubs finally walked through the double doors into the waiting room. The nurse pointed me out to him. He strode up, introduced himself, and asked directly, “What did you give her?” I showed him the epinephrine kit. He replied only, “You saved her life,” and walked away.

Emily stayed in the hospital that night, and I saw her only once afterward, when she gave me her beekeeping equipment and books. I got something else as well: a heartfelt letter of thanks from her mother.