An Act of Heroism

The smell of ammonia drifts to the nostrils accompanied by the waves of laughter and over-loud conversation that constantly assault one’s ears in a cafeteria setting. Socially and behaviorally (mentally?) impaired, though amusedly tolerated; Al, a theatre boy, begins to lean awkwardly upon a girl at a table. A voice sounds above the din like a clarion bell, “Al’s having a seizure!” Time stops. Al slides to the floor as his companions remove dangerous objects from his path. Tables and chairs are flung aside with abandon to preserve Al’s safety. Directions come from every corner.

“Don’t touch him, he’ll go into shock!” “Roll him on his side!” “Keep his head from hitting anything!”

Quick to react, one girl steps forward from the crowd and takes control of the situation. Preventing Al from further injury by grabbing both sides of his head, the brave young senior moves with the seizing boy, fighting to hold him steady. She does not cry nor do anything but instruct a teacher to “YES, call an ambulance.” Al thrashes, not breathing, upon the white speckled linoleum.

The teachers come, a large man begins CPR while the girl remains benevolent, in a matronly position, kneeling and cradling Al’s head in the cushion of her palms. Through it all she does not look up, even when spurts of blood from Al’s mouth reach her face and eyes, that blood built up within his orifice gurgling and geysering with each push of the teacher’s fists into his lungs. She does not turn from her grisly heroic task, though her arms shake from restraining and then supporting Al’s head, as she calmly reassures others that it will be all right. After seeing Al safely away with the EMTs, she takes only a few moments to collect herself, then, claiming no credit...

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...ds, “It’s okay Al, you just get to lie down for a while, you get to rest here,” stated in that patronizingly mothering tone. Finally I tear my gaze from Al’s prone figure to see— no one. The sterile walls of the cafeteria stare back at me.

Feeling, not heroic, but disgusting, my first thought is to cleanse myself. Running to the bathroom, the antiseptic soap and hygienic water distill my memory. Normally I faint at the sight of blood, funny, but that had occurred to me too during Al’s seizure. I continue on to Chemistry class.

Sitting there taking down electron arrangements, it perversely occurs to me that I could use this episode as a topic for my personal essay, after all, aren’t personal traumas the common fodder for moving essays? A friend slaps me on the back, congratulating me on my “heroism.” Inwardly, a coward contemplates the bulky science teacher.