My first date ended in the hospital—where I watched someone die.
Ok, for all those wanting the story, no, the death was not my date. We went ice skating. We had a nice time. It ended abruptly when someone hit me from behind and I fell over and cut up my face.
Nothing serious but it needed stitches so my mother came and drove me to the emergency room at the Bethesda Naval hospital.
We arrived at the same time as an ambulance carrying a woman who had just fallen in the shower unconscious. Her husband, an elderly Argentinian man by his accent, and a neighbor rode with her.
She was clearly in cardiac arrest and they rushed her back to try to revive her. I think everyone in the ER waiting room knew she had died or would before he did. The ER attending came out once to tell him it wasn't looking good but they were doing all they could.
The old man was narrating frantically to the neighbor what had happened and talking about how important she was to him. Then the doctor came out a second time and told him she had died--which was obvious to everyone else. The rest is, as they say, the rest.
I was a fifteen year old with an ice pack on my chin who felt voyeuristic and stupid for being there.
