Lisa Lisson - Resilience: Navigating Life, Loss, and the Road to Success

Around one oclock in the morning on Monday, August 13, 2007, I was awakened by the sound of a loud thump. When I looked to see what had caused it, I noticed my husband wasnt in bed. Puzzled, I turned on the bedside light. Pat? Where are you? No answer. I climbed out of bed and went around to his side. He was lying motionless on the floor as if someone had set him down there. Pat, why are you on the floor? No answer. I shook him. Patrick, wake up. I shook him again. Oh my god, whats wrong with him?

I put my ear to his chest. Nothing. I felt for air under his nose. Nothing. My adrenaline was surging. I raced for the phone, dialed 911, ran back to his side, put the phone on speaker and set it on the floor.

This cant be happening. Dont you die on me. Dont you dare die on me.

The dispatcher came on the line.

I need help. My husbands lying on the floor. Hes not breathing. Please help me do CPR.

Help is on the way, maam. Is your front door unlocked?

Oh my god, no.

You have to go and open it. Where are you in the home?

The master bedroom.

I run downstairs, disable the alarm, fling open the door, run back upstairs and kneel at Patricks side.

Okay Im here. Tell me what to do.

The dispatcher tells me how to position myself, where to place my hands, how to lock my arms. His tone is calm, prescriptive.

This is what youre going to do, maam. On the count of three, youre going to push down hard on your husbands chest. Youre going to press down for three counts. Then youre going to release and start over. Im going to count with you. Tell me when youre ready.

Im ready.

Okay, here we go. One. Two. Three.

I press on Patricks chest. One. Two. Three. Release. One. Two. Three. Release.

I repeat the cycle six, maybe seven times.

Is he breathing yet?

No. Why isnt he breathing? Why isnt this working?

Keep going, maam. Stay with me.

One. Two. Three. Release. One. Two. Three. Release. Come back, Patrick. Come back. Please. Breathe.

Mommy, whats wrong with Daddy? Chloe, our seven-year-old daughter, and Mya, her younger sister, are in the room. They can see their father on the floor. They can see me pressing on his chest. They can hear the dispatcher counting.

Daddys not feeling well, girls. The ambulance is coming. Can you guys go sit on the stairs and watch for the shiny lights?

I say this in my mommy voice without breaking rhythm.

They leave the room.

One. Two. Three. Release. One. Two. Three. Release.

Is he breathing yet?

No. Why isnt this working?

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Male voices. God, there are kids here, one says.

A fireman is in the room. In one fell swoop he scoops me up by the waist, lifts me in the air and deposits me outside the bedroom where his partner is waiting with the kids.

Weve got this, maam. Take them downstairs. They go inside and shut the door behind them.

As we go down the stairs, the paramedics pass us going up. The foyer is swarming with uniforms. Theyre milling about, conferring in huddles, talking into walkie-talkies. The house looks like the command post for a military operation.

Two police officers are waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. A female officer leads us away from the commotion towards the kitchen and family room at the back of the house. We sit down on the couch. I have a clear view down the hallway to the foyer from where were sitting.

How many children are in the house? she asks.

Four. Two are still sleeping.

How old are they?

Nine and three. Should I go and get them?

No, were not going to wake them. Who can you call to be with you right now?

I want to call my mom, but my parents just left for a Mediterranean cruise. Jojo, our nanny, lives down the street. I call her to come watch the kids.

The officer wants to know if Patrick suffers from any medical conditions or is taking any medications. No. Does he use any drugs? No again.

She asks how long weve been married.

Thirteen years. Itll be fourteen in January.

Is everything good between you both?

At first Im puzzled by her question. Then I understand.

She thinks maybe I did this. If Patricks dead, maybe I killed him. Why else would my fit,thirty-eight-year-old husband be lying on the floor, not breathing?

Of course everythings good between us.

Jojo arrives. She takes the kids to another part of the family room. I ask her not to let them see me cry. As soon as theyre gone, I head for the bottom of the stairs. I have to be there when they bring Patrick down. The officer bars my way.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.

Why are they up there so long? Why arent they rushing him to the hospital? Can you please go and ask them?

Let them do their work, maam. Were all here to support you. Relax. Take a breath.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. Thirty. Im going out of my mind. I keep peering down the hallway trying to push my way past the officer, get to the stairway. I dont understand. Why arent they bringing him down?

But theyre not bringing him down.

The fear is coming in titanic waves now. I try to outrun it. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die.

I glance at the wall clock. Theyve been upstairs for thirty-five minutes.

Hes dead. I know it.They cant get a pulse. Why else havent they brought him down yet?

I start sobbing.

Another voice vies for airtime in my head.

Lisa, pull it together. You dont know if they have a pulse. You dont have that information yet.

Its true. I dont know. I mustnt jump to conclusions.

I pull myself together.

Please, I beg the officer. Let me go. I need to be there when they bring him down.

Finally she relents.

I race down the hall and stand sentry by the staircase. More minutes pass. At last the bedroom door opens. A police officer comes down the stairs. Hes young, early twenties maybe. When he reaches the bottom I cling to his arm like a lost child.