Keeping Time With His Ticker

Today there was a minor incident at my truck driving school. My trainer, who you met in the picture a few days ago, had a little heart scare, which in turn, scared my heart.

I was behind the wheel, practicing my backing. He was holding on the the door handle and walking along side of the truck as he usually does; barking orders in my window and flinging his hand around in the direction he wants me to turn that God damned wheel!

All of a sudden, I see his right hand go to his heart, his left hand grab the door handle in a white knuckled death grip and his body slide down into a heap onto the running board. He couldn't move and I couldn't get to him because not only was I in gear, with my foot on the brake, but he was blocking the door anyway; there was no way for me to open it without knocking him over.

I motioned to my other classmates, who were talking in a group, some distance from the truck. I could only see the top of my trainers head but I couldn't see his face or eyes since he had on a baseball cap. The other guys came over and made sure he was okay. He motioned for his golf cart so he could sit and rest and they brought it over.

He sat down, held his heart, shook out his left arm and caught his breath. Then he came back to the truck, grabbed the handle and told me to finish what I was doing. It was all I could do to hold myself together, concentrate on that eighty thousand pound vehicle with the seventy three year old man hanging from the door and try to back it into a twelve foot opening.

I felt as if my heart was pounding in unison with his electronic ticking device, willing him to be okay until I was done. I needed him as much as he needed us.