This is a First Person column by Matthew Heneghan, who lives in Falkland, B.C. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
“Hey, Rod! Colleen,” I chirp and wave.
“Oh, hello, Matthew,” Rod returns.
My neighbours remind me it’s OK to slow down. Life can move fast when it wants to.
But sometimes, like in any great painting, a blemish might appear over time.
On May 29, that blemish arrived in the form of a heart attack. Rod’s.
I was at home when the knock came — urgent, panicked. Robbie, a local teacher, stood at my door. She’d been driving past when she noticed something off: Rod’s truck, half-swallowed by ditch grass near the end of my driveway. In a town like ours, things have a place. When something’s out of it, you notice.
I threw on shoes and ran out. Even before reaching the scene, I could tell — Rod was in trouble.
What I haven’t said yet is this: Robbie knocked on my door because she knew I used to be a paramedic. But I hadn’t touched a patient in years. Not since 2017, when my mind finally gave way after too many years in ambulances. Suicides, overdoses, trauma piled on trauma. I was diagnosed with PTSD that year.
I got sober. I left the job. And I’ve spent every day since trying to build a life around the wreckage.
I always feared that if a moment like this came again, I’d freeze. Or fall apart.
Back when I was working and self-medicating with alcohol, I was able to tolerate a thousand stressors at once. When navigating the initial days of sobriety, the world around me left me feeling fragile and unsure of my abilities.
But against all odds — and in defiance of the noise in my head — I dropped to my knees and assessed Rod quickly. After understanding the severity of Rod’s condition, I began compressions. Owen, another neighbour, joined me as we took turns doing CPR and Carissa, Owen’s wife, called 911 and held the phone so I could speak with dispatch.
We worked together — neighbours, friends. A public automatic external defibrillator. One shock.
And then, the near impossible happened: ROSC — return of spontaneous circulation. Rod’s heart found its way back.
I don’t remember much after the paramedics arrived.
My mind started slipping sideways — time bent and suddenly I was back in the cold of some night or on some city curb, knees full of gravel or fragments of broken windshield, hands on a stranger’s chest desperately trying to pump life back into it.
My partner, Sheena, did what she could to keep me grounded. She called my name softly, coaxing me to stay in the present. Guiding me to use the tools and supports gained over years of therapy. Just as Rod needed a pulse to live, I needed Sheena to survive it all.
Later, I stood in the yard and stared left, to where Rod usually sits.
Empty chairs. Morning sun. My heart beat on, but it ached. I looked down at my hands and wondered if they’d done enough. Wondered if disappearing inward made me less useful to the others who were there. PTSD has a way of making you doubt yourself.
For a week, the space remained vacant. Mornings felt dimmer. The grass danced in the breeze, but it all felt less than before.
Then, on the ninth day, Sheena woke me gently.
“Rod’s home.”
I threw off the covers, ran downstairs and burst out the back door. Still squinting into the sun, I lifted a hand to shield my eyes and looked left.
And there — painted in all its glorious familiarity — sat Rod and Colleen, sipping their tea. Together.
“Morning, Rod.”
“Hey, Matthew.”
That simple return was one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard in my little life.
Rod — welcome home, my friend. This town, and all its painted days, are better with you in it.
Enjoy your tea.
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