On March 11, 2015, at 8:56am my mother's heart stopped beating. I was in the hospital with my dad, but we have been taken to another room by three doctors who wanted to have the talk with us. The talk is where doctors discuss with the family whether a "full code" (ventilation, chest compressions and defibrillation) should be performed in the event of cardiac arrest. After hearing their sales pitch, I called my best friend, a doctor himself, and started talking through the options. In mid-sentence, I paused, as I heard a siren sounding and mom's room number announced over the intercom. My best friend still on the phone, my dad and I ran back to my mother's room which was stuffed with doctors. Without additional instructions from us, the doctors had begun chest compressions. They had already performed three cycles of compressions (2 minutes of compressions, followed by checking for a pulse), and asked how long we would like them to continue. My mother was a small woman, and her body was being punished by the hulking doctors, pressing on her chest, cracking her ribs. This was her only chance to live. A minuscule chance, but the only chance. "Five cycles?" I said quietly, looking to see how that sat with my dad. He was in shock, unable to fathom that his wife of 38 years might be leaving. Hopelessly, he asked my best friend, "Is that a good try?" My friend could not hear the question though in the commotion. The fourth cycle finished and still no pulse. My dad and I had our arms around each other, tighter than we've ever held one another before. The fifth cycle finished and still there was no pulse. They gave my mom a shot of epinephrine and performed one more cycle to see if it would make a difference. Our eyes on the heart monitor, Mom's heart beat three times, but the line flattened. She was gone.