I was getting ready for church this morning, and just as I was closing my apartment door, the dude next door comes running up. This guy's pretty cool; he helps others out all over the building.
He went down the hall, to walk a neighbor's dog. He opens the door (with the key he was given) to get the pooch, who practically tackles him. The dog was whimpering and whining, and bro sees the guy sitting in his chair with his eyes closed. Tries to shake him awake, but no response. Then he comes to get me.
I run down the hall, and I see something I'll never forget.
He's in the living-room chair, and I reach for his wrist. Cold. No pulse. I hold my hand to his mouth. No breath. I yell louder than Brian Johnson with his ass on fire. No response. I reach for my cell, and call my wife who's downstairs. She says "I know CPR, I'll be right up." Bro-next-door gets the house phone, and calls 911.
Wifey comes in, takes one look at him, and freaks. "It's too late, I can't help him, he's been dead for hours." She bursts into tears. I hold her in my arms, as she cries. We pray for his soul.
The ambulance, fire team and police arrive within seconds -- we're in the City Hall/county courthouse response district, so they drill on answering calls regularly.
The cops take statements. Apparently, there were drugs involved. He was recovering from surgery, after a major vehicle accident. He's gone... nothing but his dog left behind.
This shakes me to my core. Why didn't I help this man when I saw him last? How could I have helped him? Why didn't I get to know him better, try to be a friend to him? Did he have a chance in hell, and could I have been it?