Chapter 16 — The First Heartbeat

Part IV — The Freezing Moment

In early December, the atmosphere of the entire Phan Dinh Phung High School became bustling with final review sessions and hurried breaks between busy test periods. The Red Cross Club, after the resounding success of the Community First Aid Festival, is now entering the sprint phase of preparing for the basic first aid certification exam, scheduled to take place on December 15.

Thien Kim, whose new role as vice president was officially confirmed last week, now takes on the additional responsibility of assisting Minh Vu in organizing review sessions for all club members, ensuring everyone is ready for the upcoming important exam. She felt more confident than ever — not overly confident, but a confidence that had been steadily built with each practice session, each challenge she had overcome over the past four months.

Tuesday afternoon, a rare sunny day in the middle of Hanoi's winter, Thien Kim was having lunch with Tuyet Mai in the school cafeteria, chatting about plans for the upcoming Tet holiday. The cafeteria was crowded as usual, with laughter and the sound of dishes colliding, creating a familiar bustling atmosphere of lunch time.

Suddenly, from the dining table not far away, a loud noise rang out — the sound of chairs falling, the sound of dishes breaking, and immediately followed by the panicked screams of a few students. Thien Kim turned her head, and the scene before her eyes made the blood in her body freeze: a boy, probably in 10th grade, was falling on the floor, clutching his throat, his face starting to turn purple, his body convulsing violently.

"He choked!" someone shouted from the crowd that was quickly gathering around.

In that moment, everything around Thien Kim suddenly became strangely slow, as if time was passing at a completely different pace than in reality. She instinctively stood up from her chair, but as soon as her feet touched the ground, a terrifyingly familiar feeling came over her — the same feeling she had experienced three years ago, when she stood watching baby Bin choke on a foreign object.

The image of the boy's pale face before her eyes suddenly overlapped with the image of baby Bin's face three years ago, to the point that she could no longer distinguish between the present and the memory. Her legs, even though she stood up, could not take another step. Her hands, the same hands that had practiced the Heimlich maneuver hundreds of times on mannequins, that had instructed dozens of parents how to handle this exact situation just a few weeks before, were now shaking, immobile, not obeying any commands from her brain.

"Thien Kim, you're from the Red Cross Club! Do nothing!" Tuyet Mai shouted next to her, her voice filled with panic when she saw her friend standing motionless.

But Thien Kim couldn't move. She stood there, in the middle of the increasingly chaotic crowd, her eyes wide open looking at the boy struggling on the floor, her ears heard the screams around her but it was as if it was all coming from a great distance, through an invisible membrane separating her from reality. All the knowledge she had learned and taught others seemed to have completely evaporated from her mind in that terrifying moment.

Just a few seconds later — although to Thien Kim, it felt like a millennium — a physical education teacher passing by the cafeteria quickly rushed in, performing the exact Heimlich technique that Thien Kim had taught to countless parents just a few weeks ago. After three decisive abdominal thrusts, a piece of food shot out of the boy's mouth, and he began to cough and choke, gasping for air, but was safe.

The whole cafeteria breathed a sigh of relief, and sporadic applause rang out for the teacher who promptly helped. But Thien Kim still stood there, motionless, her hands still shaking, tears began to flow uncontrollably, not because of relief, but because of an extreme feeling of shame and humiliation that was taking over her entire being.

She froze. Once again. Right in front of the eyes of dozens, even hundreds of students in the crowded cafeteria - many of whom knew she was a member, or even vice president, of the Red Cross Club, who had been honored in front of the whole school just two weeks ago for instructing dozens of parents to correctly handle this situation.

"Thien Kim..." Tuyet Mai said, her voice worried, placing her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Thien Kim could not answer. She felt the whole cafeteria spinning around her, whispers began to spread from the surrounding student groups — "Isn't she in the Red Cross Club?" "Eh, why didn't she do anything just now?" "I thought it was very good."

Those whispers, although not all malicious, were still like needles piercing Thien Kim's already fragile self-esteem. She felt her face burning, her throat tight, and before she realized what she was doing, she turned around and ran straight out of the cafeteria, leaving behind Tuyet Mai's panicked call.

She ran to the rarely used stairwell behind the school, where she often escaped when she needed to be alone, sat down on the steps, hugged her knees, and let her tears flow uncontrollably. Her body trembled intermittently, not because of the cold, but because of the huge psychological shock she had just experienced.

She didn't understand why. She practiced hundreds, thousands of times. She was able to teach others. She confidently stood before a crowd of unfamiliar parents telling her story just two weeks ago, believing that she had overcome her old obsession. But when faced with a real situation, not a simulation, not a practice scenario, her body still betrayed her, still taking her back to that exact moment of helplessness three years ago.

"Maybe I've never really changed," she whispered to herself, her voice choked with tears. "Maybe everything I learned is just an illusion, it only works in a safe, hypothetical environment, not in reality."

Her phone vibrated continuously — a text message from Tuyet Mai asking where she was and if she was okay. She didn't answer, just sat there, letting the panic gradually subside, replaced by a heavy emptiness, a feeling of failure deeper than anything she had experienced since the incident with baby Bin.

She remembered all the words she had said to the parents at Community First Aid Day, all the techniques she had meticulously demonstrated, and now it all seemed like a bitter farce — she, who had taught others how to correctly handle a foreign object choking situation, could not do it herself when faced with a boy who was in real danger right before his eyes.

The bell rang to signal the end of recess, but Thien Kim still did not move or return to class. She sat there the entire afternoon class, hiding in the corner of the quiet staircase, ignoring the constant messages from Tuyet Mai, from the homeroom teacher asking about her unexplained absence, and from Minh Vu - who must have heard about the incident in the cafeteria from other people in the club.

She looked at the phone screen and saw the name "Minh Vu" appear along with the message "Are you okay? I heard what happened at the cafeteria. Where are you?" but I don't have the courage to open it and read it completely, and I don't have the courage to answer it. She turned off her phone screen, buried her face in her knees, and let the utter shame engulf her.

In her head, the memories kept repeating like a broken tape, replaying the same scene over and over again: the boy's purple face, the screams around her, and herself, standing there, motionless, useless. She tried to analyze every second that happened, looking for some reasonable explanation, but the more she analyzed, the more confused and hopeless she felt. Why was she able to act calmly during the simulation practice session, even instructing others not to hold the convulsing limbs tightly? Why was she able to stand in front of dozens of strangers at the Community First Aid Festival and tell the most painful story of her life without any fear? But when faced with the real situation, in just a split second, everything she had built over the past four months completely collapsed.

Perhaps, she thought, the difference was that everything before had been prepared in advance — she knew in advance which station she would stand at, knew in advance how the scenario would play out, had time to breathe, to mentally prepare. But a real accident, happening suddenly in the middle of a normal lunch, without warning, without giving her a second to prepare—that was the fatal weakness that she had never truly overcome, despite trying to hide it with hundreds of hours of controlled practice.

That thought made her even more panicked. If that's true, if she can only handle it well in a prepared environment, then does everything she has learned and taught others still have any meaning? Is she worthy of the title of vice president of the club, with the praise she received just two weeks ago, or is it all just a fragile cover, waiting to crumble before the first real challenge?

The afternoon shadows gradually fell, the sunlight faded through the small window at the end of the stairs, dyeing the whole space into a withered orange color. Thien Kim still sat there, no longer crying, only a heavy emptiness remained, so tired that she no longer had the strength to stand up. She thought about having to return to class, facing the eyes of her friends and club members who had heard about what happened, and that feeling of fear was even greater than the fear she had felt in front of the CPR dummy during her first practice session.

Finally, when the school bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, Thien Kim reluctantly stood up, brushed the dust off her uniform skirt, and dried the remaining tears on her cheeks. She did not go towards the main gate where many students usually gathered, but chose a path around the more secluded back gate, bowed her head, avoided any eyes that might catch her, and let the utter shame engulf her in the longest, loneliest afternoon she had ever experienced since joining the Red Cross Club four months ago.