One morning, not so long ago, the tall glass doors leading into our ER opened wide, letting in a shaft of golden sunlight and a medic team rushing in with a gurney bearing a lovely lady in her mid-seventies who appeared to be in pain.

As she was lifted onto the ER stretcher, our eyes met and we exchanged gentle smiles. Giving her my name, I said I was her nurse; she said, "Call me Beth."

Moments later, as I helped her out her soft blue dress and pearls into a gown, Beth jolted forward, clutched her mid-abdomen and moaned a kettle drum deep "OOOhhhmmng" as her eyes rolled upward... and she dropped into my arms.

I rang for our ER Rapid Response team.

Seconds later, five nurses and a doctor swarmed in, and we swung into action. In the midst of our furious effort to save her life, Beth half opened her eyes... blinking... as though seeing in slow motion... remembering who she was... where she was, she began to murmur... "Stop... it's too late... please... stop..."

No one seemed to notice her pleas, as everyone stayed on task.

Beth began pushing everyone away. When held down, she resisted... until she rose up and her gown slipped down... draping her lap like a Grecian Goddess. Now nearly naked, she burst out and fought back with all fours like a wild cat.

Finally, with one big thrust, flinging everyone off all at once, she sat bolt upright... glared at everyone... and ROARRRED: "LET MEEE GOOOO!!!"

Everyone froze. Time stood still.

Beth's eyelids fluttered to a close... as she sank back down onto the stretcher unresponsive... with shallow breathing... and a heartbeat.

"She's oxygen deprived," the doctor said. "Doesn't know what she's saying."

I'd never heard anybody speak more clearly in my life. She sounded like she knew exactly what she was saying.

There was plenty of help at the bedside, so I zoomed out to the waiting room where I found Beth's daughter Ann, looking like a younger version of her mom with long, sandy colored hair and pretty eyes. Guiding her into a quiet room, I told her everything.

Ann's chest heaved as she heard that her mother had roared "Let me go."

Tears welled up in her eyes. The bottom was falling out of her world.

We made our way to Beth's ER room as she was being rushed back from her CT scan. I cleared a path through the monitors, machines and infusions for Ann to come close... reached for her mother's hand, and whispered in her ear.

Beth's face softened in response... as though she could hear.

A massive abdominal aneurism bleed had been seen on the scan.

A surgeon and her assistant charged into the room. Without time for a kind word or tone of voice for Ann, the surgeon fired off a rapid condition report while pushing a surgical permit and pen into her hand.

Ann faced her and said, "No."

The surgeon spouted out, "Nooo???!!" - with a derisive twist.