Table 13

Monday night, a customer died in my section. As a waitress, I expect to deal with a pile of annoying clients, all demanding my undivided attention. More ketchup, less salt, more salad, less tomatoes - and the saddest thing that I saw was how noone stopped asking when a gentleman not 4 feet away was having a heart attack.

It took me a few minutes to register the problem at table 13. Two men, obviously old friends, were enjoying their filet mignons. 5 minutes later, one of the men appeared to be asleep. I tried to offer assistance - not knowing what assistance to give - and was shooed away by the friend. I kept serving tables, because that's what I came into work to do. I kept going back to table 13, because that's what any human with half a soul would do.

I urged a co-worker to call 911. I accepted the help of a doctor who had just settled his bill with me. I told the kitchen to shut down until everything was under control. Then I went outside and lost control.

Later I learned that I had a panic attack, alone in the back alley.

I blamed myself for serving the man drinks. I blamed his friend for refusing aid from myself and my coworkers. I blamed table 16 for asking for ketchup while a man's lips were turning blue.

I didn't know his name, his friend's name or even if the paramedics were able to revive him - for the third time - at the hospital.

I was given two days off to relax - unprecedented behaviour from the management who have basically chained my ankle to the bar 6 days a week for the last 3 months.

Thursday I was back at work. Nervous, anxious and still confused.

One of my coworkers came up to me and said that there are 4 people who want to talk to me.

"The son of the man who died on Monday wants to talk to you. He came in with his sisters to see where their father spent his last moments."

I left my nearly full bar and introduced myself to them. I told them about how the two men were - jovial and hilarious. I told them what their dad had to drink, what he ate and how in the middle of his meal he just slumped over.

They thanked me and told me how their dad had a stroke last week. The doctors said it was a very minor stroke, and at 82 years of age, he should just continue on as normal. He had a ticket booked to Vancouver to see his kids on Wednesday. He went out for dinner with his best friend at his favorite restaurant on Monday.

He died of a heart attack in the restaurant. They managed to keep him on life support until Tuesday - where his family gathered and said their goodbyes. He died on Tuesday when they pulled the breathing tube.

One of the women spoke to me in private and told me how grateful she is for everything I did. That because I made sure 911 was called and got a doctor to volunteer to administer CPR, the family was able to get to Montreal to say goodbye. She told me that they view Monday as the night he died.

And that they were very happy to know how he died eating his favorite meal with his best friend under the care of a warm-hearted waitress.

I still feel bad for making jokes about how the majority of the clientele is so old, "I just hope noone dies during my shift".

But I'm happy I was there. So is the waiter who used to work that section on Monday nights. He is bringing me a few Adavan pills tonight... just in case.