My partner, Bronson, is looking at the page in the EMS protocols book labeled 403: Cardiac Arrest. “Immediate CPR and defibrillation can restart the heart and bring a person back to life.” “Yeah, life as a vegetable,” Bronson says, snapping the book shut.

I grab it from him. “You jaded sourpuss,” I say. But he’s right. I hate cardiac arrests, too. Not because the patients usually die, but because sometimes they don’t.

We get a priority call to back up paramedics on a confirmed cardiac arrest – confirmed because the medics are already on-scene and have decided they need extra hands to do chest compressions and ventilate the patient while they intubate and start an IV. The medics also need help moving the patient when and if it comes time to transport.

I check the computer screen for more patient information. There is none, just the call for backup. We arrive at the fifth-floor apartment in the Gowanus Houses, in the Boerum Hill section of Brooklyn, to find a 65-year-old man lying on the bedroom floor, unresponsive. The medics have already intubated him, and two women in bathrobes hover in the hallway, wringing rosaries and speaking in Spanish. One is about 55 and says she’s the patient’s girlfriend. The other is 85 and is crying.

“Are you his mother?” I ask, but she doesn’t speak English, and none of us speak Spanish.

The younger woman says, “No, no, not his mother,” and leaves it at that.

We never learn exactly who the older woman is as we work furiously ventilating the patient and doing chest compressions. The patient is a big guy, and Bronson can deliver good compressions without breaking any ribs. Bronson likes doing this. I prefer to ventilate. Good partners have their natural roles, and we know what they are. I make sure the ventilator is taped well to the endotracheal tube, and squeeze the Ambu bag just enough to get good chest rise and fall, releasing to give the patient’s lungs a chance to exhale.

One medic is on the phone with Dr. Byrd at FDNY medical control, while the other pushes heart-stimulating drugs through an IV into the patient’s vein. Bronson’s pumping on the patient’s chest is hopefully bringing that medicine to his heart.

The first medic reads off EKG patterns from the cardiac monitor to Dr. Byrd, and tells the second medic what drugs the doctor is ordering: atropine, ephedrine, dopamine, epinephrine.

“The whole cardiac cocktail,” the first medic tells the second one.

“Hold the olive?” the other one asks.

He listens to Dr. Byrd, then says, “With a twist.”

The second medic selects another drug and adds it to the mix. They think the patient is beyond saving, but are bound by protocols to try everything possible before being given permission to call the code. They tell us the girlfriend said he was unresponsive five minutes before she called 911, and the medics say it took five minutes for them to arrive. This was 10 minutes ago. He has been down for a grand total of at least 20 minutes that we know of. Brain damage sets in between six and 10 minutes. CPR only partially circulates the blood, and artificial ventilations only partially oxygenate the lungs. Together, the combination is less than half as good as if the patient’s body were functioning on its own.

The patient is still flatline, which is not good. Without any electrical activity in the heart, there’s nothing to shock into a normal rhythm, so defibrillation is out. Cocktail drugs and CPR are the only life-sustaining (not life-saving) tools we have. Bronson and I continue pumping away and ventilating.

“Stop CPR,” the medic calls, and checks the monitor.

Unbelievably, there’s a quiver. Then, a rudimentary but regular beat. Not the jagged lightning bolt of a healthy heart, but something. An artery in the patient’s forehead starts faintly pulsing. I continue to ventilate. With more drugs, his heart is now pumping a decent amount of deoxygenated blood to a brain that’s basically dead. The medic calls Dr. Byrd back to report this brand-new high-on-adrenaline heartbeat. Dr. Byrd says, “Transport.”

I inform the women that we’ve gotten a heartbeat back – a rudimentary one – and are going to bring him to the ER. I warn them that anything could happen en route to the hospital, that he could go into cardiac arrest again. We’re not doctors, so I have no authority to tell them that the man is brain-dead, that he will never regain consciousness, and that he will never survive off of a ventilator.

But the women don’t register any of this. They’re elated, and start crossing their chests and kissing their rosary beads, telling us we’ve saved him. Suddenly I’m sorry for every soap opera and Hollywood drama – even every episode of “ER” – where the patient’s eyelids flutter and he wakes up and says, “What happened?” People actually believe EMS can pull a ridiculous Hollywood stunt like bringing back the dead.

“Don’t people know the difference between TV and reality?” I whisper to Bronson.

“Apparently not,” he says. The women are joyous, and gaze upon the patient strapped to the stretcher as if he’s merely going to the doctor for a checkup.

“Congratulations,” Bronson whispers, as he hits the elevator button with his elbow. “We’ve just prolonged this man’s death.”

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.