A few years ago my flatmate hung himself. I had to get him down and then perform CPR using instructions over the phone until the ambulance arrived, since my other flatmate who found him in that state was completely hysterical and wouldn't even open the door to the let the paramedics in until I yelled at her. Despite the traumatic nature of the event, I suppose I just entered a state of pure autopilot when it happened. I didn't even panic or question why my otherwise happy friend was now dangling from the roof, I just immediately phoned the ambulance and followed the instructions I was given. When he was taken to the hospital after about 30 minutes of more professional CPR from the paramedics (including some liberal use of a defib), the police arrived and took me to the station to ask a few questions. I told them what had happened, and then when I was finished one of the senior officers told me that my flatmate was alive and would probably live, but he didn't know if there would be any lasting damage. I went away feeling almost pleased that I had managed to remain so calm in such an extreme circumstance, but still decided to stay with my parents for a few days to let it all sink in. I got a phone call three days later saying he'd taken a turn for the worse and suddenly died in hospital. It hit me very hard, considering how i'd convinced myself he'd be OK. The first few weeks afterwords were difficult. Everytime my mind wandered it would inevitably end up replaying the events over and over again, wondering if i'd done something wrong that could've saved him. As the weeks went on these thoughts went from once an hour to once a day, and then from once a day to once a week, and now I only think about it once every few weeks or so. Time heals all wounds as they say.