During the evening rush hour on one early January day this year, Ri Ok Gyong, a 40-year-old lady resident in Neighbourhood Unit No. 79, Sonnae-dong, Mangyongdae District of Pyongyang, was on a bus bound for Kwangbok Subway Station from Munsu Health Complex.
Soon after the bus left its first stop, she felt choked. Her chronic angina pectoris began to grow worse. With her face turning white, she asked others to open the window. A girl student beside her cried out for help. “We have a patient in the bus. Who has any analeptic?”
All the passengers hurried to search their pockets and handbags. Some medicines and a bottle of water began to be delivered to her.
Before taking them, she fell unconscious. Passengers tried to take other first-aid measures, massaging her hands and pressing some acupoints. At that moment, a middle-aged woman at her forties picked out something from her pocket and put it into the patient’s mouth. It was musk.
The passengers whispered that she, too, must be a patient.
She replied in smile: “It is of most urgency to save a patient in a critical condition. Driver, let’s go to a hospital as quickly as possible.”
The bus changed its route towards the nearby Pothonggang District People’s Hospital.
Several young men on the bus helped each other to carry the patient to the first-aid department, where emergency measures were taken to bring her back to life.
After a while, they came back to the bus and informed that she got out of the critical situation.
The bus restarted its engine and ran along the streets in darkness.
Ri Ok Gyong came to her senses some time later. Leaving the hospital, she said: “I don’t know who saved my life. But I keenly feel the affection of my own flesh and blood.”