Driving down the highway I could see some emergency vehicles parked on the shoulder of the opposing lanes, just over the concrete divider. I quickly found a turn around and pulled through, I was directed to park just ahead of those already on scene. Despite being early spring I could still see my breath as I stood at the back of the rig, gathering items I may need. I directed my partner to get the truck warmed up and throw some saline bags on the dash, also to make sure that the BVM was on the stretcher and the intubation kit was ready and set up. ”We need to be ready as soon as they hit the stretcher,” I said.
As I approached the guard rail a voice yelled out, “One girl self extricated, three more trapped.” The night was cloudy and the water was fast, most of the non essential scene lights had been turned off as the glare off of the river was too much. I scanned for the spot where the car entered the water, I tried to find skid marks, dirt turned up, small torn trees maybe. I didn’t search long. From the murky brown water an amber flashing glow caught my eye. Blink…blink…blink…unmistakably regular…a turn signal. Not being trained on swift water rescue all I could do was wait as boats were launched down river and men in bright orange and red suits tried to gain access from the steep, uneven river bank.
There was silence while those of us on the bank watched that golden flashing beacon, a ray of hope. Then it happened, the blinking stopped and almost on cue a thick fog rolled onto the river. The chatter began. Talk of the odds of survival in cold water and stories of people being removed in cardiac arrest and being brought back. Was it 60 minutes or 90? Everyone had a different opinion, air pockets, windows up or down, all hearsay in the dark. The bank became divided between the providers that had ‘been there before’ and those of us who apparently are just too new. The former discussing recent electronic purchases and their holiday plans and the latter, just watching.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I was in the latter. I stood with a few close friends while the 30, then 60, then 90 minute marks passed. The boats skimmed back and forth, knowing the car was just under them. The divers had no visibility and searched by feel in the cold dark water. After nearly two hours they found something…a body. Just one, two apparently still trapped in the car. The search apparently stirred up items from the vehicle and boats quickly gathered anything that was floating. Just a few personal items, two purses…and some children’s shoes. It took a while but we confirmed no children were indeed in the car. Nearly an hour after that they had the vehicle hooked with a chain. A large semi wrecker backed up to the guard rail and hoisted it slowly from the water. Firefighters, EMT’s, Police and Tow Truck operators all gathered around while it was being lowered down. Everyone being all too polite, making sure they didn’t trip each other on their way to see the carnage. My friend and I stood back, the view of one of the victims legs hanging ever so daintily from the window was more than enough for us. We would later find out that one person was still missing.
As we loaded up our equipment back into the truck, several of the providers were talking about how tragic it had all been, how just a few hours before these people were laughing and enjoying a few drinks with dinner. Several of us also talked about how much it had bothered us to not be able to do anything. Then of course, the cynics rolled in. It always amazes me how just when people are opening up to each other, sharing and helping each other with a tough time, someone has to step in and put the kibosh on it. Whether because of their inability to open up themselves, frustration that they aren’t included or simply because they stopped caring too long ago, I don’t know. It seems that many of them had forgotten what it was like to be in our shoes.
I’ve had my share of calls that wake me up at night, children shot, burned and beaten, adults ejected, asphyxiated and exsanguinated, all taking turns being interlopers into my dreams. I know the ‘better’ of us claim to be impervious to them but here is my truth…they all bother me. No matter how young, old or infirmed. No matter how rich or poor, how ‘pathetic’ or ‘deserving’ they may seem. No excuses make it better for me. I can’t, like one of my partners, simply say “well they didn’t suffer.” They may not but the family sure will. I think of the family, the family who I have to look at and say “there was nothing we could do.” Family, like the child of the woman who drowned in that accident, young enough to still wear shoes with Velcro. How many times I’ve stood in a room, having worked my hardest to save a life, only to fail. It would be easier if I could close the door and go back to work, but my work has just begun. I have to explain to the wife of 50 years that her husband is dead, the ambulance can’t do anything this time. Oh to be just a driver again.
If you look closely, you can see the exact moment they let the reality hit them, their body kind of buckles slightly, then they sit, or fall, some of them throw their arms around me. They cry, wail, lament and beg God to fix things. I stand there and hold them up, being their source of strength in that moment of fear and weakness. They will never know that I’m only this strong because they need me to be. Then, every so often one of them does something that I truly never get used to. They thank me. I still remember the first person to do this. A 70 year old woman who’s husband died right on their kitchen floor after shoveling the sidewalk. She did all the normal things one does when a loved one dies, but then while hanging off my shoulder she unexpectedly looked up at me, leaned into my ear and said…Thank You. That was it. Two words, she then sat down in a chair cried some more and consoled her grand daughter.
I always seem to find just enough strength to keep my composure in moments like that. Then in my own time, I let my guard down. When I talk to coworkers, I mostly end up getting the ‘that’s all part of the job’ routine. I guess that’s what truly makes me new, not the fact that death, dying and bad calls bother me, but the fact that I still hope every time that someone will remember what it’s like to sit in my chair. Most never do and the ones that do, I suspect don’t like to talk about it. So I see a therapist and I’m proud of it. That doesn’t make me naive, green or weak and it’s time we told others the same. It’s important to remember that we do a job that not everyone can. We see, hear and experience things that most people only encounter through the television. We need to become better at supporting each other when we go through rough times and remember what it was like to be too new. It’s high time that we remember that stress affects our mental health and being depressed doesn’t mean your crazy. I’m not sure where this notion of strength through silence came from. I hope that one day it will change, I fear it never will.
Stay Safe Sane
~SF
