Leaving

Death in the field is a curious thing. I know it's something I've explored once before in my short list of posts. People die, obviously, everyday outside the hospital. Apart from a hospice situation, this usually means that we are called. We are called both to verify death and on the outside chance that perhaps this person can be resuscitated.

To be toned as a DOA, however, means the dispatcher has information that points to no resuscitation. Cold. Blue. Stiff.

Some situations are sad. The man alone in a cheap motel room, takeout dinner on the bed next to him, french fries his only company. The husband of fifty years whose wife "just hasn't been able to wake him." Anyone young. Others are merciful. Cancer patients come most often to mind, their bodies ravaged by pain and disease.

The thing of it is, it isn't the ones that have died that bother me. The situations can be painful, or awkward, or scary. But at the end of the day it isn't a load that I bear.

It's the ones that are dying that are imprinted on my mind. There is one in particular, the first of my career, that I think will always stick with me. Here is that memory.

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It's a cool fall afternoon, and I was brand new on the ambulance. My uniform still had creases in it, and my boots were shiny and unscuffed. The call came in as a "core." In EMS-speak, this is someone who has gone into cardiac arrest. It can be a very dramatic call, but usually one with the same outcome. The national cardiac arrest "save" percentage (that is, the patient leaves the hospital breathing) is 2%. It is often an exercise in futility, a last ditch effort to safe a life.

I don't really remember the house coming into the call. I was a swirl of nerves, wanting to well both in front of my peers and for the patient. We find him upstairs in the bathtub. He looks young. Too young to have this happen. It appears he may have suffered a significant cardiac event and slipped under the water. A limp, wet body is not easy to heave out of the tub. Once out, we start a sort of odd dance. CPR is started, the cardiac monitor hooked up. A tube is pushed down his through to breathe for him, while an IV is started and drugs are pushed in the hopes of restarting his heart.

As the new guy, I was on CPR. It's harder than it appears in class. Instructors aren't kidding when they say you tire quickly doing compressions. I pressed hard and fast, feeling a stomach-turning crunch under my hands as I pumped. Sweat poured from my face as I looked at others working smoothly and seemingly without stress.

The lead paramedic makes the decision to transport. Still doing compressions, we load the patient on a backboard and begin to carry him out to the ambulance.

Leaving the house, my tunnel vision lifted. We walked out of a master bedroom, down a hallway. From a doorway, a girl of no more than six stands, phone held limply at her side. She must have called 911. We move as quickly as we can down the stairs. My lungs heave with the effort, and I notice the smell of fresh chocolate cookies permeating the house. Downstairs, we quick-step through the kitchen through which I can see the back door and the ambulance. Time stops as shadows darken the back door. Through it appear a teen boy and a woman who appears the same age as the patient. Their faces showed a raw human emotion I don't think I can put into words. His family.

Time started again, and we moved to the ambulance. I believe a police officer comforted the family. The rest of the call is again a blur--lights flashing and sirens blaring to the hospital, my compressions continuing the whole way. Our patient became one of the 98% that day.

It stays with me as motivation. It moves me to strive to find that 2% patient I can help. To do what I can so no family loses a loved one early. Because I still remember the smell of chocolate chip cookies.