Sirens

The only sounds I am aware of are the sirens blaring and the white noise in my head.  I’m trying to prepare mentally for what we’re about to see, but I cannot, my head’s blank. Dispatcher, “Ambulance 3-8-1 have you arrived on the scene yet? I repeat Ambulance 3-8-1 have you arrived on scene yet? Do you copy?” I realize when no one answers that we are all feeling a little overwhelmed by the situation we are being thrown into. I grab the radio and respond, “Dispatch this is 3-8-1 responding, we are on scene… oh my God…” My finger was still on the radio button as we pulled up to the scene of the accident.  A duel wheelie truck the size of a small trailer had hit an Amish horse and buggy filled with a mother and her six small children, all of which were under the age of eight. We were told in report this exact scenario but nothing prepares you mentally for scenes like this. Outsiders cannot begin to fathom the horrifying scenes emergency medical technicians see on a daily basis. It is not something that gets easier with the job, but we are forced to put our masks on and do our job, save lives.

            I became an EMT two years ago and I thought the hardest thing I would have to do was pass the state boards to earn my certification; I was mistaken. I was carefree and ready to perform CPR and wear elaborate gear to house fires. As many horror stories I had heard in EMS class and told there will always be calls that you will not be prepared for that stick with you forever. I still could not wrap my head around this. I thought I was invincible and could be tough and straight-faced through any accident. I was the new big and bad EMT at ambulance 3-8-1, and I was just as good as all the pros already working.  My mentors would always knock me down a peg, “Hey newbie wash the rig. Oh no you sit in the back until you’re a real EMT. You ain’t seen nothing yet bub, you just wait.”  They made me so irate; I was just as talented as they are. I thought they were a bunch of saps who reminisced about their feelings caused by prior calls. When they cried with the families of victims it gave the appearance they had weaknesses EMTs should not have.  They did not know me. I could handle anything thrown at me; I was prepared.

            The crew and I pull up to the site of the collision and do not know where to begin.  Our crew chief is the first to speak as if he can read what we are all thinking; “I guess we go where we see the first site of blood.” We grab our trauma gear and run to the mother who had been ejected from the buggy the farthest, or so we thought at the time.  There is a whirl of sirens coming from fire trucks, first responders, and other ambulances rolling in from all over the county as we jump into action. There is a loud roar of white noise coming from the quickly closing-in crowd of people who are peeking through their fingers at the scene we have to clean up. A few of the onlookers approach us with weak stomachs and green faces offering to help, but I can tell they just want to be dismissed.

I’m trying to take the whole situation in and recall what I learned in school but I’m drawing blank. I have this dumb look on my face as I spin and look for where I am needed next.  I start to help one of my crew members who had always told me, “You aint seen nothing yet bub!” At that moment a lady from the pit of the crowd makes her way to me with a bundle of blood-drenched black wool clothes. She hands the bundle to me and says with tears welling up in her eyes, “I found him in the ditch behind the buggy.” I look down to see it is a blond , blue-eyed boy.

He was four years old at most. He had been bundled in layers that morning by his mother to protect against the December icy air. I stood there in shock staring at this little boy in my arms. I realize my body is tense because it’s taking everything in me to not start crying. He looks just like my baby brother; what would I do if this was my family? I shudder.

            Everything seems to clear. All my education comes flooding back to me; the scene becomes real, and I see teamwork from the all the crews and not just pure panic. I get to work. From that point forward, it’s all a rushed blur. We package all seven people from the horse and buggy and take them to Lancaster General Trauma bay where my four year old blue-eyed boy is flown with his two year-old sister to a nearby children’s hospital. The last thing I remember is seeing the father and husband of the family come running into the trauma bay with dirt smeared on his face from where the tears had been streaming. Thankfully, I am able to tell him confidently they are all going to be fine. His shoulders relax and his knees give out. He begins to cry again, this time in joy and relief.

            We all ride back in the ambulance to the station covered in blood, gravel and sweat, quietly staring at road in front of us. Some tried to fill the quiet with awkward banter like, “Well that’s one for the books. I guess I’ll need to go buy a new uniform tonight.  We’ll be missing breakfast today.” There is one statement that stands out to me, though; “Well I guess you’ve seen something now bub.”

            After extreme cases like this one our company requires a counseling session with a local therapist that’s on call. When we get back to the station, she is already sitting there, with our Ops Chief beside her, waiting with chairs set up in a circle. Both have a clipboard in hand ready to take notes. This is the last thing I want to do. I want run home. I simply want to shower and sleep. I do not share much at this meeting and just say what is required and what I need to get out of there. Just sat and stared at my shoes that still have blood from the four year old boy that reminds me of my brother. I go home that day and hug my brother tight before going to sleep for fifteen hours straight.

            Months later I am able to talk with the crew about that devastating day, once the shock had worn off and I no longer winced every time I saw a horse and buggy. We celebrated the fact that all seven victims made it home and back to their normal lives. Make that eight. The mother gave birth to a beautiful, healthy, and on time baby girl which none of us knew she was six months pregnant with at the time. The husband, wife and now seven children came to visit us and I sat with them and cried as the husband told me how his heart felt as if it had stopped when he thought he had lost his entire family all in one day. I realized in this moment what this family had taught me. I learn to have empathy. I understand what my fellow EMTs were trying to tell me all along. I learn I am able to help my patients both physically and emotionally. That I am not always going to be prepared for what I am going to see when I went to just another day at work. I needed my crew mates as support, and I did not know it all. Most of all I am going to have to cry sometimes just to get through those emotional days. We are still only human even if we were taught in school to be heroes.