A Perfectly Good Afternoon, Ruined

It's chilly today, but that's not unusual for a Michigan afternoon. It's sunny, though, which is unusual. I'm standing in the bay of my station, just looking outside and enjoying the view. I’m part of a three-man crew today, which shows how manpower is an issue in the fire service. Today, there are three of us when there's supposed to be four. Because of that, our roles and how we do things shift. I'm that third guy today. I don't have to look at the big picture because that's someone else's job. I can focus on the patient's needs and nothing else.

As I stand there peacefully enjoying the sun's rays through the open bay door, the tones drop. I’m annoyed. I JUST got out here, and the sun is so nice.

Well, This is "The Call."

Sometimes, as you listen to the dispatch of what the call will be, the list of units assigned is long. That is the first indication that a call may be intense. Today, the list of units is long, and my stomach drops before I even know what we’re going to be going on. My unit was mentioned first. That means it's in our first due area. We are going to get there firs,t and I am going to be smack dab in the middle of it.

“Rescue 1, Engine 2, Engine 3, Rescue 2, and Battalion 1- Man stuck in woodchipper.”

My stomach drops for the second time in ten seconds. A woodchipper. This is “the call”. This type of call is the one that gives you experience. These are the types of calls that either tell you you aren't meant for this job or let you know you can make it through.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Woodchipper

As I'm getting into the back of the ambulance, I begin to go through what we may need to do in my head. Priorities. I'm ready. I've gone through my priorities. I know what to do.

I have a lot of time to think this through. Too much time in fact. Maybe four minutes have passed since we pulled out of the fire station. I can't see where we are going, but I feel the shifts and turns we’re taking. We're taking too long. Too many turns. I finally pull up the GPS on my phone and realize we took a wrong turn.

I hear over the radio, “Engine 2, Rescue 2 on scene,” and in those six words, I know my experience is going to be dramatically different than what I just steeled myself for four minutes ago. Another ambulance got there first. Our coworkers beat us to this call, and I'm honestly not that mad about it.

Stepping Into the Silence

Finally, I feel the ambulance lurch to a stop. I open the back doors, and I don't even have to grab any equipment when I come out. As I step out, my eyes are drawn to the large orange industrial woodchipper just a few feet away. It’s not running, and the only sounds I hear are several diesel engines, distant sirens that are getting closer…and nothing else. It’s eerily quiet. There are people everywhere. Neighbors are standing on the lawns of almost every house, watching.

My eyes are pulled to what I have to do. They are pulled to the patient. To the right of the orange woodchipper is a man lying on the black street.

The First Five Seconds

He's wearing blue jeans and a dark green jacket. Something is wrong with his head, though. His hair is matted down with blood, with a splash of white and grey. Its gone in a flash as a massive bandage is applied by my coworker. Oh my god. I know what the white and gray were. It takes a long second for me to understand what I just saw. The white was the skull. And the gray was his brain. I just saw this man's brain.

He's groaning and making noises. His groaning drowns out anything else around me. I let myself fall back on my training.

Back to Priorities

Before I know it, I'm on my knees beside him, and I hear myself as,y “Can you squeeze my hand?” He squeezes it quickly. His brain is exposed, but it's still functioning. Incredible.

My coworker is working to control the surprisingly small amount of blood continuing to seep from under the bandage. It's my job to find and control the second-worst injury. I go to assess his right arm, and all I see is a stark contrast of red against the black road. It’s blood. Everywhere. A black strap is wrapped tightly around the stub of his right arm, and I’m thankful for the cops who got on scene first. A police officer had used what was on his person, a tourniquet, and applied it tightly to this man's arm. Good job, brother.

Jumping Into the Tomb

A voice snaps me out of my quick assessments. “Greely. Move.” I was so focused on the patient's injuries that I didn't realize several of my coworkers were behind me, waiting for me to move so they could put him on a backboard. I'm “the guy” slowing things dow,n and I thought I was helping. Damn it.

We get him on the backboard and strap him down. As we begin to roll toward the ambulance, I make a split-second decision that I can confidently say changed my life. I decided to “jump in” with this crew. I quickly asked the senior medic... “Do you want me to jump in?” “Yes. Get in.”

As I slam the ambulance doors closed behind me, all sound disappears. It's like I just slammed the door to a tomb.

"This is Gonna Be a K"

The senior medic quickly turns on every light. The sudden lights bring along a rush of sounds that are eerily quiet yet so loud. Again, I am acutely aware of the absence of a sound. The patient. He's not groaning anymore. The silence of his not groaning in the back of that ambulance was the loudest thing I heard that day.

Back to priorities. His head and arm are taken care of for now. The lead medic is sitting in a chair, holding the bandage tightly against the patient's head. He starts to speak, but it's very quiet. “This is going to be a K.” he whispers again. He whispered, knowing we would have to stop and listen. He forced us to take a breath. I have another realization. He knows this man is not going to make it.

The Longest Radio Report of My Life

He, quietly, says “Hey- I need to make the radio report. Can you take over his head so I can do it?” He agrees that he's the head guy right now because he's the closest. That means I'm next up to make the radio report. This may be the most intense radio report I have ever given.

I find the hospital radio channel I need to send this report to, and press the call button. My heart is racing and my throat is dry. “Hospital Hospital, we’re enroute to your facility priority one with an approximately 50 year old male who was extricated from a wood chipper.” Breathe. Just breathe. “He is currently unconscious but breathing... We have a right arm amputation and partial head removal with visible brain matter... Our ETA is eight minutes.”

“Did you say woodchipper?” the radio asks. “Yes. Woodchipper.” Dammit I have to say it twice anyways.

From Bad to Worse

My report is done. Back to priorities. Airway. Is he breathing? I watch his chest for that rise and fall, but I don’t see anything. I put my gloved finger on his Carotid artery (neck) and feel for a pulse. No pulse.

“Hey guys. He just arrested.” I announced to the crew. All four of us begin to turn our efforts toward starting CPR. I grab the radio again. “Fire Rescue One with an update on that wood chipper priority patient.” “We have a traumatic arrest and have started CPR. ETA is three minutes.”

Twenty Pairs of Eyes

As we work on getting him ready to move, shade falls over the back windows of the ambulance, and I know we're here. We come to a smooth stop and open the back doors. There's an ER team standing outside our doors, ready to start working the second he's clear of our rig.

I turn the corner and want to cower. There are more than 15 people here. It's got to be twenty. Maybe more. They all heard my shaky voice over the radio, and they are all staring at us.

"Time of Death - 12:34"

The lead ER surgeon is waiting for a nurse to expose what’s under that deeply dark bandage on the patient’s head. The entire room knows what's under there, and there's a sense of anticipation as the layers of bandaging are pulled away. He steps closer, and he blocks my view of the patient. I saw a flash of it when I arrived on the scene, and I don't need to see anymore.

“Turn the Lucas off,” he says, pointing to the compression machine. The heart monitor is showing a solid line and blaring an alarm. The sudden silence is interrupted by the surgeon announcing his decision. “Call it.” he proclaims as he starts to take his gloves off. “Does anyone have any objections?” No one is running through ways to save this man’s life.

“Ok then”, he says and looks at the clock on the wall. “Time of death- 12:34,” he solemnly says.

The Chief in the Doorway

As I gaze over the sea of medical personnel, my eyes catch a familiar blue and white uniform. A familiar face in the crowd of unknowns. It’s my fire department’s chief. I am so confused. Why is the chief here? He had been listening to all the radio traffic and knew how intense this call was. He was here for us. The chief standing in that doorway released the gravity of the situation. It was at that moment that I felt the weight of what I had just seen.

I, somehow, put on a “normal” face and interacted with the chief for a few minutes. All I could do in that moment was dissociate and crack dark jokes. Very dark jokes.

The Missing Twenty Minutes

There is something that I didn't realize until I started to write this story. I don't remember the ride back to my station, and I don't remember what I did when I got there. I have tried and tried to remember details, but they are gone. Like a black portion in my memory. I’m thankful that my brain was trying to protect me and make me dissociate, but the ride back to the station? Really? It missed the show by like 20 minutes.

Back to the Beginning

The next thing I remember is standing next to the closed bay door, looking out at the view again. “Engine 1, respond to this address for a cleanup...". I check my phone to see what dispatch was talking about. I stare at the map around the address, and it looks familiar. Oh god. The woodchipper. Because I had switched rigs, I was now on the crew that had to clean up. I don't want to go back there and see the scene. But it's my job.

The Piece of Wood

My Sergeant calls. “Go clean up all those branches so the arborists don’t have to.” A truck has arrived with a large cargo area, so we start piling branches in. Trip after trip, I pass the woodchipper. I watch those blood-covered blades on every pass.

My eyes catch a small chunk of wood. A piece of a branch that was maybe two inches wide. It's cut on both sides at slight angles. As I pick it up... I stop. Staring at it. Something tells me to put it in my pocket. It whispers in my ear, “Take this experience and put it in this piece of wood. Put it in your pocket and set it there so you can continue.”

I listened to this mysterious voice and thrust the piece of wood into my pocket. Out of sight and out of mind. Except for the weight I feel in my right pocket.