When you've worked enough emergencies, you become an expert at ignoring what doesn't matter in the moment and knowing exactly what to focus on.

Because of that, a firefighter's memories are often a combination of what they actually saw, what they were told afterward, and what was put in official reports.

It’s not that we lie; it's just how human memory works. It fills in the gaps where it thinks we need more detail.

Because of that, storytelling about intense events is an interesting feat. I only know my perspective.

Others on the same scene might have a completely different view.

My view on this day was a slideshow of ghosts—people who were there one second and gone the next.

The man on the scene before we arrived is a perfect example. We rolled up, just two of us in an engine with basic medical equipment. Parts of two cars were strewn everywhere, the vehicles themselves about 50 feet apart. One sat in the middle of a major thoroughfare during rush hour. The other was in a ditch.

It was a head-on collision.

The good news? No fire, and both cars were upright.

The bad news? Four people in one car, two in the other.

Major injuries in both.

A man was huddled over a toddler lying on the pavement. She wasn't breathing right. He had just pulled her from the car.

We saw all this before the rig was even in park.

For a few seconds, none of it mattered.

As unbelievable as that sounds, patient care isn't the first priority if the scene isn't safe.

I angled the engine to protect us, positioning it so another car would bounce off and away from the scene if they somehow failed to see a massive fire truck.

It happens.

Park the truck.

Get out.

Grab the equipment.

I heard my lieutenant yell, “Greely—you work the white car, I’ll go to the ditch.”

“Got it, Lt.”

My next priority was triage. I went directly to the toddler on the ground.

The mystery man said something to the effect of, “I’m a [medical professional]. I don't see any injuries, but she's agonal. I pulled her out. She was in a car seat.”

In other words, I don't see why she's not breathing right, but this type of breathing can't go on much longer, or she will die.

I nodded and dropped my medical bag, pulling out a pediatric-sized Bag Valve Mask.

After assembling it, I barked into the radio,

“We have one priority: pediatric patient. Tell EMS their first patient will be by the white car.”

I didn't hear dispatch's response, but I could hear the first ambulance siren. They were seconds out. I stood and peeked into the white car: an 8ish-year-old girl in the back and two 30-somethings in the front. Everyone was conscious. No obvious bleeding.

Great. A few more seconds for the toddler.

As the ambulance killed its siren, I scooped the little girl up and walked toward them, making eye contact with the lead paramedic.

“No obvious injuries,” I started my report. “Pulled from the car by a bystander. No intrusion on her side. She’s agonal; we just started bagging her.”

Agonal breathing is when the body pulls in air suddenly and slowly, maybe just a few times a minute. It’s a sign the end is near. We needed to breathe for her.

Now.

“Got it. Not ejected. No obvious injuries. Agonal. We're going to [Hospital Name].”

That was it.

They took her from my arms, and I turned away, forcing myself to forget and focus.

The toddler was in my life for a total of maybe 100 seconds, and she will live with me as a ghost for the rest of my life.

Time to forget and focus.

The 8-year-old girl.

I looked into the back seat. All three were still sitting there calmly. The two adults in the front were too calm. They weren't looking back at their children; they were complaining about the McDonald's sprayed all over the car's interior.

I ignored them and smiled at the girl. “Hi there.” If she wasn't injured, the priority was getting her to a safe spot.

She smiled back. As I unclipped her seatbelt and went to lift her, something on the seat caught my eye.

Blood.

A lot of it.

She was sitting in a puddle. I couldn't see an external injury, but I knew this was likely a major internal bleed. She went from “Let's get you out of here, honey,” to “priority one patient” in a split second.

I stopped moving her and did another quick scan. By this time, more of my coworkers were on scene, and I vaguely recall someone starting to deal with the parents.

Again, I could ignore and focus.

I waited for the second ambulance. Or was it the second ambulance? I honestly don’t remember.

"This is your next patient," I told them.

As I prepared to lift her, I had a quick thought: I'm going to get my gear all bloody… fuck it, we have washers.

I picked her up and handed her off.

With both kids on their way, I finally turned my attention to the parents. They were out of the car now, still fixated on the mess.

Shock does strange things to people. It builds walls around the horror, and their minds had chosen to worry about a fast-food lunch instead of their two critically injured children.

Nothing against them as parents. It’s their minds shunting what they can’t imagine is actually happening before their eyes.

I scanned the scene, now a controlled whirl of activity. Then I looked for the man who had been helping the toddler.

He was gone. Vanished as if he’d never been there.

Another ghost.

My lieutenant walked over from the ditch, his face grim.

"What'd you have?" I asked.

"Two in the other car. Open femur on one, bilateral tib/fibs on the other."

The impact had shoved their dashboard into their legs.

Bones sticking out.

I never saw them.

Their trauma was a side chapter to the story I had just lived.

I just shook my head, gesturing toward the parents who were now arguing with a police officer. "Their kids were bad, Lt. Really bad."

Later, the official report would list names and ages—a neat, orderly account of a chaotic event. But that's not what I'll remember.

My memory will be a slideshow of fragments: the eerie calm of two parents, a puddle of blood on a car seat, and the face of a man I never saw again, a ghost who appeared just long enough to help before disappearing back into traffic.

And surprisingly, everyone lived. The toddler was stabilized at a trauma center and, from what I heard, recovered.

A lot of times, we don’t get to find out.

Maybe, just maybe, one of my patients will read one of my stories and realize their worst day has a piece of my soul with it.

That they will read they aren’t alone.