30:2
The tone came in and Mikey was up before I was. I still haven't memorized what tone goes with what department, and I'm more used to hearing the beeps on my pager than I am hearing A shift's tone come through the station's speaker.
"Lorain County 911 to Oberlin Fire Department. Report of a 53 year old female unresponsive, ambulance requested. The patient is outside and CPR is in progress."
I threw my turnouts pants into the back of 41, donned my coat, and climbed up into the Captain's chair. Mikey already had the engine rumbling, and as soon as we both snapped our seat belt buckles the wheels were rolling toward the street. My heart was pumping in my throat as my mind raced over the checklist of things we'd need to do. 911 came back over the speaker in the truck and the only words that I really heard the dispatcher say were "confirmed" and "unresponsive." There was a foot of snow at the low points in the road, but Mikey is God behind the wheel and we sped toward the apartment complex that 911 beckoned us to in no time. When the truck stopped I hopped out and grabbed 41's go bag. I heard no sirens, so I knew that we'd be working without the aid of an ambulance crew for at least a few minutes.
There was still too much snow to get a vehicle up the 50 foot long drive to the apartment the dispatcher had told us was the right one, so we walked as briskly as the conditions allowed. When we turned the corner, six pairs of panicked eyes looked in our direction; I'm sure that me with my bunker coat and go bag slung over one shoulder and Mikey with his fluorescent 5.11 jacket made a pretty impressive sight. And that's when the realization hit me: these people called 911 expecting the cavalry to come, and here we were! The cavalry. I felt all at once proud and as though I was going to puke. There was a woman doing chest compressions over our patient and my mind quickly snapped back to the checklist. Mikey bent over her to assess breathing, and I grabbed for the bag valve mask. We worked like a well oiled machine, Mikey taking over chest compressions and me ventilating. I don't remember what anyone was saying until I heard the sirens in the distance. When the ambulance crew arrived we loaded her onto the cot and one of my Lieutenants told them I'd be riding on the squad with them. "You had a good seal while you were bagging her, Rookie." He said to me in his unexplainable southern drawl. "You need this experience more than any of us do. Get in there."
I was in charge of chest compressions the entire way to Allen, and once we got there my face was red and my arms were aching. We worked her for another 20 minutes, but she was already gone. Dr. Scott pronounced her and told us we could go back to the station, that there was nothing more anyone could do. I wondered about that thin precipice that separates us from the afterlife, how impossible it is to understand that one minute you can be shovelling your car out, and the next you can be clutching with shaky hands at your very existence. I said a prayer to St. Michael and put my turnout coat back on, radio mic strapped across the front. As I was walking out one of the medics said to no one in particular, "man I feel like I work in a big trauma center! We got firefighters clearing scene over here!" There was no mockery in his voice and I felt that pride welling up again.
Mom sent me a single text that night that really gave me pause. It said, "thank you for being there when people really need you. It is so rare." And all I could think was, "thank God for putting this job in my path, for putting this calling within my reach. There is no other life that I want."
"Lorain County 911 to Oberlin Fire Department. Report of a 53 year old female unresponsive, ambulance requested. The patient is outside and CPR is in progress."
I threw my turnouts pants into the back of 41, donned my coat, and climbed up into the Captain's chair. Mikey already had the engine rumbling, and as soon as we both snapped our seat belt buckles the wheels were rolling toward the street. My heart was pumping in my throat as my mind raced over the checklist of things we'd need to do. 911 came back over the speaker in the truck and the only words that I really heard the dispatcher say were "confirmed" and "unresponsive." There was a foot of snow at the low points in the road, but Mikey is God behind the wheel and we sped toward the apartment complex that 911 beckoned us to in no time. When the truck stopped I hopped out and grabbed 41's go bag. I heard no sirens, so I knew that we'd be working without the aid of an ambulance crew for at least a few minutes.
There was still too much snow to get a vehicle up the 50 foot long drive to the apartment the dispatcher had told us was the right one, so we walked as briskly as the conditions allowed. When we turned the corner, six pairs of panicked eyes looked in our direction; I'm sure that me with my bunker coat and go bag slung over one shoulder and Mikey with his fluorescent 5.11 jacket made a pretty impressive sight. And that's when the realization hit me: these people called 911 expecting the cavalry to come, and here we were! The cavalry. I felt all at once proud and as though I was going to puke. There was a woman doing chest compressions over our patient and my mind quickly snapped back to the checklist. Mikey bent over her to assess breathing, and I grabbed for the bag valve mask. We worked like a well oiled machine, Mikey taking over chest compressions and me ventilating. I don't remember what anyone was saying until I heard the sirens in the distance. When the ambulance crew arrived we loaded her onto the cot and one of my Lieutenants told them I'd be riding on the squad with them. "You had a good seal while you were bagging her, Rookie." He said to me in his unexplainable southern drawl. "You need this experience more than any of us do. Get in there."
I was in charge of chest compressions the entire way to Allen, and once we got there my face was red and my arms were aching. We worked her for another 20 minutes, but she was already gone. Dr. Scott pronounced her and told us we could go back to the station, that there was nothing more anyone could do. I wondered about that thin precipice that separates us from the afterlife, how impossible it is to understand that one minute you can be shovelling your car out, and the next you can be clutching with shaky hands at your very existence. I said a prayer to St. Michael and put my turnout coat back on, radio mic strapped across the front. As I was walking out one of the medics said to no one in particular, "man I feel like I work in a big trauma center! We got firefighters clearing scene over here!" There was no mockery in his voice and I felt that pride welling up again.
Mom sent me a single text that night that really gave me pause. It said, "thank you for being there when people really need you. It is so rare." And all I could think was, "thank God for putting this job in my path, for putting this calling within my reach. There is no other life that I want."
