Chapter 13
Tristan
Idon’t want my face to show it, but I’m seriously worried about responding to a car wreck as my first emergency.
I knew this was always a possibility.
Car accidents are all too common, and firefighters respond to them regularly. I had just hoped that I’d have a little more time to get used to my new job before I had to respond to something that brought up so many terrible memories for me.
Even though I told Nick I’m a compartmentalizer, I don’t know if I’ll be able to put away the thoughts and bad memories from my own car wreck.
And I don’t know if I should.Those terrible memories largely motivated me to pursue this career, and I wonder if they might give me the fuel I need to do my job as well as I can.
The scene of the accident isn’t pretty.
Three cars are involved. A Ford SUV T-boned a little Nissan Ultima, ramming it against a green Mitsubishi.
The Nissan is trapped between the other two cars, with steam rising from its hood. There’s glass and metal on the pavement, and two police cars are already at the scene, blocking traffic.
I follow Nick’s lead, hopping out of the medic unit and grabbing our tools.
The firefighters from the ladder truck and engine truck worry about the mechanics of the cars—making sure their batteries are disconnected and checking whether the doors are stuck—while Nick and I begin medical assessments.
The ambulance from Station 11 arrives just after we do. Nick instructs the paramedics from that unit to check on the driver of the Ford. He’ll handle the sandwiched Nissan, and I’m on the Mitsubishi.
My heart pounds, practically in my throat, as I reach the car. The driver’s side is crushed in from the impact of the Nissan. Vinnie and Mila are already fetching the tools they need to pry open the passenger door, which is stuck.
Through the fractured glass, I can see the single passenger: female, late twenties, bruises and scrapes on her face from the airbags. She’s wearing her seatbelt, and she isn’t moving.
“Ma’am!” I shout. “Can you hear me? I’m with the San Francisco Fire Department. We’re going to get you out.”
Her eyes are open, but they seem vacant. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not.
“Get this door open!” I shout. “I have an unresponsive victim here.”
Vinnie is at my side in seconds with the Jaws of Life, a pneumatic tool that can pry open the crushed doors of cars in moments.
“I gotchu,” he says. His voice is calm and direct.
He works on the door as quickly as he can, and with Charlie’s help, quickly removes it. I get into the car, careful not to cut myself on the shattered glass that scatters the seat.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” I ask while I check her pulse.
Nothing.
No words, no pulse.
“Vinnie! We need to get her out of here and start compressions.”
My racing heartbeat has calmed. I’ve entered a sort of flow state that I remember from my time in the ER.
Everything else except for the present moment has vanished. The only thing that matters is saving this woman’s life.
I don’t know her name, or how old she is, or who out there loves her, but I know she has a life, and that life is precious, and I am going to do everything I possibly can to save it.
I cut her free from her seatbelt. Thankfully, despite the damage to her car, she isn’t trapped in the vehicle, and with Vinnie’s help, I get her onto the pavement.
Immediately, I start lifesaving measures.
She has no pulse, and she isn’t breathing.
I do thirty compressions to her chest, then rescue breaths, then check for a pulse.
Nothing.
I repeat the cycle multiple times, each time with no better results. My focus is impossibly narrow. The world is gone except for this woman, this dying woman, this dead woman, on the street.
I don’t hear the sirens around me.
I don’t hear the shouting.
I don’t smell the smoke and vapor from the cars.
I don’t feel the rough pavement on my knees.
The only thing that matters is this woman’s life.
My body is exhausted, my adrenaline is high, and nothing I’m doing is working.
“Please,” I cry out.
And then, Nick is at my side, taking my place doing compressions. His face is calm, focused, and determined. Sweat slicks his brow, and he grunts with each forceful compression to her sternum, counting them off.
“Breaths!” he orders, and I deliver the rescue breaths.
He checks for a pulse.
“Compressions,” he says, and starts compressions again.
“Breaths!”
I breathe.
He checks for a pulse.
Nothing.
Aside from the cuts on her face, there aren’t many external injuries. Of course, we can’t assess what internal damage she might have, and it could be massive.
We go through the cycle again.
Still nothing.
Nick’s face is still calm, still stoic. He looks up and meets my gaze. His dark eyes betray a brief flash of anguish, which quickly disappears.
“She’s gone,” he says softly.
A small, strangled gasp escapes me.
“I’m sorry,” Nick murmurs.
But I can barely hear him.