Run Sheet
01/03/06
Today was one of those days that will live forever in my memory. Today was a collection of horrible, painful experiences that sit like a slash across my being from a very dull knife.
This morning I was at work when, like so many horrible things start, my pager went off.
The tones of my hall howled through the speaker, followed immediately by the tones for our backup hall. When this happens it usually means one thing, specialized rescue is required, probably a nasty MVA. I walked to my office, grabbed my keys and headed for the door. The dispatcher's voice cut in right then to tell us what we had and where.
After years of listening to the different dispatchers you get to know their voices and how unflappable they are. If you have a discerning ear you can pick the note of urgency out of what to the untrained ear is a bland, calm, almost bored sounding voice.
"Hall 9 and Rescue 7 from dispatch, MVA, rescue required, corner of 306 street and 49 avenue, car versus semi"
At that moment everything stopped.
I live on 49 avenue two doors from 306 street, I looked at my watch and the face screamed at me that it was, undeniably and unavoidably 0827 AM.
My mother should be taking my kids to school, they should be in that intersection right...about...now.
Thank god for years of training. It allowed me to drive my fire van the eight minutes it takes to get there with siren wailing and lights flashing, it allowed me to safely navigate around and through traffic in a safe and professional manner while my conscious brain grappled with the enourmity and abject horror of the very real possibility that some of the people that I love more than anything or anyone on this planet may be choking their last breaths or laying dead in the wreckage like I've seen so many others.
The pumper was on the road ahead of me and I heard them report that they were on scene, I was still half a mile away.
The first Firefighter on scene reported that the ambulance was already there and that he was investigating. The next report told all responding units that it was a fatal, and to reduce their response to 'routine' rather than 'emergency'. This means "Turn off your lights and siren, there is no one alive to save."
I could have puked right then, I was so scared. As I pulled up on the scene I saw a small car thrown to the side of the road like a discarded child's toy. Already a yellow disposable blanket was drawn across part of the interior, covering the body from casual observers.
It wasn't my mother's car.
I pulled up on the scene and stared at it, assuring myself over and over that it wasn't them. I was filled with relief as I parked, pulled on my gear and started to get the area organized. There was traffic control to be done, two wrecked vehicles to make safe, and a hundred details that are part of the job. I got to work.
I went to the car to make sure the battery was disconnected, and that no fuel was leaking and saw the blanket laying there. A breeze lifted the corner and the pale, death-grey face of a young girl looked out at me. I looked at her for a long moment before the sheet fell back into place. She was blonde, slim, and pretty. Her head was leaned back agains the seat like she was asleep. There was some blood, but not a terrible amount. The wreckage of the car was wrapped around her like a steel blanket. She was in her 20s.
The sun was shining brightly, it was a beautiful morning. as I went about my job of making things safe I reflected on my relief and the girl who lay dead a foot away from me. I thought "Jeezus, my kids dodged the bullet today...oh christ, but it hit someone else's kid" I felt relief, and guilt at my own relief. I felt sorrow, but also secret joy that I still had my boys. I felt deep, deep sadness that this daughter lay here as dead as could be.
A couple of hours later the coroner finished her investigation and gave us the okay to start pulling the car apart to remove her. Inside of ten minutes the last hydraulic ram had moved, twisted and pried the last bit of metal away, the jaws of life had done their job and she lay there in the seat, still strapped into her seatbelt. She was a broken doll.
The coroner laid out the body bag and five of us stood looking at each other, waiting for the other to be the first to reach in and grab her. After a couple of seconds I realized just what the moment required.
In a sudden flash it struck me that I was the senior officer. There were three Firefighters, a Lieutenant and me, the Captain standing there. I was senior, I had the choice of ordering any one of these guys to do it or I could do it myself and take their place.
I looked around once and reached in, grasped her gently by the front of her jacket and pulled her out. Halfway out the lieutenant took her legs and guided her the rest of the way. We gently laid down a collection of birthday parties, twenty christmases, first words and steps, bedtime stories, young love, fights, reconciliations. We had held kindergarten and juniour high and high school in our hands. We held the baby that proud parents had held in their arms twenty-one years ago. We were the last people to have our arms around her.
We laid her in the body bag and zipped it up. It held more dreams and more hopes than man can count. It held the child of loving parents and, it held a lost piece of innocence for her friends. I will never forget the zipper running past her cheek, and almost fouling in her hair. I brushed it back with my hand before the zipper was drawn over her face.
I whispered to god to take care of her, and grasped the handles that are sewn to the sides of a body bag. We set her gently on the gurney and she was wheeled into the coroner's van.
Tonight there are about 50 people gathered at the site. The skidmarks are still stark on the pavement. There are still bits of broken plastic from the car littered about. They're laying down flowers and lighting candles. I can hear the hymns they're singing from here.