Blue Eyed Boy

8/10/2019 Blue Eyed Boy

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Rural Road“ I think the purpose of life is, above all, to matter; to count, to stand forsomething, to have made some difference that you lived at all. ”

~Leo Rosten

Having just come off a hellish weekend of trauma call, I was looking forward to amore humane pace. I felt I deserved it and a twenty-four-hour shift without a flightwould be the perfect opportunity to recover.

Tuesdays are usually more relaxing and often provide an opportunity tocatch up on some sleep or reading and to see what's on the satellite TV in my

call room. Emergencies seemed to happen less often on Tuesdays for a reasonI never could determine. Life at the hangar could be pretty sweet at times. Wemade some preliminary plans to grill out on the tarmac as the pilot brought an icechest full of juicy steaks. It was shaping up to be a perfect late-summer day.

The pilot was from a small island in the Pacific, and how and why he gotthis far north is beyond me. We were a long way from the tropical paradise of hisformer life. He happened to be pretty handy with the grill and had an amazing



sense of humor to go along with his culinary skills. I made a quick stop at thelocal deli on my way in to the hanger and picked up my favorite contribution tothe meal, cheese and chips, which was about all I could afford on my residentphysician's budget.

No sooner had the burner been lit and the amazing scent of juicy steaksstarted to waft through the open hangar doors when a familiar tone on my hipsnapped me back to reality. The tone signified a request for a flight. I trottedinside the call center to listen to the critical details about the flight from thedispatcher and spoke directly to the physician who requested our aid. I scribbleddown a couple of notes on a scrap of paper and crammed it into the small pocketof my flight suit — critical details what would help us prepare for the mission thatlay ahead.

The pilot and chief had already rushed by me some time ago and easedthe bird out of the hangar. As the pilot spooled up the turbines, the flight center

leader, with her usual up-beat demeanor, looked at me with the utmost sadness.We both shared the heart crushing details of this mission. I gave her a familiarnod and she wished me a safe flight as I cruised out the door. I quickly hopped into the Sikorsky's side door and prepared for liftoff. I wasn't sure if the familiarthumping I was feeling in my chest was from the rotor blades winding up and theengine reaching full RPMs or if it was something more emotional, profound, anddeep.

We set out abruptly in what the pilot called his signature elevator takeoff.Basically, he yanked up the collective and generated the most rapid ascent theS-76 could muster. I think it was his way of adding a bit of excitement to the

moment and maybe take our minds off what lay ahead.Pilots are supposed to be blinded to the mission so that their decision

about whether we go is based solely on the weather or other mechanical factorsand is never influenced by the case. Knowing that a child is seriously injured ormultiple family members are in desperate need of our assistance couldpotentially sway the pilot's rational thoughts. Our pilots were all highly trained andmany were ex-military. They guarded our safety and put our lives ahead of anymission request.

After a brief flight with little conversation, we began the standard circlingpattern over the scene. A heavy fog of despair swirled around the interior of ouraircraft as we contemplated the task at hand. I could see several first respondersand ambulance crew scurrying back and forth to their rigs. Flying overhead it wasquite evident there was a single car with significant damage. We could seevolunteer firemen working in tandem with law enforcement in an effort to cutopen a portion of the car. Precious time and cargo were at stake. We wereguided down onto a rural and remote countryside gravel road.



The story unfolded that a mother and her two grade-school children wereout doing their morning paper route. The eldest was in the front seat. His youngerbrother rode in the back; he was six. Nobody in the vehicle was wearing aseatbelt. A farmer across the road had been out doing morning chores andaudibly witnessed the event. The horrific carnage that we came upon still stickswith me to this date. The twisted remains of the car, how it ended up in its restingplace so far off the road could only occur due to a high rate of speed and either amechanical problem or poor decision making by the driver.

As we landed and hastily exited the aircraft, most of the activity around thecar had slowed to a crawl. This generally happens when the conclusion isforegone. Nonetheless we raced to the car and peered through the gap where abackdoor had already been cut away by firefighters and law enforcement. Thesmell of alcohol permeated the vehicle and was mixed with blood and vomit. Younever forget the unique combination of those substances and the insult to the

olfactory system engraves vivid memories on the soul. At first glance it was quite clear the front seat occupants were beyondsalvation. The crumpled remains of the eleven-year-old were wedged underneaththe glove box. There were no signs of life and no amount of skills or expertisecould do anything to change that. The mother had been partially ejected from thevehicle and it was clear from the angle of her head and neck that this was thepermanent last stop on her route.

Our only purpose that day was the precious cargo on the floor in the backseat. That six-year-old somehow had survived the impact and was still breathing.His injuries were critical. The angle of his legs suggested that both were broken.

Blood came from his nose and mouth and, fortunately, his eyes were closed.That small detail let me know that he was hopefully not processing any degree ofpain from his grievous injuries. It was only when I pulled back his eyelids toassess his pupils as part of the primary trauma survey did I witness a set of thebluest eyes I have ever gazed upon. Behind the wall of blueness, I could see alife valiantly fighting to survive.

Carefully, but as rapid as possible, we got him out of that car whileprotecting his neck, spine, and broken extremities. The paramedics had quicklyestablished two IVs and my flight nurse prepared for what came next.

We read each other's thoughts and she drew up the rapid sequenceintubation drugs as I prepared my equipment. I quickly slid an endotracheal tubein place through his vocal cords and we took over breathing for this criticallyinjured child, and then hightailed back to the bird for a quick liftoff.

The landing pad at the hospital was on the roof and after exiting, rode theelevator down the entire fourteen floors in near silence. The only soundpunctuating the air was the intermittent squeezing of the Ambu bag as we took



turns ventilating our precious cargo. As we wheeled through the doors of the ED,we could see the sadness upon the faces of many of the senior nurses. They hadseen this scenario too often. They had already heard the story about ourprecious little cargo from dispatch. Most seasoned health-care professionalsknow that no matter how skilled, talented or advanced the care and interventionsare, many injuries are just too horrific to recover from.

Our crew delivered this child safely to the trauma bay and handed overcare to an amazing team of trauma surgeons, pediatric critical care specialistsand orthopedic physicians — all went to work doing their part.

Despite the valiant efforts of thirty-plus people, the conclusion wasforegone. This child joined his mother and his eleven-year-old brother andwalked through the gates of Heaven that night. I'll never forget those blue eyesand sometimes at night when I'm nearly asleep, I see those eyes peering downat me in an effort to communicate a sense of peace. I believe it was his way of

thanking me for the effort and bidding me a restful sleep.



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Blue Eyed Boy