The First Responder

I was 24 years old the first time I saw a dead kid. If I have anything to say about it, it’ll be the only time.

In February 1993 I was in the final phase of completing Indiana’s EMT course. It was the clinicals, the ride alongs. The idea was, you work alongside real EMTs and paramedics to really understand what you are about to undertake. I had been working my shifts at the EMS station in Chesterton on Porter Avenue. I had completed five of the required six shifts needed to graduate. This last one was a 3-11 pm weekday shift. It had been mostly quiet, which was good for me because I had been struggling with motion sickness due to having to ride in the jump seat in the ambulance. The jump seat faces backwards, which for some reason always makes me carsick.

Jerry Lundstrom was the paramedic in charge of our crew. He was a tall man, around 55 with shaggy white hair. He’d been a first responder since early 70s. He’d seen it all and was happy to teach me whatever I happened to ask about. The EMT was named Richard. I can’t remember his last name but I remember everyone just called him Richy. He was about 30, stocky, short dark hair and always had his nose in a golf magazine. He told me once, he loved golf, but had enough sense to know he’d never be any good at it.

It was late, perhaps 10pm. The three of us were sitting in the kitchen snacking on carmel popcorn that Jerry had brought in, eagerly awaiting the end of our shift. Then a call came in from the sheriff’s dispatcher. A witness to an accident had called it in. It was single vehicle accident on a rural county road not far away, about a two mile ride. Into the jump seat I go and away we went, with Richy driving and Jerry riding shotgun with sirens blaring. I remember it being too warm in the ambulance and praying I wouldn’t start feeling queasy this time.

When we arrived at the scene there was a white sedan, in a deep ditch. It had struck a power pole and spun. It had been windy and snowing that evening and visibility had been poor at times. A young woman in her late twenties to early thirties was outside the vehicle walking around frantically. She was hysterical. She was crying and screaming, “Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby?” She was in an altered state of consciousness and was likely concussed.

Jerry, was doing his best to calm the woman down so he could examine her for injuries. The citizen who called in the accident, a woman in her late 60s was there at the edge of the road in just her coat, nightgown and galoshes looking at the woman and Jerry. She was smoking a cigarette but otherwise didn’t move. She seemed like a ghost. Neither here nor there, quiet and pale, not doing or saying anything, just staring and smoking. Richy and I were searching the vehicle for other passengers. The car was empty, no child’s car seat either. There was however a lot of damage to the front of the car, including the windshield. It was shattered and there was a hole in it about the size of a basketball. Tiny cubes of safety glass were still popping and cracking around the jagged edges of the broken windshield.

We pieced it together immediately. She was missing a baby or young child, nobody is in the car and there’s a big hole in the windshield. Someone or some thing exited the vehicle through that hole. An invisible curtain of dread descended upon my shoulders. “This is not going to end well.” I mumbled to nobody in particular.

On both sides of the road were cornfields. The sad, dead remains of the cornstalks were a stark reminder of the long gone summer before. About 2-3 inches of new snow had covered the ground that day with more in the forecast. If someone was alive out there we needed to find them quick.

We assumed the worst and decided to get moving. We split up to look for the missing child. I started walking north in the field while Richy walked south. We used our flashlights to scan the ground. I hoped it wouldn’t be me who found something. I could hear sirens getting closer, so I knew in a few minutes we’d have help. I figured the odds were in my favor if two or three cops joined the search.

As it turned out, it was me who found something. About forty feet from the road and about a hundred feet from where the vehicle came to rest, I saw a child’s coat laying amongst the ruined cornstalks. It was blue with orange stripes and a hood. As I approached I noticed there was a child, approximately two years old, still in the coat but not moving. It was wearing pajamas, barefoot, and facedown in the snow. My adrenaline kicked in. I could feeI my heartbeat pounding in my temples. I was on the verge of panic. When I got to the child I knelt down on its right side to check vitals. Good to know the training comes through even when you can’t think straight. I reached out to find a pulse on the carotid artery, but when my hand arrived at it’s neck I got nothing but a handful of cold blood. I carefully inspected the child, now with my flashlight in my mouth. I slowly pulled back the hood. That’s when I saw it. The head was missing above the jawline.

All the strength ran out of my body. I felt like I couldn’t move my arms or legs. “Richy! Come here! I need your help!” I had to say it several times because the first couple were barely above a whisper. I started waving my flashlight weakly, toward where I thought Richy was searching. The woman heard me or saw me waving the light and was trying to get away from Jerry and come toward me. As Richy jogged toward me, I shouted, “Do not let her come over here! Make her go back to the ambulance!” Luckily, some policemen had arrived and were stopping the woman from leaving the ambulance. Richy arrived at the body where I was still on my knees. “Richy”, I said, “The head’s gone. We have to find it, but I don’t know if I can walk right now.” “Don’t worry buddy.” he said. “I’ll find it. You stay with him.”

He said “him”. I’m assuming he said that because of the blue coat. Richy said something into his walkie-talkie that I couldn’t understand and began scanning the area again with his flashlight. A policeman arrived next to me. He asked me if I was ok. I said I wasn’t so he called another policeman to stay with the body as he escorted me back to to his squad car. By this time more police and another ambulance had arrived. Jerry asked the policeman who had got me out of the field to drive me back to the station, which he did. It was a very quiet ride.

When we arrived, he got me into the kitchen of the station and plopped me down in a chair. He made a fresh pot of coffee, poured us each a cup and sat with me for awhile. His name was Ron. I don’t remember much about what he said to me while we sipped hot black coffee. I wasn’t in much of a mood for chit chat. I’m sure I did a lot of nodding to acknowledge his barely heard questions.

The next shift had already reported to work. Their lunchboxes and backpacks were all over the kitchen, but they were not in the station. They were at the scene Ron and I had just left. I asked Ron if he thought anyone would mind if I went home, since my shift had ended and the accident was being attended to. He told me he thought it would be okay and even offered to drive me home. I declined the ride, shook his hand and left him there. I have never seen him, Jerry or Richard again but I have not forgotten their faces.

I drove about a mile down the road and had to pull over. I cried hard for at least five minutes. I decided that night I would never accept a job as an EMT and it was the last time I ever did the job. I received my official certificate in the mail a few weeks later but I never submitted any applications and never rode an ambulance again to this day. Some things you can’t un-see and should never see again. I never tried to find out the name of the dead boy or the name of his mother. I intentionally avoided newspapers for awhile so I wouldn’t find out. For some reason I felt like, if I didn’t know the names, forgetting would be easier. I figured at the time, they couldn’t offer me any kind of PTS counseling because I wasn’t an actual employee of the fire department. I probably wouldn’t have went anyway. You know, because I’m such a tough guy.

That was over 28 years ago. Before my sons were born. This is the first time I’ve told the story and likely will be the only time.

June 26th, 2021