Scars on the Psyche

“The hardest part about not having a soul is remembering a time when you had one.”

Tom Clancy, Without Remorse

Phlegm Fatale witnessed an ugly scene the other day, and I left a comment on her blog about how violence scars everyone it touches, even peripherally. I was reminded of a particular call long ago that made me to examine the scars on my own psyche. The revelation of what I was becoming was not comforting.

I have discovered that within any organizational hierarchy, you will invariably find a certain percentage of assholes. In EMS, they are usually found near the top of the organizational chart, having risen to their particular level of incompetence through management’s misguided attempts to get them off the streets and into the office where they can’t kill anyone. Corporate Greed EMS has an overabundance of assholes however, assuring that as soon as one arrogant, incompetent jerk gets promoted, another will take his place. Lance Bidwell is just such an asshole.

The only reason I’m working today is because Lance insisted on swapping shifts, rather than just coming in to relieve me on the night I got the Valium squirted in my eyes. Hank Williams Jr., David Allan Coe and Lynard Skynard are playing a show in East Lake Podunk tonight. Future Missus and I had tickets, and now I have to miss Redneck Nirvana because my relief has not learned to work and play well with others.

To top things off, I have to work with Mike Treme, a man with the personality of a cinder block. He seems to think that his job on scene is to stand around with his thumb in his ass until I tell him to do something, and his primary topic of conversation around the station is boasting of his sexual conquests among the local Corporate Greed groupies. Tonight, Mike seems intent on entertaining yet another groupie in the privacy of his bedroom.

She’s a real catch, too – about one hundred-seventy pounds, all acne and bad teeth, with an annoying habit of snorting like a pig when she laughs. Fortunately, before I am subjected to the trumpeting of mating elephants in the next room, the scanner crackles with the urgent voice of an East Podunk Police officer. “East Podunk, this is PD 12! Send fire department and an ambulance right away!” Tom Tate radios breathlessly. “MVA north of town on Highway 26, just past the skating rink! Pickup truck in the trees and on fire!” The wreck is less than a mile away. I immediately jump up and pound on Mike’s door until he answers.

“Get your clothes on and say goodbye to the lady,” I tell him curtly when he opens the door. “We’ve got a bad wreck just north of town.” I turn around and walk away before he can frame a reply.

It takes him three and a half minutes by my watch to emerge from the station. The groupie follows him out the door and waddles across the street to where she parked her car.

“So where is this damned call?” he snaps irritably, slamming the driver’s door of the rig and snatching at his seatbelt. “I didn’t hear our pager tones.”

My, aren’t we testy! You should thank me for interrupting you when I did. Otherwise, right now you’d be screwing Acne Girl.

“The pagers didn’t go off,” I explain patiently, “because we haven’t gotten the call yet. I heard it over the scanner. Now let’s go,” I order, pointing to my left. “It’s just north of town.” Grumbling, Mike turns north on Highway 26 as I call dispatch with the particulars.

“Holy shit!” Mike blurts not thirty seconds later. Tom Tate is desperately hosing down a blue Dodge Dakota pickup that has left the road and struck several trees. The fire is creeping out from under the ruined hood, and growing steadily larger. Standing too close to the fire for safety’s sake, Tom doggedly tries to extinguish the flames. Mike and I bail out, each grabbing one of the two extinguishers we carry on our rigs.

“Thank God,” Tom gasps as we draw nearer. “My extinguisher just ran out.” He drops the empty canister on the ground and bends over, coughing and trying to catch his breath. Between Mike and myself, we manage to beat the flames down enough to get close to the wreck, and Mike finally puts the fire out for good by dumping the full load of his extinguisher on the source of the flames, a ruptured fuel line near the rear of the engine compartment.

“Mike, check the passenger side,” I cough as I move to the driver’s door. “And be careful!” I add. The driver’s door is sprung open, and the driver’s left leg is hanging out, clad in a yellow paisley pair of stirrup pants. Her shoe is missing. As I reach in to check a pulse, I notice that she has been decapitated, with the top of her skull and most of her brains lying in the bed of the truck behind her. “The driver is DOA!” I call out to Mike.

“So is the passenger,” he answers, walking around the back of the truck, grimacing in distaste and wiping his hands on his pants. “He’s hanging out of the window over there. I ran right into him.” Mike puts his hand to his mouth and retches.

“You okay?” I ask, concerned. He nods, swallows hard and spits on the ground. “Yeah,” he says shakily. “I couldn’t see anything through the smoke and extinguisher chemical, so I bent down to see better, and wound up face-to-face with him. He’s pretty torn up.” “Dispatch, be advised we have two fatalities at this scene,” I radio. “Please notify the state police and the coroner’s office.”

“Ten-four, Medic 306. We’ll notify LSP and the coroner,” dispatch replies. I walk over to check on Tom, who has finally managed to catch his breath. He is walking the ditch bank, shining the beam of his flashlight over the broken ground.

“They passed me hauling ass, all over the road.” Tom says, shaking his head. “I got them on radar at ninety-four. By the time I got turned around, they had wiped out. Looks like they left the road here,” he indicates a set of tire marks with his flashlight beam, “went airborne here when they hit this culvert,” pointing the beam at the spot where the tracks end, “and then hit the tree sideways.” It is nearly a hundred feet from the point of impact to the spot where they left the road. “Are they dead?” Tom asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yep, both of ’em.” I answer as we walk back up to the truck.

From the rear of the truck, it looks as if one of the red bucket seats has broken loose from its mount and split wide open from the impact. There is pale yellow padding visible through the split fabric. As we get closer and the smoke and fire extinguisher chemical dissipate, we are horrified to see that it’s not a bucket seat at all, but the back of yet a third victim. She was pushed upward by the impact, erupting through the roof of the truck.

What we thought was the seat back was actually her torso showing through her red sweatshirt. She is literally split in half from pubis to sternum. Her left arm is amputated and is lying on the roof of the truck. The woman’s torso burst just to the left of her spine, spilling all of her chest and abdominal organs onto the floor beneath her. I can literally look right through her at Mike Treme walking around on the other side of the wreck.

Whoa, cool! You don’t see that every day.

“Oh my Lord,” Tom breathes, playing his light over her body. “Is that what I think it is?” he asks fearfully.

“Yup, that’s what you think it is,” I confirm, then key my radio microphone once more. “Dispa
tch, Medic 306. Uh, be advised that’s three fatalities at this scene.”

“You advised ‘three fatalities’, Medic 306?” our dispatcher inquires sweetly, in a voice that communicates quite clearly that I should learn to count.

“Yes, three fatalities,” I confirm. Beside me, Tom whispers a prayer and crosses himself.

“Hey Mike!” I yell. “Found another one!” He comes trotting over, looking all around the truck.

“Check it out,” I grin, handing him the flashlight. Mike points the flashlight beam at the truck, squints and does a double take. His reaction is pretty much the same as Tom’s – shock and horror. By the time East Podunk Fire Department arrives, there is no fire to suppress, no living victims to extricate. The smoke has cleared enough to show every gory detail, starkly lit by the halogen lights the firefighters have set up. Their men and their extrication equipment sit idle, waiting for the moment when they will be asked to pull the bodies from the wreckage.

The curious and the bold have all long since satisfied their morbid curiosity, and the only ones poking around the wreckage now are the state trooper and the parish coroner. They are shooting photographs, documenting the scene from every conceivable angle. The state trooper straightens from where he has been kneeling near the passenger side of the truck and beckons me over.

“Thanks for the film,” he says, handing me my camera. “I thought I had enough.”

“No problem,” I grin. “Just make a set of prints for me, too. I’ll blur the faces when I use them in class.” The trooper nods in understanding.

“Check that out, would you?” he says, pointing to the body of the passenger. Unlike the other two, his body is remarkably intact, especially considering the fact that he was closest to the point of impact. He is hanging from the waist up from the passenger window, partially wedged against the tree. I bend down to get a closer look, and see that this guy is still holding an empty Miller Pony bottle clenched in his left hand. I grunt and straighten up, shaking my head in amazement.

“Pretty damned weird, huh?” the trooper asks rhetorically. “I got a couple of good pictures of it. You see some of the damnedest -…”

“Hey, Corporate Greed!” the coroner interrupts. “We’re ready to get the bodies out now,” he calls.

The trooper and I walk over to the coroner’s Ford Explorer, joining the fire captain and the coroner, who is rummaging around in the back. He finally emerges with three body bags. “Here, take these,” he says, handing them to me. “I’m pretty much done here, so I suppose we need to get the bodies out and transported to Big City.”

“Any particular way you want it done?” the fire captain asks.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “Just do your best to keep from tearing them up any more than they already are.”

Easier said than done, pal. Will you settle for all the parts in the right body bag?

The fire captain calls his extrication crew over and tells them, “Look, we’re just gonna cut the roof off and get ’em out as best we can. You two,” he points at two young, fuzzy-cheeked firemen, “line up the body bags over there, where they can’t be seen from the road. You can help the Corporate Greed boys pull the bodies out.” These two kids don’t look really enthused with their assignment, but they obediently take the body bags from me and line them up behind the truck.

“What’s your name, man?” I ask the firefighter with me. I have to consciously resist the urge to call him “kid.” He looks about fifteen, and I suddenly feel old.

“Carey,” he answers nervously. “I just joined the Fire Department.”

“Is this your first time to see something like this?” I ask him. He bobs his head like a schoolboy.

“Yes sir,” he says, swallowing hard and licking his lips. “I’m supposed to take your First Responder class next month.”

“Well good!” I beam. “Look, just relax. You and I will get in the back of the truck once your guys remove the roof. We’ll pull them out as best we can. There’s really nothing to it.” He nods absently, only half listening.

Jesus Christ, this kid is going to puke any minute now. How did I get saddled with this pussy?

Presently, the extrication crew cuts the roof away and gingerly manipulates it around the mangled torso of the third victim, leaving what is left of her body slumped over the guy in the passenger seat.

“Okay, Carey. That’s our cue,” I tell him grimly, climbing into the truck. “Spread that body bag open in the back of the truck. I’ll get under her shoulders, and if you can get her hips, we’ll see if we can pull her out.” Carey clenches his teeth and gamely takes a hold.

Pulling her out requires some doing. There is nothing pinning her now, but the impact has done more than split her torso in half. Both of her thighs are essentially deboned; both hips are dislocated, and the femurs have burst from the flesh all the way down to her knees. Getting her into the body bag in the bed of the truck turns out to be a messy proposition. By the time we are through, Carey is gagging. Mike and the rest of the firefighters remove the other two victims without much trouble, and Carey and I line our body bag up next to the others.

“Hey AD,” the coroner calls out to me, “make sure everything is out of the truck. I’m calling the wrecker.” I nod my understanding and scan the inside of the truck for personal effects, money and meat. There is something lying in the floorboard under the jump seat.

“Carey, open that first body bag for me,” I order. He is standing with his back to me, taking deep shuddering breaths. Reluctantly, he turns around and kneels next to the bag, unzipping it and spreading it open. He turns his face away and closes his eyes. I grab a double handful of the driver’s brains and dump them unceremoniously into the bag. Carey groans, rolls over onto his hands and knees and vomits into the grass.

What a pussy! I think cruelly. If you can’t handle the sight of a little blood and guts, you’re not gonna last long.

An hour later, we’re back at our station. Mike is asleep, but I’m still keyed up, so I walk across the street for a breakfast sandwich and a soft drink. The sun is just coming up, and the parking lot is filling with early morning commuters. The wrecker driver is there with the Dakota secured to his flatbed, sipping a cup of coffee and holding court before a small crowd of gawkers. I sidle over closer to hear what he is saying.

“Musta been a bad ‘un,” he grunts, pointing with his coffee cup into the cab of the truck. “There’s blood all in it. Cops said three people got kilt. To tell the truth, I dunno what there is to be salvaged,” he shrugs, idly picking up a piece of floppy, translucent looking plastic from the floorboard and examining it as he takes another sip of coffee.

“Well, first of all,” I tell him as I reach over his shoulder and take the piece from him, “that isn’t part of the truck. This is cartilage, probably from one of the victims.”

He immediately spews most of his coffee onto the truck, followed by the rest of his breakfast.

“Secondly,” I continue, looking at him contemptuously, “you don’t need to be out here showing off the truck to every Tom, Dick and Harry. You never know who might be in the crowd.” I toss the piece of cartilage back into the truck and walk away, to the shocked stares of the gawkers.

Back at the station, I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling for hours.

What in God’s name is wrong with you? You thought that was funny. Three people dead, and all you take from it is the opportunity to make two people toss their cookies? You used to not be that way, AD. You used to have compassion. You used to have empathy for people. Yeah, but you can’t identify too closely with every patient. You can’t bring it home with you, or it will just eat you up. That’s what Richard and Randal taught you from Day One in EMT class. But you’ve always said that you’d quit before you became one of those burnouts who didn’t care about people. So why don’t you just quit, Mr. Chickenshit? Dear God, what are you going to do if you’re not a paramedic?

When I finally drift off to sleep, I have a nightmare about Frankie Maryland. He blames me for killing him.