In the early 1960’s, John Steinbeck, in his book Travels With Charley, wrote about his experience upon viewing the mighty Redwood trees for the first time. He wrote, “No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable”.
I now face the same dilemma in describing the silence I was faced with on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, in the late fall of 1995. I guess I had imagined it would be much different; louder, more violent, more chaotic. But it wasn’t. In the police academy, they had always trained us to use visualization to place yourself in scenes of violence, danger, and emergencies in advance. Create a sort of mental exercise, a Zen-like mental staging designed to stimulate muscle memory when the brain goes on overload. “Ok, see yourself squaring away toward the suspect and reaching for your weapon”, the instructor would say. “Picture him firing at you, and you firing back”. Survive, survive, survive, even if you’re hit, survive…
However, this night was not what I had imagined. I assumed that when a car loaded with five teenagers who decided to drink a case of beer in the woods behind a local ball field, then drive that car into an unyielding willow tree at 2:45 AM at 61 miles per hour, there would be noise. Lots of noise. I had imagined the shrieking of victims with torn limbs, the sound of a running engine screaming its last breath yielding its metal heart to the mightier willow. I pictured sirens, chaos, and cries for help. I pictured it all. But the silence I am attempting to describe was like the mighty Redwood to Steinbeck, the feeling it produced in me is not transferable.
In the late fall of 1995, I was working the late half shift on the east side sector car. It was a cool, clear, fall evening in New England. The radio crackled with the sound of the call, “42-Alpha, report of a motor vehicle crash on Salem Street, the Fire Dept. and ambulance are notified and in route”. I was literally around the corner when I received the call. I called off immediately and exited my cruiser to view the carnage. There before my eyes was an explosion. An explosion, of metal, fluids, plastics, and people! The willow tree had won the battle. I quickly rushed up and began to look for victims. I peered into what remained of the car and discovered three bodies, two were not moving, and the third was slumped over and moaning. I stepped back from the vehicle and took a quick look around to continue the assessment of the scene and immediately noticed a young woman lying on the ground, conscious and moving. I also saw another person, about twenty feet away from the wreckage and quickly moved in that direction. As I approached the young man, I immediately observed a large chunk of the dashboard penetrating through his chest and out his back, just under his right arm. Five victims, five children.
Triage-the term comes from the French verb trier, meaning to separate, sift or select. In police work it means, save the ones that aren’t dead yet. I began triage. The three in the car were on hold, as treating them involved moving their bodies and that was risky anyway. Believe it or not, the boy adorned with his newly acquired dashboard piercing was talking and moving quite well. I told him to remain still and wait for help. The young girl on the ground before me however, was now not good. She was visibly uninjured, but she had gone from moving and moaning to cyanotic and limp. I immediately began CPR. Head tilt, chin lift, look, listen, feel…not breathing, give two breaths. Breaths won’t go in, reposition the airway and try again, breath still won’t go in, move to obstructed airway. I was a CPR instructor at the time and was pretty confident with my abilities. What didn’t make sense was the obstructed airway, however, I had been preaching the stuff for several years, so I went with what I knew. If they are on the ground, Heimlich Maneuver, drop down below the diaphragm and deliver 6-8 abdominal thrusts. On about the fourth thrust, out it came! When the car Rene, (Rene is her real name), was riding in hit the willow tree, she aspirated her gum in a moment of panic. The gum had blocked her airway and was ending her life. Good luck, God, and good training, dislodged the gum and she immediately began to breathe again. So did I.
All five victims eventually walked again. The children had narrowly escaped death. Their injuries were very serious and the driver went to jail. But the story doesn’t end there.
Fast forward to December 31st, 2000. I had the “good fortune” of working on New Year’s Eve as a patrol supervisor. Within an hour of roll call, the typical calls started pouring in to dispatch. “42Alpha take a report of a fight in the Days Inn in Sullivan Square, other units assist”. Within minutes, I arrived at the hotel and was advised by night security that there was a huge fight in the ballroom. I proceeded inside and discovered Armageddon had begun. “Send everyone”, I radioed. Within minutes, the troops arrived and things were eventually quieted. Four people were in handcuffs, deciding to spend their New Year’s Eve as the first arrests of the new year. Three men and one woman, all screaming their opposition to the end of their evenings. I transported the female to the station, following procedure, calling in my mileage and my time of transport. During the entire trip, I was vilified as the Patron Saint of Hell. My mother was a “douche bag”. I was a “scumbag”. My children were “pieces of shit that she hoped would die of cancer at an early age”.
We arrived back at the station and the cherub was brought into booking. The shift Lt. was waiting and the booking process began. “I need your name”, he said to her. “Go fuck yourself”, she replied. “Hold on Lt., I have her license right here”. I removed the license from her pocketbook and held it in my hand. I looked down and read the name. The face was somewhat older and she looked more mature, given the several years since we last met. But the name was there before me. I handed the license to the Lieutenant. “I know this girl Lieutenant, we met once before…”
I now face the same dilemma in describing the silence I was faced with on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, in the late fall of 1995. I guess I had imagined it would be much different; louder, more violent, more chaotic. But it wasn’t. In the police academy, they had always trained us to use visualization to place yourself in scenes of violence, danger, and emergencies in advance. Create a sort of mental exercise, a Zen-like mental staging designed to stimulate muscle memory when the brain goes on overload. “Ok, see yourself squaring away toward the suspect and reaching for your weapon”, the instructor would say. “Picture him firing at you, and you firing back”. Survive, survive, survive, even if you’re hit, survive…
However, this night was not what I had imagined. I assumed that when a car loaded with five teenagers who decided to drink a case of beer in the woods behind a local ball field, then drive that car into an unyielding willow tree at 2:45 AM at 61 miles per hour, there would be noise. Lots of noise. I had imagined the shrieking of victims with torn limbs, the sound of a running engine screaming its last breath yielding its metal heart to the mightier willow. I pictured sirens, chaos, and cries for help. I pictured it all. But the silence I am attempting to describe was like the mighty Redwood to Steinbeck, the feeling it produced in me is not transferable.
In the late fall of 1995, I was working the late half shift on the east side sector car. It was a cool, clear, fall evening in New England. The radio crackled with the sound of the call, “42-Alpha, report of a motor vehicle crash on Salem Street, the Fire Dept. and ambulance are notified and in route”. I was literally around the corner when I received the call. I called off immediately and exited my cruiser to view the carnage. There before my eyes was an explosion. An explosion, of metal, fluids, plastics, and people! The willow tree had won the battle. I quickly rushed up and began to look for victims. I peered into what remained of the car and discovered three bodies, two were not moving, and the third was slumped over and moaning. I stepped back from the vehicle and took a quick look around to continue the assessment of the scene and immediately noticed a young woman lying on the ground, conscious and moving. I also saw another person, about twenty feet away from the wreckage and quickly moved in that direction. As I approached the young man, I immediately observed a large chunk of the dashboard penetrating through his chest and out his back, just under his right arm. Five victims, five children.
Triage-the term comes from the French verb trier, meaning to separate, sift or select. In police work it means, save the ones that aren’t dead yet. I began triage. The three in the car were on hold, as treating them involved moving their bodies and that was risky anyway. Believe it or not, the boy adorned with his newly acquired dashboard piercing was talking and moving quite well. I told him to remain still and wait for help. The young girl on the ground before me however, was now not good. She was visibly uninjured, but she had gone from moving and moaning to cyanotic and limp. I immediately began CPR. Head tilt, chin lift, look, listen, feel…not breathing, give two breaths. Breaths won’t go in, reposition the airway and try again, breath still won’t go in, move to obstructed airway. I was a CPR instructor at the time and was pretty confident with my abilities. What didn’t make sense was the obstructed airway, however, I had been preaching the stuff for several years, so I went with what I knew. If they are on the ground, Heimlich Maneuver, drop down below the diaphragm and deliver 6-8 abdominal thrusts. On about the fourth thrust, out it came! When the car Rene, (Rene is her real name), was riding in hit the willow tree, she aspirated her gum in a moment of panic. The gum had blocked her airway and was ending her life. Good luck, God, and good training, dislodged the gum and she immediately began to breathe again. So did I.
All five victims eventually walked again. The children had narrowly escaped death. Their injuries were very serious and the driver went to jail. But the story doesn’t end there.
Fast forward to December 31st, 2000. I had the “good fortune” of working on New Year’s Eve as a patrol supervisor. Within an hour of roll call, the typical calls started pouring in to dispatch. “42Alpha take a report of a fight in the Days Inn in Sullivan Square, other units assist”. Within minutes, I arrived at the hotel and was advised by night security that there was a huge fight in the ballroom. I proceeded inside and discovered Armageddon had begun. “Send everyone”, I radioed. Within minutes, the troops arrived and things were eventually quieted. Four people were in handcuffs, deciding to spend their New Year’s Eve as the first arrests of the new year. Three men and one woman, all screaming their opposition to the end of their evenings. I transported the female to the station, following procedure, calling in my mileage and my time of transport. During the entire trip, I was vilified as the Patron Saint of Hell. My mother was a “douche bag”. I was a “scumbag”. My children were “pieces of shit that she hoped would die of cancer at an early age”.
We arrived back at the station and the cherub was brought into booking. The shift Lt. was waiting and the booking process began. “I need your name”, he said to her. “Go fuck yourself”, she replied. “Hold on Lt., I have her license right here”. I removed the license from her pocketbook and held it in my hand. I looked down and read the name. The face was somewhat older and she looked more mature, given the several years since we last met. But the name was there before me. I handed the license to the Lieutenant. “I know this girl Lieutenant, we met once before…”