As Told To Sarah Yahr Tucker

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

I sincerely believe that what goes around comes around. Good things come to good people. And sometimes that saves lives.

My 10-year-old son was in the semifinals of the Little League district championship. And we were losing. My son is an excellent pitcher, and he had started the game. But that night, he was struggling. He just couldn’t find where to throw the ball. Needless to say, he was frustrated.

He was changed to shortstop in the second inning, and the home plate umpire walked over to him. This umpire is well known in the area for his kindness and commitment, how he encourages the kids and helps make baseball fun even when it’s stressful.

We didn’t know him well, but he was really supportive of my kid in that moment, talking to him about how baseball is a team sport and we’re here to have fun. Just being really positive.

As the game continued, I saw the umpire suddenly walk to the side of the field. I hadn’t seen it, but he had been hit by a wild pitch on the side of his neck. He was wearing protective gear, but the ball managed to bounce up the side and caught bare neck. I knew something wasn’t right.

I went down to talk to him, and my medical assistant (MA), who was also at the game, came with me. I could tell the umpire was injured, but he didn’t want to leave the game. I suggested going to the hospital, but he wouldn’t consider it. So I sat there with my arms crossed, watching him.

His symptoms got worse. I could see he was in pain, and it was getting harder for him to speak. My concern was that there was a tracheal injury, a carotid injury, or something of that nature that was expanding.

Again, I strongly urged him to go to the hospital, but again, he said no.

In the sixth inning, things got bad enough that the umpire finally agreed to leave the game. As I was figuring out how to get him to the hospital, he disappeared on me. He had walked up to the second floor of the snack shack. My MA and I got him back downstairs and sat him on a bench behind home plate.

We were in the process of calling 911 ... when he arrested.

Luckily, when he lost vital signs, my MA and I were standing right next to him. We were able to activate ACLS protocol and start CPR within seconds.

Many times in these critical situations — especially if people are scared or have never seen an emergency like this — there’s the potential for chaos. Well, that was the polar opposite of what happened.

As soon as I started to run the code, there was this sense of order. People were keeping their composure and following directions. My MA and I would say, “this is what we need,” and the task would immediately be assigned to someone. It was quiet. There was no yelling. Everyone trusted me, even though some of them had never met me before. It was so surprising. I remember thinking, we’re running an arrest, but it’s so calm.

We were an organized team, and it really worked like clockwork, which was remarkable given where we were. It’s one thing to be in the hospital for an event like that. But to be on a baseball field where you have nothing is a completely different scenario.

Meanwhile, the game went on.

I had requested that all the kids be placed in the dugout when they weren’t on the field. So they saw the umpire walk off, but none of them saw him arrest. Some parents were really helpful with making sure the kids were okay.

The president of Oxford Little League ran across the street to a fire station to get an AED. But the fire department personnel were out on a call. He had to break down the door.

By the time he got back, the umpire’s vital signs were returning. And then EMS arrived.

They loaded him in the ambulance, and I called ahead to the trauma team, so they knew exactly what was happening.

I was pretty worried. My hypothesis was that there was probably compression on the vasculature, which had caused him to lose his vital signs. I thought he probably had an impending airway loss. I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it through the night.

What I didn’t know was that while I was giving CPR, my son stole home, and we won the game. As the ambulance was leaving, the celebration was going on in the outfield.

The umpire was in the hospital for several days. Early on, I got permission from his family to visit him. The first time I saw him, I felt this incredible gratitude and peace.

My dad was an ER doctor, and growing up, it seemed like every time we went on a family vacation, there was an emergency. We would be near a car accident or something, and my father would fly in and save the day. I remember being on the Autobahn somewhere in Europe, and there was a devastating accident between a car and a motorcycle. My father stabilized the guy, had him airlifted out, and apparently, he did fine. I grew up watching things like this and thinking, wow, that’s incredible.

Fast forward to 2 years ago, my father was diagnosed with a lung cancer he never should have had. He never smoked. As a cancer surgeon, I know we did everything in our power to save him. But it didn’t happen. He passed away.

I realize this is superstitious, but seeing the umpire alive, I had this feeling that somehow my dad was there. It was bittersweet but also a joyful moment — like I could breathe again.

I met the umpire’s family that first time, and it was like meeting family that you didn’t know you had but now you have forever. Even though the event was traumatic — I’m still trying not to be on high alert every time I go to a game — it felt like a gift to be part of this journey with them.

Little League’s mission is to teach kids about teamwork, leadership, and making good choices so communities are stronger. Our umpire is a guy who does that every day. He’s not a Little League umpire because he makes any money. He shows up at every single game to support these kids and engage them, to model respect, gratitude, and kindness.

I think our obligation as people is to live with intentionality. We all need to make sure we leave the world a better place, even when we are called upon to do uncomfortable things. Our umpire showed our kids what that looks like, and in that moment when he could have died, we were able to do the same for him.

Jennifer LaFemina, MD, is a surgical oncologist at UMass Memorial Medical Center in Massachusetts.
 

Are you a medical professional with a dramatic story outside the clinic? Medscape Medical News would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

I sincerely believe that what goes around comes around. Good things come to good people. And sometimes that saves lives.

My 10-year-old son was in the semifinals of the Little League district championship. And we were losing. My son is an excellent pitcher, and he had started the game. But that night, he was struggling. He just couldn’t find where to throw the ball. Needless to say, he was frustrated.

He was changed to shortstop in the second inning, and the home plate umpire walked over to him. This umpire is well known in the area for his kindness and commitment, how he encourages the kids and helps make baseball fun even when it’s stressful.

We didn’t know him well, but he was really supportive of my kid in that moment, talking to him about how baseball is a team sport and we’re here to have fun. Just being really positive.

As the game continued, I saw the umpire suddenly walk to the side of the field. I hadn’t seen it, but he had been hit by a wild pitch on the side of his neck. He was wearing protective gear, but the ball managed to bounce up the side and caught bare neck. I knew something wasn’t right.

I went down to talk to him, and my medical assistant (MA), who was also at the game, came with me. I could tell the umpire was injured, but he didn’t want to leave the game. I suggested going to the hospital, but he wouldn’t consider it. So I sat there with my arms crossed, watching him.

His symptoms got worse. I could see he was in pain, and it was getting harder for him to speak. My concern was that there was a tracheal injury, a carotid injury, or something of that nature that was expanding.

Again, I strongly urged him to go to the hospital, but again, he said no.

In the sixth inning, things got bad enough that the umpire finally agreed to leave the game. As I was figuring out how to get him to the hospital, he disappeared on me. He had walked up to the second floor of the snack shack. My MA and I got him back downstairs and sat him on a bench behind home plate.

We were in the process of calling 911 ... when he arrested.

Luckily, when he lost vital signs, my MA and I were standing right next to him. We were able to activate ACLS protocol and start CPR within seconds.

Many times in these critical situations — especially if people are scared or have never seen an emergency like this — there’s the potential for chaos. Well, that was the polar opposite of what happened.

As soon as I started to run the code, there was this sense of order. People were keeping their composure and following directions. My MA and I would say, “this is what we need,” and the task would immediately be assigned to someone. It was quiet. There was no yelling. Everyone trusted me, even though some of them had never met me before. It was so surprising. I remember thinking, we’re running an arrest, but it’s so calm.

We were an organized team, and it really worked like clockwork, which was remarkable given where we were. It’s one thing to be in the hospital for an event like that. But to be on a baseball field where you have nothing is a completely different scenario.

Meanwhile, the game went on.

I had requested that all the kids be placed in the dugout when they weren’t on the field. So they saw the umpire walk off, but none of them saw him arrest. Some parents were really helpful with making sure the kids were okay.

The president of Oxford Little League ran across the street to a fire station to get an AED. But the fire department personnel were out on a call. He had to break down the door.

By the time he got back, the umpire’s vital signs were returning. And then EMS arrived.

They loaded him in the ambulance, and I called ahead to the trauma team, so they knew exactly what was happening.

I was pretty worried. My hypothesis was that there was probably compression on the vasculature, which had caused him to lose his vital signs. I thought he probably had an impending airway loss. I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it through the night.

What I didn’t know was that while I was giving CPR, my son stole home, and we won the game. As the ambulance was leaving, the celebration was going on in the outfield.

The umpire was in the hospital for several days. Early on, I got permission from his family to visit him. The first time I saw him, I felt this incredible gratitude and peace.

My dad was an ER doctor, and growing up, it seemed like every time we went on a family vacation, there was an emergency. We would be near a car accident or something, and my father would fly in and save the day. I remember being on the Autobahn somewhere in Europe, and there was a devastating accident between a car and a motorcycle. My father stabilized the guy, had him airlifted out, and apparently, he did fine. I grew up watching things like this and thinking, wow, that’s incredible.

Fast forward to 2 years ago, my father was diagnosed with a lung cancer he never should have had. He never smoked. As a cancer surgeon, I know we did everything in our power to save him. But it didn’t happen. He passed away.

I realize this is superstitious, but seeing the umpire alive, I had this feeling that somehow my dad was there. It was bittersweet but also a joyful moment — like I could breathe again.

I met the umpire’s family that first time, and it was like meeting family that you didn’t know you had but now you have forever. Even though the event was traumatic — I’m still trying not to be on high alert every time I go to a game — it felt like a gift to be part of this journey with them.

Little League’s mission is to teach kids about teamwork, leadership, and making good choices so communities are stronger. Our umpire is a guy who does that every day. He’s not a Little League umpire because he makes any money. He shows up at every single game to support these kids and engage them, to model respect, gratitude, and kindness.

I think our obligation as people is to live with intentionality. We all need to make sure we leave the world a better place, even when we are called upon to do uncomfortable things. Our umpire showed our kids what that looks like, and in that moment when he could have died, we were able to do the same for him.

Jennifer LaFemina, MD, is a surgical oncologist at UMass Memorial Medical Center in Massachusetts.
 

Are you a medical professional with a dramatic story outside the clinic? Medscape Medical News would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

I sincerely believe that what goes around comes around. Good things come to good people. And sometimes that saves lives.

My 10-year-old son was in the semifinals of the Little League district championship. And we were losing. My son is an excellent pitcher, and he had started the game. But that night, he was struggling. He just couldn’t find where to throw the ball. Needless to say, he was frustrated.

He was changed to shortstop in the second inning, and the home plate umpire walked over to him. This umpire is well known in the area for his kindness and commitment, how he encourages the kids and helps make baseball fun even when it’s stressful.

We didn’t know him well, but he was really supportive of my kid in that moment, talking to him about how baseball is a team sport and we’re here to have fun. Just being really positive.

As the game continued, I saw the umpire suddenly walk to the side of the field. I hadn’t seen it, but he had been hit by a wild pitch on the side of his neck. He was wearing protective gear, but the ball managed to bounce up the side and caught bare neck. I knew something wasn’t right.

I went down to talk to him, and my medical assistant (MA), who was also at the game, came with me. I could tell the umpire was injured, but he didn’t want to leave the game. I suggested going to the hospital, but he wouldn’t consider it. So I sat there with my arms crossed, watching him.

His symptoms got worse. I could see he was in pain, and it was getting harder for him to speak. My concern was that there was a tracheal injury, a carotid injury, or something of that nature that was expanding.

Again, I strongly urged him to go to the hospital, but again, he said no.

In the sixth inning, things got bad enough that the umpire finally agreed to leave the game. As I was figuring out how to get him to the hospital, he disappeared on me. He had walked up to the second floor of the snack shack. My MA and I got him back downstairs and sat him on a bench behind home plate.

We were in the process of calling 911 ... when he arrested.

Luckily, when he lost vital signs, my MA and I were standing right next to him. We were able to activate ACLS protocol and start CPR within seconds.

Many times in these critical situations — especially if people are scared or have never seen an emergency like this — there’s the potential for chaos. Well, that was the polar opposite of what happened.

As soon as I started to run the code, there was this sense of order. People were keeping their composure and following directions. My MA and I would say, “this is what we need,” and the task would immediately be assigned to someone. It was quiet. There was no yelling. Everyone trusted me, even though some of them had never met me before. It was so surprising. I remember thinking, we’re running an arrest, but it’s so calm.

We were an organized team, and it really worked like clockwork, which was remarkable given where we were. It’s one thing to be in the hospital for an event like that. But to be on a baseball field where you have nothing is a completely different scenario.

Meanwhile, the game went on.

I had requested that all the kids be placed in the dugout when they weren’t on the field. So they saw the umpire walk off, but none of them saw him arrest. Some parents were really helpful with making sure the kids were okay.

The president of Oxford Little League ran across the street to a fire station to get an AED. But the fire department personnel were out on a call. He had to break down the door.

By the time he got back, the umpire’s vital signs were returning. And then EMS arrived.

They loaded him in the ambulance, and I called ahead to the trauma team, so they knew exactly what was happening.

I was pretty worried. My hypothesis was that there was probably compression on the vasculature, which had caused him to lose his vital signs. I thought he probably had an impending airway loss. I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it through the night.

What I didn’t know was that while I was giving CPR, my son stole home, and we won the game. As the ambulance was leaving, the celebration was going on in the outfield.

The umpire was in the hospital for several days. Early on, I got permission from his family to visit him. The first time I saw him, I felt this incredible gratitude and peace.

My dad was an ER doctor, and growing up, it seemed like every time we went on a family vacation, there was an emergency. We would be near a car accident or something, and my father would fly in and save the day. I remember being on the Autobahn somewhere in Europe, and there was a devastating accident between a car and a motorcycle. My father stabilized the guy, had him airlifted out, and apparently, he did fine. I grew up watching things like this and thinking, wow, that’s incredible.

Fast forward to 2 years ago, my father was diagnosed with a lung cancer he never should have had. He never smoked. As a cancer surgeon, I know we did everything in our power to save him. But it didn’t happen. He passed away.

I realize this is superstitious, but seeing the umpire alive, I had this feeling that somehow my dad was there. It was bittersweet but also a joyful moment — like I could breathe again.

I met the umpire’s family that first time, and it was like meeting family that you didn’t know you had but now you have forever. Even though the event was traumatic — I’m still trying not to be on high alert every time I go to a game — it felt like a gift to be part of this journey with them.

Little League’s mission is to teach kids about teamwork, leadership, and making good choices so communities are stronger. Our umpire is a guy who does that every day. He’s not a Little League umpire because he makes any money. He shows up at every single game to support these kids and engage them, to model respect, gratitude, and kindness.

I think our obligation as people is to live with intentionality. We all need to make sure we leave the world a better place, even when we are called upon to do uncomfortable things. Our umpire showed our kids what that looks like, and in that moment when he could have died, we were able to do the same for him.

Jennifer LaFemina, MD, is a surgical oncologist at UMass Memorial Medical Center in Massachusetts.
 

Are you a medical professional with a dramatic story outside the clinic? Medscape Medical News would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Ryan Forbess, MD: I live at the beach in Orange Beach, Alabama. I’ve lived in Hawaii, the Caymans, and other beach areas for years. I’ve seen a lot of sharks but never a shark attack. Not until now.

Mohammad Ali, MD: Ryan and I have been friends for 20 years. Every year, my family goes to 30A in Florida (a popular resort stretch of highway) to celebrate my wife’s birthday, and the Forbesses always meet us there. This year we had a group of about 18 people.

On Friday, it was beautiful, and we decided to make it a beach day. We had nine kids with us. So by the time we rounded them up and got there, it was noon, and there was nowhere to sit. We almost turned around and went to the pool. But my wife finally found a spot for an umbrella.

Dr. Forbess: We were in the water boogie boarding. I was with my 8-year-old son, and Mo was with his daughter who is the same age. Suddenly, we noticed a lot of commotion just to the left of us. My first thought was: Someone saw a shark, not an attack. They’re so rare. But seeing one would scare people.

We grabbed our kids and started running out of the water. As we got closer to the shore, I looked back to the left. And I saw it: Blood. Waves of blood.

We handed the kids off and started running down the beach.

Dr. Ali: It was mass panic. People were screaming and running out of the water. Other people were running in and grabbing their kids. Everyone just looked frantic.

We saw two men dragging this poor girl out of the water. It was surreal. The majority of her right leg was severed, her femur bone visible and stark white; it didn’t look real. I kept telling myself I was in a dream and now I’d wake up.

A young EMT who was there had put an informal tourniquet on her leg, but she was still bleeding. So I compressed the femoral artery as hard as I could, something I’m very familiar with doing.

Dr. Forbess: People asked me later what we used for a tourniquet. I said, “Mo’s big hands.” I tease him because most doctors play golf or go fishing; Mo lives in the gym. He was just holding pressure.

The girl’s left hand was also severed off at the wrist. There were two nurses there, and they helped with holding tourniquets on her arm.

Lulu (the girl’s name) was 15 years old. She was in and out of consciousness. At one point, her face started getting really pale, so we tried to lift her extremities up to keep the blood flow to the heart. With such severe blood loss, I thought she might go into cardiovascular shock, and we would have to start compressions. But she had a pulse, and she was breathing.

Dr. Ali: The beach was very crowded, and a lot of people had gathered around. Everyone was emotional, shocked, really shaken up. But they gave us space to work.

Dr. Forbess: People were handing us things — towels, a ratchet strap to use as a tourniquet. There was even an anesthesiologist there who said, “If you need an airway, let me know.” It was like we had a trauma team.

Dr. Ali: Lulu’s mom had been having lunch with friends. When she saw all the commotion, she ran down to the beach to look for her daughter. It was heartbreaking to hear her screams when she saw Lulu. But I was able to tune it out because we had to just concentrate on decreasing the loss of blood.

Dr. Forbess: Another girl came over and said, “That’s my sister.” Lulu has a twin. So she sat there holding Lulu’s hand and being with her the whole time.

Waiting for the EMTs to get there, the seconds were like hours. It seemed like it took forever. Finally, they came, and we were able to get the real tourniquets on, get her boarded and off the beach.

After that, they closed the beach. We got all our stuff and got on the little trolley that would take us back to the house. The lady who was driving asked us, “Did y’all hear about the shark attack?” My wife said, “Yeah, we were there.” And she said, “No, there was one an hour and a half ago.”

Dr. Ali: What we didn’t know was there had been two other attacks that day. Around the same time, one of Lulu’s friends was bitten and got a flesh wound on her heel. And before that, about 4 miles away, there was a serious injury: A lady in her 40s lost her hand and forearm and was bitten in the pelvis.

Dr. Forbess: At that point, my wife leaned back to me and said, “You know we’re never going to the beach again, right? We’re never ever going to the beach.”

If we had known about those attacks, we definitely wouldn’t have been in the water.

Dr. Ali: My wife has never liked going in the water. The evening before, we had debated about taking our daughters in the ocean because she was worried about sharks. I had given her this condescending speech about waist-deep water and the statistical probabilities of ever witnessing a shark attack. I was in trouble.

Dr. Forbess: We didn’t know if Lulu would make it. I’ve done rural family medicine in Oklahoma, so I’ve seen my fair share of injuries — guys on oil rigs, this and that. But I had never seen anything like this kind of trauma and blood loss.

Later that day, I called my office manager to catch up with her and told her what happened. She was actually in Pensacola having dinner across the street from Sacred Heart Hospital where they had taken Lulu. She went over to the emergency room to try to find out Lulu’s status — she was alive.

My office manager was able to go upstairs and talk to Lulu’s mom. Then she called, and we talked to her mom on the phone. She just said, “Thank you for helping my daughter.” It was an emotional moment.

Dr. Ali: It was such a relief. We had no idea how things would turn out. Even if Lulu did survive, was she going to be neurologically sound? But thank God she was. We were so relieved to hear her mom say that it was looking good. We still didn’t know for sure. But at least she was alive and seemed to be functioning.

Dr. Forbess: A few days later, my wife and I went to go visit her at the hospital. Her mom and her grandma were there. They were giving us hugs. We FaceTimed Mo because he was back in Jackson. It was really amazing.

What are the odds? The chances of a shark attack are about one in 12 million. And to have two physicians trained in trauma, a trauma nurse, another nurse, and an anesthesiologist less than 20 yards away when it happened? It’s crazy to think about.

Dr. Ali: And we almost weren’t there. We could have turned away.

Dr. Forbess: Humans are on top of the food chain. Or we think we are. But water really isn’t our element. Against a 12-foot bull shark, we don’t stand a chance. Lulu is here though. It’s unbelievable.

Her mom told me that when Lulu woke up, she just said, “I made it!” That girl is meant to be here. She is a tough girl with a great personality. She has these new prosthetics now that she can move with her mind; it’s like Star Wars. She says she wants to be a physician someday. So she’ll probably cure cancer.

Dr. Forbess is a family medicine physician at Orange Beach Family Medicine in Orange Beach, Alabama. Dr. Ali is an interventional radiologist with Baptist Memorial Health in Jackson, Mississippi.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Ryan Forbess, MD: I live at the beach in Orange Beach, Alabama. I’ve lived in Hawaii, the Caymans, and other beach areas for years. I’ve seen a lot of sharks but never a shark attack. Not until now.

Mohammad Ali, MD: Ryan and I have been friends for 20 years. Every year, my family goes to 30A in Florida (a popular resort stretch of highway) to celebrate my wife’s birthday, and the Forbesses always meet us there. This year we had a group of about 18 people.

On Friday, it was beautiful, and we decided to make it a beach day. We had nine kids with us. So by the time we rounded them up and got there, it was noon, and there was nowhere to sit. We almost turned around and went to the pool. But my wife finally found a spot for an umbrella.

Dr. Forbess: We were in the water boogie boarding. I was with my 8-year-old son, and Mo was with his daughter who is the same age. Suddenly, we noticed a lot of commotion just to the left of us. My first thought was: Someone saw a shark, not an attack. They’re so rare. But seeing one would scare people.

We grabbed our kids and started running out of the water. As we got closer to the shore, I looked back to the left. And I saw it: Blood. Waves of blood.

We handed the kids off and started running down the beach.

Dr. Ali: It was mass panic. People were screaming and running out of the water. Other people were running in and grabbing their kids. Everyone just looked frantic.

We saw two men dragging this poor girl out of the water. It was surreal. The majority of her right leg was severed, her femur bone visible and stark white; it didn’t look real. I kept telling myself I was in a dream and now I’d wake up.

A young EMT who was there had put an informal tourniquet on her leg, but she was still bleeding. So I compressed the femoral artery as hard as I could, something I’m very familiar with doing.

Dr. Forbess: People asked me later what we used for a tourniquet. I said, “Mo’s big hands.” I tease him because most doctors play golf or go fishing; Mo lives in the gym. He was just holding pressure.

The girl’s left hand was also severed off at the wrist. There were two nurses there, and they helped with holding tourniquets on her arm.

Lulu (the girl’s name) was 15 years old. She was in and out of consciousness. At one point, her face started getting really pale, so we tried to lift her extremities up to keep the blood flow to the heart. With such severe blood loss, I thought she might go into cardiovascular shock, and we would have to start compressions. But she had a pulse, and she was breathing.

Dr. Ali: The beach was very crowded, and a lot of people had gathered around. Everyone was emotional, shocked, really shaken up. But they gave us space to work.

Dr. Forbess: People were handing us things — towels, a ratchet strap to use as a tourniquet. There was even an anesthesiologist there who said, “If you need an airway, let me know.” It was like we had a trauma team.

Dr. Ali: Lulu’s mom had been having lunch with friends. When she saw all the commotion, she ran down to the beach to look for her daughter. It was heartbreaking to hear her screams when she saw Lulu. But I was able to tune it out because we had to just concentrate on decreasing the loss of blood.

Dr. Forbess: Another girl came over and said, “That’s my sister.” Lulu has a twin. So she sat there holding Lulu’s hand and being with her the whole time.

Waiting for the EMTs to get there, the seconds were like hours. It seemed like it took forever. Finally, they came, and we were able to get the real tourniquets on, get her boarded and off the beach.

After that, they closed the beach. We got all our stuff and got on the little trolley that would take us back to the house. The lady who was driving asked us, “Did y’all hear about the shark attack?” My wife said, “Yeah, we were there.” And she said, “No, there was one an hour and a half ago.”

Dr. Ali: What we didn’t know was there had been two other attacks that day. Around the same time, one of Lulu’s friends was bitten and got a flesh wound on her heel. And before that, about 4 miles away, there was a serious injury: A lady in her 40s lost her hand and forearm and was bitten in the pelvis.

Dr. Forbess: At that point, my wife leaned back to me and said, “You know we’re never going to the beach again, right? We’re never ever going to the beach.”

If we had known about those attacks, we definitely wouldn’t have been in the water.

Dr. Ali: My wife has never liked going in the water. The evening before, we had debated about taking our daughters in the ocean because she was worried about sharks. I had given her this condescending speech about waist-deep water and the statistical probabilities of ever witnessing a shark attack. I was in trouble.

Dr. Forbess: We didn’t know if Lulu would make it. I’ve done rural family medicine in Oklahoma, so I’ve seen my fair share of injuries — guys on oil rigs, this and that. But I had never seen anything like this kind of trauma and blood loss.

Later that day, I called my office manager to catch up with her and told her what happened. She was actually in Pensacola having dinner across the street from Sacred Heart Hospital where they had taken Lulu. She went over to the emergency room to try to find out Lulu’s status — she was alive.

My office manager was able to go upstairs and talk to Lulu’s mom. Then she called, and we talked to her mom on the phone. She just said, “Thank you for helping my daughter.” It was an emotional moment.

Dr. Ali: It was such a relief. We had no idea how things would turn out. Even if Lulu did survive, was she going to be neurologically sound? But thank God she was. We were so relieved to hear her mom say that it was looking good. We still didn’t know for sure. But at least she was alive and seemed to be functioning.

Dr. Forbess: A few days later, my wife and I went to go visit her at the hospital. Her mom and her grandma were there. They were giving us hugs. We FaceTimed Mo because he was back in Jackson. It was really amazing.

What are the odds? The chances of a shark attack are about one in 12 million. And to have two physicians trained in trauma, a trauma nurse, another nurse, and an anesthesiologist less than 20 yards away when it happened? It’s crazy to think about.

Dr. Ali: And we almost weren’t there. We could have turned away.

Dr. Forbess: Humans are on top of the food chain. Or we think we are. But water really isn’t our element. Against a 12-foot bull shark, we don’t stand a chance. Lulu is here though. It’s unbelievable.

Her mom told me that when Lulu woke up, she just said, “I made it!” That girl is meant to be here. She is a tough girl with a great personality. She has these new prosthetics now that she can move with her mind; it’s like Star Wars. She says she wants to be a physician someday. So she’ll probably cure cancer.

Dr. Forbess is a family medicine physician at Orange Beach Family Medicine in Orange Beach, Alabama. Dr. Ali is an interventional radiologist with Baptist Memorial Health in Jackson, Mississippi.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Ryan Forbess, MD: I live at the beach in Orange Beach, Alabama. I’ve lived in Hawaii, the Caymans, and other beach areas for years. I’ve seen a lot of sharks but never a shark attack. Not until now.

Mohammad Ali, MD: Ryan and I have been friends for 20 years. Every year, my family goes to 30A in Florida (a popular resort stretch of highway) to celebrate my wife’s birthday, and the Forbesses always meet us there. This year we had a group of about 18 people.

On Friday, it was beautiful, and we decided to make it a beach day. We had nine kids with us. So by the time we rounded them up and got there, it was noon, and there was nowhere to sit. We almost turned around and went to the pool. But my wife finally found a spot for an umbrella.

Dr. Forbess: We were in the water boogie boarding. I was with my 8-year-old son, and Mo was with his daughter who is the same age. Suddenly, we noticed a lot of commotion just to the left of us. My first thought was: Someone saw a shark, not an attack. They’re so rare. But seeing one would scare people.

We grabbed our kids and started running out of the water. As we got closer to the shore, I looked back to the left. And I saw it: Blood. Waves of blood.

We handed the kids off and started running down the beach.

Dr. Ali: It was mass panic. People were screaming and running out of the water. Other people were running in and grabbing their kids. Everyone just looked frantic.

We saw two men dragging this poor girl out of the water. It was surreal. The majority of her right leg was severed, her femur bone visible and stark white; it didn’t look real. I kept telling myself I was in a dream and now I’d wake up.

A young EMT who was there had put an informal tourniquet on her leg, but she was still bleeding. So I compressed the femoral artery as hard as I could, something I’m very familiar with doing.

Dr. Forbess: People asked me later what we used for a tourniquet. I said, “Mo’s big hands.” I tease him because most doctors play golf or go fishing; Mo lives in the gym. He was just holding pressure.

The girl’s left hand was also severed off at the wrist. There were two nurses there, and they helped with holding tourniquets on her arm.

Lulu (the girl’s name) was 15 years old. She was in and out of consciousness. At one point, her face started getting really pale, so we tried to lift her extremities up to keep the blood flow to the heart. With such severe blood loss, I thought she might go into cardiovascular shock, and we would have to start compressions. But she had a pulse, and she was breathing.

Dr. Ali: The beach was very crowded, and a lot of people had gathered around. Everyone was emotional, shocked, really shaken up. But they gave us space to work.

Dr. Forbess: People were handing us things — towels, a ratchet strap to use as a tourniquet. There was even an anesthesiologist there who said, “If you need an airway, let me know.” It was like we had a trauma team.

Dr. Ali: Lulu’s mom had been having lunch with friends. When she saw all the commotion, she ran down to the beach to look for her daughter. It was heartbreaking to hear her screams when she saw Lulu. But I was able to tune it out because we had to just concentrate on decreasing the loss of blood.

Dr. Forbess: Another girl came over and said, “That’s my sister.” Lulu has a twin. So she sat there holding Lulu’s hand and being with her the whole time.

Waiting for the EMTs to get there, the seconds were like hours. It seemed like it took forever. Finally, they came, and we were able to get the real tourniquets on, get her boarded and off the beach.

After that, they closed the beach. We got all our stuff and got on the little trolley that would take us back to the house. The lady who was driving asked us, “Did y’all hear about the shark attack?” My wife said, “Yeah, we were there.” And she said, “No, there was one an hour and a half ago.”

Dr. Ali: What we didn’t know was there had been two other attacks that day. Around the same time, one of Lulu’s friends was bitten and got a flesh wound on her heel. And before that, about 4 miles away, there was a serious injury: A lady in her 40s lost her hand and forearm and was bitten in the pelvis.

Dr. Forbess: At that point, my wife leaned back to me and said, “You know we’re never going to the beach again, right? We’re never ever going to the beach.”

If we had known about those attacks, we definitely wouldn’t have been in the water.

Dr. Ali: My wife has never liked going in the water. The evening before, we had debated about taking our daughters in the ocean because she was worried about sharks. I had given her this condescending speech about waist-deep water and the statistical probabilities of ever witnessing a shark attack. I was in trouble.

Dr. Forbess: We didn’t know if Lulu would make it. I’ve done rural family medicine in Oklahoma, so I’ve seen my fair share of injuries — guys on oil rigs, this and that. But I had never seen anything like this kind of trauma and blood loss.

Later that day, I called my office manager to catch up with her and told her what happened. She was actually in Pensacola having dinner across the street from Sacred Heart Hospital where they had taken Lulu. She went over to the emergency room to try to find out Lulu’s status — she was alive.

My office manager was able to go upstairs and talk to Lulu’s mom. Then she called, and we talked to her mom on the phone. She just said, “Thank you for helping my daughter.” It was an emotional moment.

Dr. Ali: It was such a relief. We had no idea how things would turn out. Even if Lulu did survive, was she going to be neurologically sound? But thank God she was. We were so relieved to hear her mom say that it was looking good. We still didn’t know for sure. But at least she was alive and seemed to be functioning.

Dr. Forbess: A few days later, my wife and I went to go visit her at the hospital. Her mom and her grandma were there. They were giving us hugs. We FaceTimed Mo because he was back in Jackson. It was really amazing.

What are the odds? The chances of a shark attack are about one in 12 million. And to have two physicians trained in trauma, a trauma nurse, another nurse, and an anesthesiologist less than 20 yards away when it happened? It’s crazy to think about.

Dr. Ali: And we almost weren’t there. We could have turned away.

Dr. Forbess: Humans are on top of the food chain. Or we think we are. But water really isn’t our element. Against a 12-foot bull shark, we don’t stand a chance. Lulu is here though. It’s unbelievable.

Her mom told me that when Lulu woke up, she just said, “I made it!” That girl is meant to be here. She is a tough girl with a great personality. She has these new prosthetics now that she can move with her mind; it’s like Star Wars. She says she wants to be a physician someday. So she’ll probably cure cancer.

Dr. Forbess is a family medicine physician at Orange Beach Family Medicine in Orange Beach, Alabama. Dr. Ali is an interventional radiologist with Baptist Memorial Health in Jackson, Mississippi.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

My husband Scott and I were flying back to Washington state with our two kids, who were about 1 and 4. We had been in Florida for a family vacation, and we were near the end of the flight, with both kids passed out on top of me.

Suddenly, there was some scuffling and a lot of movement from the flight attendants. The announcement came: “Are there any healthcare providers on board?” My husband and I are both nurses. We looked at each other, and we looked at our sleeping kids. Should we say anything?

One of the stewardesses walked by looking very flustered. My husband was in the aisle seat, so he leaned out and told her that we were nurses. Her eyes got all big, and she said: “Oh yeah, come on up.”

She was looking at both of us. I said, “I think he’s got it.” I assumed it wasn’t that big of a deal. Plus — kids sleeping on top of me.

Scott went up to the front of the plane. But a few minutes later, the stewardess came back and said: “You need to help.” I was holding my 1-year-old son, so I handed her my kid. She sat down with him, and I boogied up to the front of the plane.

I got to the first-class stewards’ area where the restrooms are and the cabinets with all the food and drinks. I could see an older man on the ground on his back. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely from his scalp.

When I saw the bleeding, my first reaction was we need to apply pressure. I asked for a towel. There were no towels. A blanket? Anything to help absorb the blood? Nope. They had nothing. I was given a pair of gloves that were much too big and a fistful of cocktail napkins.

It was such a small space there wasn’t any way to be next to the man. So, I kind of squatted over the top of him to reach behind his head. I got a stack of napkins on there and held pressure as hard as I could with the tips of my fingers on one hand.

I’m a postanesthesia care unit nurse, so my next thought was to check his pupils and make sure he had a good airway by doing a jaw thrust and a chin lift. I noticed there was blood in his mouth. His breathing was in short gusts. I was trying to do all that with my free hand without crushing him with my body.

Scott had made some ice packs, so I applied those as well, which helped to constrict the bleeding. Then he checked the plane’s medical kit to try to get an intravenous (IV) started. It wasn’t easy. The IV start kit was very different from what you would normally use. And at the same time, the plane had started to descend for landing, so we were on an angle. But he tried.

We asked about what had happened. The steward team said the man had fallen and hit his head on one of the stainless steel cabinets. He seemed to be in his 70s or 80s, a tall, solid guy.

His wife was sitting nearby — pretty calm and stoic given the circumstances. We asked her about his medical history, trying to get a feel for why he might be unconscious. He was still totally out. She told us he had diabetes. He was on a blood pressure medication and also a blood thinner.

The plane kept going down. I was in a really awkward position, squatting and holding myself up against the cabinets. I just kept talking to the man, trying to get him to wake up. “Can you hear me? Everything’s okay. You hit your head.”

Someone brought us an oxygen tank. I looked for the mask. And realized it wasn’t a mask. It was a plastic bag. I set it on the patient’s face, and it felt like I was suffocating him. So, I tried to do it blowby to just increase the oxygen in the air near his face.

At one point, his breathing was agonal for a few minutes, which really concerned me. My fear was that he was going to stop breathing. I rubbed his chest and kind of said: “Hey, let’s not do that!”

I would have felt a lot better about resuscitating him with an actual oxygen mask rather than a plastic bag.

The amount of blood definitely looked alarming. I couldn’t tell how much he was actively bleeding. But it was a lot. He wasn’t turning gray though, so that was a good sign.

Finally, he started coming to and opening his eyes. I introduced myself and asked him: “Do you know where you are? Do you know what’s going on?” Trying to see if he was oriented at all.

Eventually, he was able to talk to me, so I kept asking questions: “Are you guys on vacation? Where are you headed? Where are you staying?”

He told me they were going to visit his granddaughter, and he was able to talk about that. He didn’t try to get up, which I was glad about, because that would’ve been really challenging to navigate.

I could tell he was embarrassed about what had happened. I’ve helped a lot of older gentlemen after falling down, and their egos are often bruised. They don’t want to be in a position of needing help.

Finally, the plane landed. There was blood absolutely everywhere. The ice packs had melted, and the water had mixed with the pool of blood. It was such a mess.

The pilots had called the airport ahead to let them know we needed medical services. So, the first responding team came on right away. They stabilized the man with a board, put the neck brace on him, and did all the stuff you do for a patient after a fall.

I gave them a report — that’s just my style. But it didn’t seem like they needed a lot of information at that point.

I was finally able to talk to the man’s wife who was clearly terrified. I gave her a hug and told her he would be all right. She thanked us.

The emergency team didn’t seem to have anything to help staunch the bleeding either because the rolling gurney left puddles of blood all down the gangway, causing a significant biohazard problem.

They let one person leave who had a connecting flight, but everyone else had to get off from the rear of the plane and walk across the tarmac.

When we finally got back to our seats, the stewardess was still sitting with our kids. They were both totally chill, watching some show, apparently very well behaved. Our daughter asked us what was going on, and I said: “Oh, somebody got hurt at the front of the plane.” She’s so used to hearing that we work with sick people that it didn’t faze her at all.

As we left, we got a lot of thank-yous from people who had been sitting up front and saw what happened.

When we got home, there was still blood on my shoes. I remember looking at them and thinking: Disinfect or throw away? I disinfected them. They were still a good pair of shoes.

A few days later, we got an email from the airline with a voucher, expressing their gratitude for our help. That was nice and unexpected.

I responded with a suggestion: How about having some protocols for medical events on airplanes? Pilots go through checklists for almost everything they do. Why wouldn’t they have something like that for medical responses?

I also asked how the man and his wife were doing. But they couldn’t disclose that information.

It was certainly strange being out of my element, helping a patient in that tiny little space; I’m used to working in a recovery room where you have literally everything you need within arm’s reach — the Ambu bag, suction, and bandages. And with airway management, there’s usually more than one person in the room to assist. If there’s a problem, a whole bunch of people show up around the bed so fast.

I’m definitely thinking about field medicine a lot more. Wondering what I would do in certain situations. While debriefing with my mom (an advanced registered nurse practitioner), she pointed out that we should have asked passengers for sanitary pads or diapers to stabilize the bleeding instead of the cocktail napkins. Brilliant idea! I didn’t think of it in the moment. But I’m keeping that little tip tucked in my back pocket for any future bleeding-in-the-wild scenarios.

Audra Podruzny, MSN, RN, CPAN, lives in Washington state and is currently attending the Washington State University Doctor of Nursing Practice Family Nurse Practitioner program.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

My husband Scott and I were flying back to Washington state with our two kids, who were about 1 and 4. We had been in Florida for a family vacation, and we were near the end of the flight, with both kids passed out on top of me.

Suddenly, there was some scuffling and a lot of movement from the flight attendants. The announcement came: “Are there any healthcare providers on board?” My husband and I are both nurses. We looked at each other, and we looked at our sleeping kids. Should we say anything?

One of the stewardesses walked by looking very flustered. My husband was in the aisle seat, so he leaned out and told her that we were nurses. Her eyes got all big, and she said: “Oh yeah, come on up.”

She was looking at both of us. I said, “I think he’s got it.” I assumed it wasn’t that big of a deal. Plus — kids sleeping on top of me.

Scott went up to the front of the plane. But a few minutes later, the stewardess came back and said: “You need to help.” I was holding my 1-year-old son, so I handed her my kid. She sat down with him, and I boogied up to the front of the plane.

I got to the first-class stewards’ area where the restrooms are and the cabinets with all the food and drinks. I could see an older man on the ground on his back. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely from his scalp.

When I saw the bleeding, my first reaction was we need to apply pressure. I asked for a towel. There were no towels. A blanket? Anything to help absorb the blood? Nope. They had nothing. I was given a pair of gloves that were much too big and a fistful of cocktail napkins.

It was such a small space there wasn’t any way to be next to the man. So, I kind of squatted over the top of him to reach behind his head. I got a stack of napkins on there and held pressure as hard as I could with the tips of my fingers on one hand.

I’m a postanesthesia care unit nurse, so my next thought was to check his pupils and make sure he had a good airway by doing a jaw thrust and a chin lift. I noticed there was blood in his mouth. His breathing was in short gusts. I was trying to do all that with my free hand without crushing him with my body.

Scott had made some ice packs, so I applied those as well, which helped to constrict the bleeding. Then he checked the plane’s medical kit to try to get an intravenous (IV) started. It wasn’t easy. The IV start kit was very different from what you would normally use. And at the same time, the plane had started to descend for landing, so we were on an angle. But he tried.

We asked about what had happened. The steward team said the man had fallen and hit his head on one of the stainless steel cabinets. He seemed to be in his 70s or 80s, a tall, solid guy.

His wife was sitting nearby — pretty calm and stoic given the circumstances. We asked her about his medical history, trying to get a feel for why he might be unconscious. He was still totally out. She told us he had diabetes. He was on a blood pressure medication and also a blood thinner.

The plane kept going down. I was in a really awkward position, squatting and holding myself up against the cabinets. I just kept talking to the man, trying to get him to wake up. “Can you hear me? Everything’s okay. You hit your head.”

Someone brought us an oxygen tank. I looked for the mask. And realized it wasn’t a mask. It was a plastic bag. I set it on the patient’s face, and it felt like I was suffocating him. So, I tried to do it blowby to just increase the oxygen in the air near his face.

At one point, his breathing was agonal for a few minutes, which really concerned me. My fear was that he was going to stop breathing. I rubbed his chest and kind of said: “Hey, let’s not do that!”

I would have felt a lot better about resuscitating him with an actual oxygen mask rather than a plastic bag.

The amount of blood definitely looked alarming. I couldn’t tell how much he was actively bleeding. But it was a lot. He wasn’t turning gray though, so that was a good sign.

Finally, he started coming to and opening his eyes. I introduced myself and asked him: “Do you know where you are? Do you know what’s going on?” Trying to see if he was oriented at all.

Eventually, he was able to talk to me, so I kept asking questions: “Are you guys on vacation? Where are you headed? Where are you staying?”

He told me they were going to visit his granddaughter, and he was able to talk about that. He didn’t try to get up, which I was glad about, because that would’ve been really challenging to navigate.

I could tell he was embarrassed about what had happened. I’ve helped a lot of older gentlemen after falling down, and their egos are often bruised. They don’t want to be in a position of needing help.

Finally, the plane landed. There was blood absolutely everywhere. The ice packs had melted, and the water had mixed with the pool of blood. It was such a mess.

The pilots had called the airport ahead to let them know we needed medical services. So, the first responding team came on right away. They stabilized the man with a board, put the neck brace on him, and did all the stuff you do for a patient after a fall.

I gave them a report — that’s just my style. But it didn’t seem like they needed a lot of information at that point.

I was finally able to talk to the man’s wife who was clearly terrified. I gave her a hug and told her he would be all right. She thanked us.

The emergency team didn’t seem to have anything to help staunch the bleeding either because the rolling gurney left puddles of blood all down the gangway, causing a significant biohazard problem.

They let one person leave who had a connecting flight, but everyone else had to get off from the rear of the plane and walk across the tarmac.

When we finally got back to our seats, the stewardess was still sitting with our kids. They were both totally chill, watching some show, apparently very well behaved. Our daughter asked us what was going on, and I said: “Oh, somebody got hurt at the front of the plane.” She’s so used to hearing that we work with sick people that it didn’t faze her at all.

As we left, we got a lot of thank-yous from people who had been sitting up front and saw what happened.

When we got home, there was still blood on my shoes. I remember looking at them and thinking: Disinfect or throw away? I disinfected them. They were still a good pair of shoes.

A few days later, we got an email from the airline with a voucher, expressing their gratitude for our help. That was nice and unexpected.

I responded with a suggestion: How about having some protocols for medical events on airplanes? Pilots go through checklists for almost everything they do. Why wouldn’t they have something like that for medical responses?

I also asked how the man and his wife were doing. But they couldn’t disclose that information.

It was certainly strange being out of my element, helping a patient in that tiny little space; I’m used to working in a recovery room where you have literally everything you need within arm’s reach — the Ambu bag, suction, and bandages. And with airway management, there’s usually more than one person in the room to assist. If there’s a problem, a whole bunch of people show up around the bed so fast.

I’m definitely thinking about field medicine a lot more. Wondering what I would do in certain situations. While debriefing with my mom (an advanced registered nurse practitioner), she pointed out that we should have asked passengers for sanitary pads or diapers to stabilize the bleeding instead of the cocktail napkins. Brilliant idea! I didn’t think of it in the moment. But I’m keeping that little tip tucked in my back pocket for any future bleeding-in-the-wild scenarios.

Audra Podruzny, MSN, RN, CPAN, lives in Washington state and is currently attending the Washington State University Doctor of Nursing Practice Family Nurse Practitioner program.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

My husband Scott and I were flying back to Washington state with our two kids, who were about 1 and 4. We had been in Florida for a family vacation, and we were near the end of the flight, with both kids passed out on top of me.

Suddenly, there was some scuffling and a lot of movement from the flight attendants. The announcement came: “Are there any healthcare providers on board?” My husband and I are both nurses. We looked at each other, and we looked at our sleeping kids. Should we say anything?

One of the stewardesses walked by looking very flustered. My husband was in the aisle seat, so he leaned out and told her that we were nurses. Her eyes got all big, and she said: “Oh yeah, come on up.”

She was looking at both of us. I said, “I think he’s got it.” I assumed it wasn’t that big of a deal. Plus — kids sleeping on top of me.

Scott went up to the front of the plane. But a few minutes later, the stewardess came back and said: “You need to help.” I was holding my 1-year-old son, so I handed her my kid. She sat down with him, and I boogied up to the front of the plane.

I got to the first-class stewards’ area where the restrooms are and the cabinets with all the food and drinks. I could see an older man on the ground on his back. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely from his scalp.

When I saw the bleeding, my first reaction was we need to apply pressure. I asked for a towel. There were no towels. A blanket? Anything to help absorb the blood? Nope. They had nothing. I was given a pair of gloves that were much too big and a fistful of cocktail napkins.

It was such a small space there wasn’t any way to be next to the man. So, I kind of squatted over the top of him to reach behind his head. I got a stack of napkins on there and held pressure as hard as I could with the tips of my fingers on one hand.

I’m a postanesthesia care unit nurse, so my next thought was to check his pupils and make sure he had a good airway by doing a jaw thrust and a chin lift. I noticed there was blood in his mouth. His breathing was in short gusts. I was trying to do all that with my free hand without crushing him with my body.

Scott had made some ice packs, so I applied those as well, which helped to constrict the bleeding. Then he checked the plane’s medical kit to try to get an intravenous (IV) started. It wasn’t easy. The IV start kit was very different from what you would normally use. And at the same time, the plane had started to descend for landing, so we were on an angle. But he tried.

We asked about what had happened. The steward team said the man had fallen and hit his head on one of the stainless steel cabinets. He seemed to be in his 70s or 80s, a tall, solid guy.

His wife was sitting nearby — pretty calm and stoic given the circumstances. We asked her about his medical history, trying to get a feel for why he might be unconscious. He was still totally out. She told us he had diabetes. He was on a blood pressure medication and also a blood thinner.

The plane kept going down. I was in a really awkward position, squatting and holding myself up against the cabinets. I just kept talking to the man, trying to get him to wake up. “Can you hear me? Everything’s okay. You hit your head.”

Someone brought us an oxygen tank. I looked for the mask. And realized it wasn’t a mask. It was a plastic bag. I set it on the patient’s face, and it felt like I was suffocating him. So, I tried to do it blowby to just increase the oxygen in the air near his face.

At one point, his breathing was agonal for a few minutes, which really concerned me. My fear was that he was going to stop breathing. I rubbed his chest and kind of said: “Hey, let’s not do that!”

I would have felt a lot better about resuscitating him with an actual oxygen mask rather than a plastic bag.

The amount of blood definitely looked alarming. I couldn’t tell how much he was actively bleeding. But it was a lot. He wasn’t turning gray though, so that was a good sign.

Finally, he started coming to and opening his eyes. I introduced myself and asked him: “Do you know where you are? Do you know what’s going on?” Trying to see if he was oriented at all.

Eventually, he was able to talk to me, so I kept asking questions: “Are you guys on vacation? Where are you headed? Where are you staying?”

He told me they were going to visit his granddaughter, and he was able to talk about that. He didn’t try to get up, which I was glad about, because that would’ve been really challenging to navigate.

I could tell he was embarrassed about what had happened. I’ve helped a lot of older gentlemen after falling down, and their egos are often bruised. They don’t want to be in a position of needing help.

Finally, the plane landed. There was blood absolutely everywhere. The ice packs had melted, and the water had mixed with the pool of blood. It was such a mess.

The pilots had called the airport ahead to let them know we needed medical services. So, the first responding team came on right away. They stabilized the man with a board, put the neck brace on him, and did all the stuff you do for a patient after a fall.

I gave them a report — that’s just my style. But it didn’t seem like they needed a lot of information at that point.

I was finally able to talk to the man’s wife who was clearly terrified. I gave her a hug and told her he would be all right. She thanked us.

The emergency team didn’t seem to have anything to help staunch the bleeding either because the rolling gurney left puddles of blood all down the gangway, causing a significant biohazard problem.

They let one person leave who had a connecting flight, but everyone else had to get off from the rear of the plane and walk across the tarmac.

When we finally got back to our seats, the stewardess was still sitting with our kids. They were both totally chill, watching some show, apparently very well behaved. Our daughter asked us what was going on, and I said: “Oh, somebody got hurt at the front of the plane.” She’s so used to hearing that we work with sick people that it didn’t faze her at all.

As we left, we got a lot of thank-yous from people who had been sitting up front and saw what happened.

When we got home, there was still blood on my shoes. I remember looking at them and thinking: Disinfect or throw away? I disinfected them. They were still a good pair of shoes.

A few days later, we got an email from the airline with a voucher, expressing their gratitude for our help. That was nice and unexpected.

I responded with a suggestion: How about having some protocols for medical events on airplanes? Pilots go through checklists for almost everything they do. Why wouldn’t they have something like that for medical responses?

I also asked how the man and his wife were doing. But they couldn’t disclose that information.

It was certainly strange being out of my element, helping a patient in that tiny little space; I’m used to working in a recovery room where you have literally everything you need within arm’s reach — the Ambu bag, suction, and bandages. And with airway management, there’s usually more than one person in the room to assist. If there’s a problem, a whole bunch of people show up around the bed so fast.

I’m definitely thinking about field medicine a lot more. Wondering what I would do in certain situations. While debriefing with my mom (an advanced registered nurse practitioner), she pointed out that we should have asked passengers for sanitary pads or diapers to stabilize the bleeding instead of the cocktail napkins. Brilliant idea! I didn’t think of it in the moment. But I’m keeping that little tip tucked in my back pocket for any future bleeding-in-the-wild scenarios.

Audra Podruzny, MSN, RN, CPAN, lives in Washington state and is currently attending the Washington State University Doctor of Nursing Practice Family Nurse Practitioner program.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

I had worked a normal 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift in our emergency department. It was a nice day out, so I put my headphones in and started walking home through the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Denver. I passed a couple of buildings and reached an alleyway. At that moment, I glanced over.

Two guys were standing over a third person who was down on the ground. One of the people standing was on the phone. I paused for a second and thought, that doesn’t look right.

The guy on the ground was clearly out. And the other two were looking concerned like they didn’t know what to do.

I walked up the alley and asked, “What’s going on? Can I help?” One of the guys explained that they had just found this man lying here and had already called 911. They sounded a little bit out of their element. They certainly weren’t medically trained.

I leaned down next to the man on the ground. He was probably in his mid-to-late 40s. Unconscious. I always start with, “Hello? Can you hear me?” No response.

I felt for a pulse and he had one, but he didn’t appear to be breathing. I thought, I know what this is. I said, “Sir, I’m going to open your eyes.” I opened his eyes, and his pupils were tiny. It was almost certainly an opioid overdose.

And I had naloxone in my bag.

I got it out and started to assemble it. I didn’t have Narcan, which is the easy one. I had to put this kit together, draw up the medication, and put on the little nasal atomizer.

The two other guys were standing there watching. Then the one on the phone walked down to the end of the alley to where the ambulance was probably going to arrive so he could wave them down.

I gave the man the 4 mg of naloxone, two in each nostril.

He still wasn’t breathing. I did a basic maneuver where you lift his jaw a little bit to help open up the airway.

Suddenly, he started breathing again. I couldn’t do any meaningful measurements of his oxygen saturation or anything like that. I just kind of looked at him and thought, Okay, he has a pulse. He’s breathing now. That’s good.

Luckily, the cavalry arrived soon after that. Our Denver Health paramedics pulled up into the alley, and one of them recognized me from the ER. I explained that I had already given the guy naloxone. They did their assessment, and he still wasn’t breathing well, so they gave him some breaths with a mask and a bag.

We got him onto the gurney and into the back of the ambulance. They started an IV. He seemed to be breathing okay by then, and his numbers looked okay. But he wasn’t awake yet by any means.

I handed off care to them and disposed of my sharp in the ambulance. Then they took him into the ER that I had just left moments ago.

The two other guys had already disappeared. I think they saw the ambulance and thought, our job is done. So, I didn’t end up talking to them at all.

So, just like that ... I started walking home again.

I like to think of myself as a cool, calm, collected person working in the ER. But my heart was definitely going fast at that point. I called my wife to tell her about the crazy thing that just happened, and she could hear in my voice how amped up I was.

In the ER, it’s very common to see patients who need naloxone, have opioid toxicity, or have received Narcan in the community. Luckily, this man was found right away. He had likely overdosed only a few minutes earlier. Those scenarios can go bad very quickly. If there’s no one there, people often die.

That’s why I started carrying naloxone.

There are a lot of programs to get free naloxone out into the community. So, about 2 years earlier, I got some and threw one in my ER bag, one in my office bag, and another in my car. Then I essentially forgot about it. Until I needed it.

Now, I encourage all my friends to have some, and I suggest all medical professionals to keep some with them. Just be prepared. Put it in your backpack, your purse, keep it in the house, in the car, wherever. The nasal autoinjectors are incredibly easy. Like, stick it up the nose, push the big red button. Done.

When we train lay people to administer Narcan, we try to keep it simple. If you see someone, and they’re not responsive, not breathing, just give it. It’s not that there’s no possible harm if you’re wrong. But the benefits so vastly outweigh the risks that we are very aggressive to say, go ahead and give it.

I think we all have a responsibility to care for our communities. Obviously, that can take a lot of different forms. I had the privilege of being in the right place at the right time with the right tool to potentially save a life. That was the form it took for me that day.

Later, I followed up with a friend who took care of the man in the ER. He went through our standard procedure, being monitored to make sure the opioids didn’t outlast the naloxone. We have a lot of resources and next steps for people that have opioid use disorder. He was made aware of those. And then he walked out. I never saw him again.

It’s not the sexy part of our job in emergency medicine, not the super high–intensity adrenaline rush–type work, but a lot of what we do is talk to people like this guy. We counsel them. We think about their longer-term health and not just the overdose. This is an incredibly high-risk population in terms of their mortality risk from the opioid use disorder. It’s astronomical.

I obviously believed in this work before, but that day changed something for me. It added a layer of urgency. Now, when I have a moment in the emergency room to connect with someone, I know the reality — this person sitting in front of me could die in an alley. Maybe not today, but next week or next month.

I have the naloxone in my bag. Just in case.

Patrick Joynt, MD, is an emergency medicine physician with Denver Health in Denver.

Are you a medical professional with a dramatic story outside the clinic? Medscape Medical News would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

I had worked a normal 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift in our emergency department. It was a nice day out, so I put my headphones in and started walking home through the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Denver. I passed a couple of buildings and reached an alleyway. At that moment, I glanced over.

Two guys were standing over a third person who was down on the ground. One of the people standing was on the phone. I paused for a second and thought, that doesn’t look right.

The guy on the ground was clearly out. And the other two were looking concerned like they didn’t know what to do.

I walked up the alley and asked, “What’s going on? Can I help?” One of the guys explained that they had just found this man lying here and had already called 911. They sounded a little bit out of their element. They certainly weren’t medically trained.

I leaned down next to the man on the ground. He was probably in his mid-to-late 40s. Unconscious. I always start with, “Hello? Can you hear me?” No response.

I felt for a pulse and he had one, but he didn’t appear to be breathing. I thought, I know what this is. I said, “Sir, I’m going to open your eyes.” I opened his eyes, and his pupils were tiny. It was almost certainly an opioid overdose.

And I had naloxone in my bag.

I got it out and started to assemble it. I didn’t have Narcan, which is the easy one. I had to put this kit together, draw up the medication, and put on the little nasal atomizer.

The two other guys were standing there watching. Then the one on the phone walked down to the end of the alley to where the ambulance was probably going to arrive so he could wave them down.

I gave the man the 4 mg of naloxone, two in each nostril.

He still wasn’t breathing. I did a basic maneuver where you lift his jaw a little bit to help open up the airway.

Suddenly, he started breathing again. I couldn’t do any meaningful measurements of his oxygen saturation or anything like that. I just kind of looked at him and thought, Okay, he has a pulse. He’s breathing now. That’s good.

Luckily, the cavalry arrived soon after that. Our Denver Health paramedics pulled up into the alley, and one of them recognized me from the ER. I explained that I had already given the guy naloxone. They did their assessment, and he still wasn’t breathing well, so they gave him some breaths with a mask and a bag.

We got him onto the gurney and into the back of the ambulance. They started an IV. He seemed to be breathing okay by then, and his numbers looked okay. But he wasn’t awake yet by any means.

I handed off care to them and disposed of my sharp in the ambulance. Then they took him into the ER that I had just left moments ago.

The two other guys had already disappeared. I think they saw the ambulance and thought, our job is done. So, I didn’t end up talking to them at all.

So, just like that ... I started walking home again.

I like to think of myself as a cool, calm, collected person working in the ER. But my heart was definitely going fast at that point. I called my wife to tell her about the crazy thing that just happened, and she could hear in my voice how amped up I was.

In the ER, it’s very common to see patients who need naloxone, have opioid toxicity, or have received Narcan in the community. Luckily, this man was found right away. He had likely overdosed only a few minutes earlier. Those scenarios can go bad very quickly. If there’s no one there, people often die.

That’s why I started carrying naloxone.

There are a lot of programs to get free naloxone out into the community. So, about 2 years earlier, I got some and threw one in my ER bag, one in my office bag, and another in my car. Then I essentially forgot about it. Until I needed it.

Now, I encourage all my friends to have some, and I suggest all medical professionals to keep some with them. Just be prepared. Put it in your backpack, your purse, keep it in the house, in the car, wherever. The nasal autoinjectors are incredibly easy. Like, stick it up the nose, push the big red button. Done.

When we train lay people to administer Narcan, we try to keep it simple. If you see someone, and they’re not responsive, not breathing, just give it. It’s not that there’s no possible harm if you’re wrong. But the benefits so vastly outweigh the risks that we are very aggressive to say, go ahead and give it.

I think we all have a responsibility to care for our communities. Obviously, that can take a lot of different forms. I had the privilege of being in the right place at the right time with the right tool to potentially save a life. That was the form it took for me that day.

Later, I followed up with a friend who took care of the man in the ER. He went through our standard procedure, being monitored to make sure the opioids didn’t outlast the naloxone. We have a lot of resources and next steps for people that have opioid use disorder. He was made aware of those. And then he walked out. I never saw him again.

It’s not the sexy part of our job in emergency medicine, not the super high–intensity adrenaline rush–type work, but a lot of what we do is talk to people like this guy. We counsel them. We think about their longer-term health and not just the overdose. This is an incredibly high-risk population in terms of their mortality risk from the opioid use disorder. It’s astronomical.

I obviously believed in this work before, but that day changed something for me. It added a layer of urgency. Now, when I have a moment in the emergency room to connect with someone, I know the reality — this person sitting in front of me could die in an alley. Maybe not today, but next week or next month.

I have the naloxone in my bag. Just in case.

Patrick Joynt, MD, is an emergency medicine physician with Denver Health in Denver.

Are you a medical professional with a dramatic story outside the clinic? Medscape Medical News would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

I had worked a normal 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift in our emergency department. It was a nice day out, so I put my headphones in and started walking home through the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Denver. I passed a couple of buildings and reached an alleyway. At that moment, I glanced over.

Two guys were standing over a third person who was down on the ground. One of the people standing was on the phone. I paused for a second and thought, that doesn’t look right.

The guy on the ground was clearly out. And the other two were looking concerned like they didn’t know what to do.

I walked up the alley and asked, “What’s going on? Can I help?” One of the guys explained that they had just found this man lying here and had already called 911. They sounded a little bit out of their element. They certainly weren’t medically trained.

I leaned down next to the man on the ground. He was probably in his mid-to-late 40s. Unconscious. I always start with, “Hello? Can you hear me?” No response.

I felt for a pulse and he had one, but he didn’t appear to be breathing. I thought, I know what this is. I said, “Sir, I’m going to open your eyes.” I opened his eyes, and his pupils were tiny. It was almost certainly an opioid overdose.

And I had naloxone in my bag.

I got it out and started to assemble it. I didn’t have Narcan, which is the easy one. I had to put this kit together, draw up the medication, and put on the little nasal atomizer.

The two other guys were standing there watching. Then the one on the phone walked down to the end of the alley to where the ambulance was probably going to arrive so he could wave them down.

I gave the man the 4 mg of naloxone, two in each nostril.

He still wasn’t breathing. I did a basic maneuver where you lift his jaw a little bit to help open up the airway.

Suddenly, he started breathing again. I couldn’t do any meaningful measurements of his oxygen saturation or anything like that. I just kind of looked at him and thought, Okay, he has a pulse. He’s breathing now. That’s good.

Luckily, the cavalry arrived soon after that. Our Denver Health paramedics pulled up into the alley, and one of them recognized me from the ER. I explained that I had already given the guy naloxone. They did their assessment, and he still wasn’t breathing well, so they gave him some breaths with a mask and a bag.

We got him onto the gurney and into the back of the ambulance. They started an IV. He seemed to be breathing okay by then, and his numbers looked okay. But he wasn’t awake yet by any means.

I handed off care to them and disposed of my sharp in the ambulance. Then they took him into the ER that I had just left moments ago.

The two other guys had already disappeared. I think they saw the ambulance and thought, our job is done. So, I didn’t end up talking to them at all.

So, just like that ... I started walking home again.

I like to think of myself as a cool, calm, collected person working in the ER. But my heart was definitely going fast at that point. I called my wife to tell her about the crazy thing that just happened, and she could hear in my voice how amped up I was.

In the ER, it’s very common to see patients who need naloxone, have opioid toxicity, or have received Narcan in the community. Luckily, this man was found right away. He had likely overdosed only a few minutes earlier. Those scenarios can go bad very quickly. If there’s no one there, people often die.

That’s why I started carrying naloxone.

There are a lot of programs to get free naloxone out into the community. So, about 2 years earlier, I got some and threw one in my ER bag, one in my office bag, and another in my car. Then I essentially forgot about it. Until I needed it.

Now, I encourage all my friends to have some, and I suggest all medical professionals to keep some with them. Just be prepared. Put it in your backpack, your purse, keep it in the house, in the car, wherever. The nasal autoinjectors are incredibly easy. Like, stick it up the nose, push the big red button. Done.

When we train lay people to administer Narcan, we try to keep it simple. If you see someone, and they’re not responsive, not breathing, just give it. It’s not that there’s no possible harm if you’re wrong. But the benefits so vastly outweigh the risks that we are very aggressive to say, go ahead and give it.

I think we all have a responsibility to care for our communities. Obviously, that can take a lot of different forms. I had the privilege of being in the right place at the right time with the right tool to potentially save a life. That was the form it took for me that day.

Later, I followed up with a friend who took care of the man in the ER. He went through our standard procedure, being monitored to make sure the opioids didn’t outlast the naloxone. We have a lot of resources and next steps for people that have opioid use disorder. He was made aware of those. And then he walked out. I never saw him again.

It’s not the sexy part of our job in emergency medicine, not the super high–intensity adrenaline rush–type work, but a lot of what we do is talk to people like this guy. We counsel them. We think about their longer-term health and not just the overdose. This is an incredibly high-risk population in terms of their mortality risk from the opioid use disorder. It’s astronomical.

I obviously believed in this work before, but that day changed something for me. It added a layer of urgency. Now, when I have a moment in the emergency room to connect with someone, I know the reality — this person sitting in front of me could die in an alley. Maybe not today, but next week or next month.

I have the naloxone in my bag. Just in case.

Patrick Joynt, MD, is an emergency medicine physician with Denver Health in Denver.

Are you a medical professional with a dramatic story outside the clinic? Medscape Medical News would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

Jennifer Suders, DO: We were in Florida with our 1-year-old daughter visiting my parents. They moved to an area called Hallandale Beach and live in a high-rise community with a few different pools and spas.

Dan and I were in the spa area at the gym. He was getting me to hurry up because we were supposed to meet my parents who were with our daughter. I was sort of moseying and taking my time.

We were walking by one of the pool decks to get into the building when I heard what sounded like a slap. My first thought was that maybe somebody was choking and someone was hitting their back. Choking has always been my biggest fear with our daughter.

I turned and saw some people who seemed frantic. I looked at Dan and started to ask, “Do you think they need help?” I don’t even think I got the whole sentence out before this mom whipped her head around. I’ll never forget her dark brown hair flying. She screamed, “HELP!”

Dan and I just ran. I let go of my backpack and iPad and water bottle. They scattered across the pool deck. I instantly had my phone in my hand dialing 911.

Daniel Suders, DO: That’s what they teach us, to call 911 first. I didn’t think of it in the moment, but Jenny did.

Jennifer Suders: There was a little boy lying on the ground. Totally gray. He looked about 3 years old. His mom was distraught. His grandparents were standing there in shock with his older brother who was around 5. He was scared and whimpering.

Dan and I got down on either side of the boy and checked for a pulse. We couldn’t feel anything. Dan started chest compressions. I was talking to the 911 operator, and then I gave two rescue breaths. We did a sternal rub.

I was kind of yelling in the boy’s face, trying to get him to respond. I tried English and Russian because there’s a big Russian community there, and my family speaks Russian. The grandma asked us if we knew what we were doing.

Daniel Suders: I think she asked if Jenny was a nurse.

Jennifer Suders: Common misconception. Suddenly, the boy started vomiting, and so much water poured out. We turned him on his side, and he had two or three more episodes of spitting up the water. After that, we could see the color start to come back into his face. His eyes started fluttering.

We thought he was probably coming back. But we were too scared to say that in case we were wrong, and he went back under. So, we just held him steady. We didn’t know what had happened, if he might have hit his head, so we needed to keep him still.

Daniel Suders: It was amazing when those eyes opened, and he started to wake up.

Jennifer Suders: It felt like my heart had stopped while I was waiting for his to start.

Daniel Suders: He was clutching his chest like it hurt and started calling for his mom. He was crying and wanting to get in his mom’s arms. We had to keep him from standing up and walking.

Jennifer Suders: He was clearly scared. There were all these strange faces around him. I kept looking at my phone, anxiously waiting for EMS to come. They got there about 8 or 9 minutes later.

At some point, the father walked in with their daughter, a baby under a year old. He was in shock, not knowing what was going on. The grandma explained that the boy had been jumping into the pool over and over with his brother. All of a sudden, they looked over, and he was just lying there, floating, face down. They were right there; they were watching him. It was just that quick.

Daniel Suders: They pulled him out right away, and that was a big thing on his side that it was caught so quickly. He didn’t have to wait long to start resuscitation.

Jennifer Suders: Once EMS got there and assessed him, they put him and his mom on the stretcher. I remember watching them wheel it through the double doors to get to the elevator. As soon as they were gone, I just turned around and broke down. I had been in doctor mode if you will. Straight to the point. No nonsense. Suddenly, I went back into civilian mode, and my emotions just bubbled up.

After we left, we went to meet my parents who had our kid. Dan just beelined toward her and scooped her up and wouldn’t let her go.

For the rest of the day, it was all I could think about. It took me a while to fall asleep that night, and it was the first thing I thought when I woke up the next morning. We were hopeful that the boy was going to be okay, but you never know. We didn’t call the hospital because with HIPAA, I didn’t know if they could tell us anything.

And then the next day — there they were. The family was back at the pool. The little boy was running around like nothing had happened. We were a little surprised. But I would hate for him to be scared of the pool for the rest of his life. His family was watching him like a hawk.

They told us that the boy and his mom had stayed overnight in the ER, but only as a precaution. He didn’t have any more vomiting. He was absolutely fine. They were incredibly grateful.

We got their names and exchanged numbers and took a picture. That’s all I wanted — a photo to remember them.

A day or so later, we saw them again at a nearby park. The boy was climbing trees and seemed completely normal. It was the best outcome we could have hoped for.

Daniel Suders: My biggest worry was any harm to his chest from the resuscitation, or of course how long he was without oxygen. But everyone says that kids are really resilient. I work with adults, so I don’t have a lot of experience.

As a hospitalist, we don’t always see a lot of success with CPR. It’s often an elderly person who just doesn’t have much of a chance. That same week before our vacation, I had lost a 90-year-old in the hospital. It was such a juxtaposition — a 3-year-old with their whole life in front of them. We were able to preserve that, and it was incredible.

Jennifer Suders: I’m a nephrologist, so my field is pretty calm. No big emergencies. We have patients on the floor, but if a code gets called, there’s a team that comes in from the intensive care unit. I always kind of wondered what I would do if I was presented with a scenario like this.

Daniel Suders: We have a lot of friends that do ER medicine, and I felt like those were the guys that really understood when we told them the story. One friend said to me, “By the time they get to us, they’re either in bad shape or they’re better already.” A lot depends on what happens in the field.

Jennifer Suders: I’m even more vigilant about pool safety now. I want to make sure parents know that drowning doesn›t look like flailing theatrics. It can be soundless. Three adults were right next to this little boy and didn›t realize until they looked down and saw him.

If we hadn’t been there, I don’t know if anyone would’ve been able to step in. No one else was medically trained. But I think the message is — you don’t have to be. Anyone can take a CPR class.

When I told my parents, my dad said, “Oh my gosh, I would’ve laid right down there next to that kid and passed out.” Without any training, it’s petrifying to see something like that.

I think about how we could have stayed in the gym longer and been too late. Or we could have gotten on the elevator earlier and been gone. Two minutes, and it would’ve been a story we heard later, not one we were a part of. It feels like we were at a true crossroads in that moment where that boy could have lived or died. And the stars aligned perfectly.

We had no medicine, no monitors, nothing but our hands and our breaths. And we helped a family continue their vacation rather than plan a funeral.

Jennifer Suders, DO, is a nephrologist at West Virginia University Medicine Wheeling Clinic. Daniel Suders, DO, is a hospitalist at West Virginia University Medicine Reynolds Memorial Hospital.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

Jennifer Suders, DO: We were in Florida with our 1-year-old daughter visiting my parents. They moved to an area called Hallandale Beach and live in a high-rise community with a few different pools and spas.

Dan and I were in the spa area at the gym. He was getting me to hurry up because we were supposed to meet my parents who were with our daughter. I was sort of moseying and taking my time.

We were walking by one of the pool decks to get into the building when I heard what sounded like a slap. My first thought was that maybe somebody was choking and someone was hitting their back. Choking has always been my biggest fear with our daughter.

I turned and saw some people who seemed frantic. I looked at Dan and started to ask, “Do you think they need help?” I don’t even think I got the whole sentence out before this mom whipped her head around. I’ll never forget her dark brown hair flying. She screamed, “HELP!”

Dan and I just ran. I let go of my backpack and iPad and water bottle. They scattered across the pool deck. I instantly had my phone in my hand dialing 911.

Daniel Suders, DO: That’s what they teach us, to call 911 first. I didn’t think of it in the moment, but Jenny did.

Jennifer Suders: There was a little boy lying on the ground. Totally gray. He looked about 3 years old. His mom was distraught. His grandparents were standing there in shock with his older brother who was around 5. He was scared and whimpering.

Dan and I got down on either side of the boy and checked for a pulse. We couldn’t feel anything. Dan started chest compressions. I was talking to the 911 operator, and then I gave two rescue breaths. We did a sternal rub.

I was kind of yelling in the boy’s face, trying to get him to respond. I tried English and Russian because there’s a big Russian community there, and my family speaks Russian. The grandma asked us if we knew what we were doing.

Daniel Suders: I think she asked if Jenny was a nurse.

Jennifer Suders: Common misconception. Suddenly, the boy started vomiting, and so much water poured out. We turned him on his side, and he had two or three more episodes of spitting up the water. After that, we could see the color start to come back into his face. His eyes started fluttering.

We thought he was probably coming back. But we were too scared to say that in case we were wrong, and he went back under. So, we just held him steady. We didn’t know what had happened, if he might have hit his head, so we needed to keep him still.

Daniel Suders: It was amazing when those eyes opened, and he started to wake up.

Jennifer Suders: It felt like my heart had stopped while I was waiting for his to start.

Daniel Suders: He was clutching his chest like it hurt and started calling for his mom. He was crying and wanting to get in his mom’s arms. We had to keep him from standing up and walking.

Jennifer Suders: He was clearly scared. There were all these strange faces around him. I kept looking at my phone, anxiously waiting for EMS to come. They got there about 8 or 9 minutes later.

At some point, the father walked in with their daughter, a baby under a year old. He was in shock, not knowing what was going on. The grandma explained that the boy had been jumping into the pool over and over with his brother. All of a sudden, they looked over, and he was just lying there, floating, face down. They were right there; they were watching him. It was just that quick.

Daniel Suders: They pulled him out right away, and that was a big thing on his side that it was caught so quickly. He didn’t have to wait long to start resuscitation.

Jennifer Suders: Once EMS got there and assessed him, they put him and his mom on the stretcher. I remember watching them wheel it through the double doors to get to the elevator. As soon as they were gone, I just turned around and broke down. I had been in doctor mode if you will. Straight to the point. No nonsense. Suddenly, I went back into civilian mode, and my emotions just bubbled up.

After we left, we went to meet my parents who had our kid. Dan just beelined toward her and scooped her up and wouldn’t let her go.

For the rest of the day, it was all I could think about. It took me a while to fall asleep that night, and it was the first thing I thought when I woke up the next morning. We were hopeful that the boy was going to be okay, but you never know. We didn’t call the hospital because with HIPAA, I didn’t know if they could tell us anything.

And then the next day — there they were. The family was back at the pool. The little boy was running around like nothing had happened. We were a little surprised. But I would hate for him to be scared of the pool for the rest of his life. His family was watching him like a hawk.

They told us that the boy and his mom had stayed overnight in the ER, but only as a precaution. He didn’t have any more vomiting. He was absolutely fine. They were incredibly grateful.

We got their names and exchanged numbers and took a picture. That’s all I wanted — a photo to remember them.

A day or so later, we saw them again at a nearby park. The boy was climbing trees and seemed completely normal. It was the best outcome we could have hoped for.

Daniel Suders: My biggest worry was any harm to his chest from the resuscitation, or of course how long he was without oxygen. But everyone says that kids are really resilient. I work with adults, so I don’t have a lot of experience.

As a hospitalist, we don’t always see a lot of success with CPR. It’s often an elderly person who just doesn’t have much of a chance. That same week before our vacation, I had lost a 90-year-old in the hospital. It was such a juxtaposition — a 3-year-old with their whole life in front of them. We were able to preserve that, and it was incredible.

Jennifer Suders: I’m a nephrologist, so my field is pretty calm. No big emergencies. We have patients on the floor, but if a code gets called, there’s a team that comes in from the intensive care unit. I always kind of wondered what I would do if I was presented with a scenario like this.

Daniel Suders: We have a lot of friends that do ER medicine, and I felt like those were the guys that really understood when we told them the story. One friend said to me, “By the time they get to us, they’re either in bad shape or they’re better already.” A lot depends on what happens in the field.

Jennifer Suders: I’m even more vigilant about pool safety now. I want to make sure parents know that drowning doesn›t look like flailing theatrics. It can be soundless. Three adults were right next to this little boy and didn›t realize until they looked down and saw him.

If we hadn’t been there, I don’t know if anyone would’ve been able to step in. No one else was medically trained. But I think the message is — you don’t have to be. Anyone can take a CPR class.

When I told my parents, my dad said, “Oh my gosh, I would’ve laid right down there next to that kid and passed out.” Without any training, it’s petrifying to see something like that.

I think about how we could have stayed in the gym longer and been too late. Or we could have gotten on the elevator earlier and been gone. Two minutes, and it would’ve been a story we heard later, not one we were a part of. It feels like we were at a true crossroads in that moment where that boy could have lived or died. And the stars aligned perfectly.

We had no medicine, no monitors, nothing but our hands and our breaths. And we helped a family continue their vacation rather than plan a funeral.

Jennifer Suders, DO, is a nephrologist at West Virginia University Medicine Wheeling Clinic. Daniel Suders, DO, is a hospitalist at West Virginia University Medicine Reynolds Memorial Hospital.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

Jennifer Suders, DO: We were in Florida with our 1-year-old daughter visiting my parents. They moved to an area called Hallandale Beach and live in a high-rise community with a few different pools and spas.

Dan and I were in the spa area at the gym. He was getting me to hurry up because we were supposed to meet my parents who were with our daughter. I was sort of moseying and taking my time.

We were walking by one of the pool decks to get into the building when I heard what sounded like a slap. My first thought was that maybe somebody was choking and someone was hitting their back. Choking has always been my biggest fear with our daughter.

I turned and saw some people who seemed frantic. I looked at Dan and started to ask, “Do you think they need help?” I don’t even think I got the whole sentence out before this mom whipped her head around. I’ll never forget her dark brown hair flying. She screamed, “HELP!”

Dan and I just ran. I let go of my backpack and iPad and water bottle. They scattered across the pool deck. I instantly had my phone in my hand dialing 911.

Daniel Suders, DO: That’s what they teach us, to call 911 first. I didn’t think of it in the moment, but Jenny did.

Jennifer Suders: There was a little boy lying on the ground. Totally gray. He looked about 3 years old. His mom was distraught. His grandparents were standing there in shock with his older brother who was around 5. He was scared and whimpering.

Dan and I got down on either side of the boy and checked for a pulse. We couldn’t feel anything. Dan started chest compressions. I was talking to the 911 operator, and then I gave two rescue breaths. We did a sternal rub.

I was kind of yelling in the boy’s face, trying to get him to respond. I tried English and Russian because there’s a big Russian community there, and my family speaks Russian. The grandma asked us if we knew what we were doing.

Daniel Suders: I think she asked if Jenny was a nurse.

Jennifer Suders: Common misconception. Suddenly, the boy started vomiting, and so much water poured out. We turned him on his side, and he had two or three more episodes of spitting up the water. After that, we could see the color start to come back into his face. His eyes started fluttering.

We thought he was probably coming back. But we were too scared to say that in case we were wrong, and he went back under. So, we just held him steady. We didn’t know what had happened, if he might have hit his head, so we needed to keep him still.

Daniel Suders: It was amazing when those eyes opened, and he started to wake up.

Jennifer Suders: It felt like my heart had stopped while I was waiting for his to start.

Daniel Suders: He was clutching his chest like it hurt and started calling for his mom. He was crying and wanting to get in his mom’s arms. We had to keep him from standing up and walking.

Jennifer Suders: He was clearly scared. There were all these strange faces around him. I kept looking at my phone, anxiously waiting for EMS to come. They got there about 8 or 9 minutes later.

At some point, the father walked in with their daughter, a baby under a year old. He was in shock, not knowing what was going on. The grandma explained that the boy had been jumping into the pool over and over with his brother. All of a sudden, they looked over, and he was just lying there, floating, face down. They were right there; they were watching him. It was just that quick.

Daniel Suders: They pulled him out right away, and that was a big thing on his side that it was caught so quickly. He didn’t have to wait long to start resuscitation.

Jennifer Suders: Once EMS got there and assessed him, they put him and his mom on the stretcher. I remember watching them wheel it through the double doors to get to the elevator. As soon as they were gone, I just turned around and broke down. I had been in doctor mode if you will. Straight to the point. No nonsense. Suddenly, I went back into civilian mode, and my emotions just bubbled up.

After we left, we went to meet my parents who had our kid. Dan just beelined toward her and scooped her up and wouldn’t let her go.

For the rest of the day, it was all I could think about. It took me a while to fall asleep that night, and it was the first thing I thought when I woke up the next morning. We were hopeful that the boy was going to be okay, but you never know. We didn’t call the hospital because with HIPAA, I didn’t know if they could tell us anything.

And then the next day — there they were. The family was back at the pool. The little boy was running around like nothing had happened. We were a little surprised. But I would hate for him to be scared of the pool for the rest of his life. His family was watching him like a hawk.

They told us that the boy and his mom had stayed overnight in the ER, but only as a precaution. He didn’t have any more vomiting. He was absolutely fine. They were incredibly grateful.

We got their names and exchanged numbers and took a picture. That’s all I wanted — a photo to remember them.

A day or so later, we saw them again at a nearby park. The boy was climbing trees and seemed completely normal. It was the best outcome we could have hoped for.

Daniel Suders: My biggest worry was any harm to his chest from the resuscitation, or of course how long he was without oxygen. But everyone says that kids are really resilient. I work with adults, so I don’t have a lot of experience.

As a hospitalist, we don’t always see a lot of success with CPR. It’s often an elderly person who just doesn’t have much of a chance. That same week before our vacation, I had lost a 90-year-old in the hospital. It was such a juxtaposition — a 3-year-old with their whole life in front of them. We were able to preserve that, and it was incredible.

Jennifer Suders: I’m a nephrologist, so my field is pretty calm. No big emergencies. We have patients on the floor, but if a code gets called, there’s a team that comes in from the intensive care unit. I always kind of wondered what I would do if I was presented with a scenario like this.

Daniel Suders: We have a lot of friends that do ER medicine, and I felt like those were the guys that really understood when we told them the story. One friend said to me, “By the time they get to us, they’re either in bad shape or they’re better already.” A lot depends on what happens in the field.

Jennifer Suders: I’m even more vigilant about pool safety now. I want to make sure parents know that drowning doesn›t look like flailing theatrics. It can be soundless. Three adults were right next to this little boy and didn›t realize until they looked down and saw him.

If we hadn’t been there, I don’t know if anyone would’ve been able to step in. No one else was medically trained. But I think the message is — you don’t have to be. Anyone can take a CPR class.

When I told my parents, my dad said, “Oh my gosh, I would’ve laid right down there next to that kid and passed out.” Without any training, it’s petrifying to see something like that.

I think about how we could have stayed in the gym longer and been too late. Or we could have gotten on the elevator earlier and been gone. Two minutes, and it would’ve been a story we heard later, not one we were a part of. It feels like we were at a true crossroads in that moment where that boy could have lived or died. And the stars aligned perfectly.

We had no medicine, no monitors, nothing but our hands and our breaths. And we helped a family continue their vacation rather than plan a funeral.

Jennifer Suders, DO, is a nephrologist at West Virginia University Medicine Wheeling Clinic. Daniel Suders, DO, is a hospitalist at West Virginia University Medicine Reynolds Memorial Hospital.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series by this news organization that tells these stories.

It was my first night off after 12 days. It was a Friday night, and I went to a bar in Naples to get a beer with some friends. As it turned out, it wasn’t a night off after all.

As soon as we got inside, we heard over the speaker that they needed medical personnel and to please go to the left side of the bar. I thought it would be syncope or something like that.

I went over there and saw a woman holding up a man. He was basically leaning all over her. The light was low, and the music was pounding. I started to assess him and tried to get him to answer me. No response. I checked for pulses — nothing.

Now, I’m in a bar, right? It’s a cardiac arrest. The first thing you think is overdose or alcohol. I asked the woman if the man was doing any drugs. She said she didn’t know. Turns out they were both employees. He was a bouncer and a DJ.

The woman helped me lower him to the floor. I checked again for a pulse. Still nothing. I said, “Call 911,” and started compressions.

The difficult part was the place was completely dark. I knew where his body was on the floor. I could see his chest. But I couldn’t see his face at all.

It was also extremely loud with the music thumping. After a while, they finally shut it off.

Pretty soon, the security personnel from the bar brought me an automated external defibrillator, and it showed the man was having V-fib arrest. I shocked him. Still no pulse. I continued with cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR).

I hadn’t noticed, but lots of people were crowding around us. Somebody came up and said, “He’s my friend. He has a 9-year-old daughter. He can’t die. Let me help with the compressions.” I was like, “Go for it.”

The guy started kind of pushing on the man’s abdomen. He had no idea how to do compressions. I said, “Okay, let me take over again.”

Out of the crowd, nobody else volunteered to help. No one asked me, “Hey, what can I do?” Meanwhile, I found out later that someone was filming the whole thing on their phone.

But what the guy said about the man’s young daughter stayed in my brain. I thought, we need to keep going.

I did more compressions and shocked him again. Still no pulse. At that point, the police and emergency medical services showed up. They checked, nothing had changed, so they got him into the ambulance.

I asked one of the paramedics, “Where are you taking him? I can call ahead.”

But he said, “That’s HIPAA. We can’t tell you.” They also wouldn’t let me go with him in the ambulance.

“I have an active Florida license, and I work in the ICU [intensive care unit],” I said.

“No, we need to follow our protocol,” he replied.

I understood that, but I just wanted to help.

It was around 10:30 PM by then, and I was drenched in sweat. I had to go home. The first thing I did after taking a shower was open the computer and check my system. I needed to find out what happened to the guy.

I was looking for admissions, and I didn’t see him. I called the main hospital downtown and the one in North Naples. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I stayed up until almost 1:00 AM checking for his name. At that point I thought, okay, maybe he died.

The next night, Saturday, I was home and got a call from one of my colleagues. “Hey, were you in a bar yesterday? Did you do CPR on somebody?”

“How did you know?” I said.

He said the paramedics had described me — “a tall doctor with glasses who was a nice guy.” It was funny that he knew that was me.

He told me, “The guy’s alive. He’s sick and needs to be put on dialysis, but he’s alive.”

Apparently, the guy had gone to the emergency department at North Naples, and the doctors in the emergency room (ER) worked on him for over an hour. They did continuous CPR and shocked him for close to 40 minutes. They finally got his pulse back, and after that, he was transferred to the main hospital ICU. They didn’t admit him at the ER, which was why I couldn’t find his name.

On Sunday, I was checking my patients’ charts for the ICU that coming week. And there he was. I saw his name and the documentation by the ED that CPR was provided by a critical care doctor in the field. He was still alive. That gave me so much joy.

So, the man I had helped became my patient. When I saw him on Monday, he was intubated and needed dialysis. I finally saw his face and thought, Oh, so that’s what you look like. I hadn’t realized he was only 39 years old.

When he was awake, I explained to him I was the doctor that provided CPR at the bar. He was very grateful, but of course, he didn’t remember anything.

Eventually, I met his daughter, and she just said, “Thank you for allowing me to have my dad.”

The funny part is that he broke his leg. Well, that’s not funny, but no one had any idea how it happened. That was his only complaint. He was asking me, “Doctor, how did you break my leg?”

“Hey, I have no idea how you broke your leg,” I replied. “I was trying to save your life.”

He was in the hospital for almost a month but made a full recovery. The amazing part: After all the evaluations, he has no neurological deficits. He’s back to a normal life now.

They never found a cause for the cardiac arrest. I mean, he had an ejection fraction of 10%. All my money was on something drug related, but that wasn’t the case. They’d done a cardiac cut, and there was no obstruction. They couldn’t find a reason.

We’ve become friends. He still works as a DJ at the bar. He changed his name to “DJ the Survivor” or something like that.

Sometimes, he’ll text me: “Doctor, what are you doing? You want to come down to the bar?”

I’m like, “No. I don’t.”

It’s been more than a year, but I remember every detail. When you go into medicine, you dream that one day you’ll be able to say, “I saved somebody.”

He texted me a year later and told me he’s celebrating two birthdays now. He said, “I’m turning 1 year old today!”

I think about the value of life. How we can take it for granted. We think, I’m young, nothing is going to happen to me. But this guy was 39. He went to work and died that night.

I was able to help bring him back. That makes me thankful for every day.

Jose Valle Giler, MD, is a pulmonary, critical care, and sleep medicine physician at NCH Healthcare System in Naples, Florida.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series by this news organization that tells these stories.

It was my first night off after 12 days. It was a Friday night, and I went to a bar in Naples to get a beer with some friends. As it turned out, it wasn’t a night off after all.

As soon as we got inside, we heard over the speaker that they needed medical personnel and to please go to the left side of the bar. I thought it would be syncope or something like that.

I went over there and saw a woman holding up a man. He was basically leaning all over her. The light was low, and the music was pounding. I started to assess him and tried to get him to answer me. No response. I checked for pulses — nothing.

Now, I’m in a bar, right? It’s a cardiac arrest. The first thing you think is overdose or alcohol. I asked the woman if the man was doing any drugs. She said she didn’t know. Turns out they were both employees. He was a bouncer and a DJ.

The woman helped me lower him to the floor. I checked again for a pulse. Still nothing. I said, “Call 911,” and started compressions.

The difficult part was the place was completely dark. I knew where his body was on the floor. I could see his chest. But I couldn’t see his face at all.

It was also extremely loud with the music thumping. After a while, they finally shut it off.

Pretty soon, the security personnel from the bar brought me an automated external defibrillator, and it showed the man was having V-fib arrest. I shocked him. Still no pulse. I continued with cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR).

I hadn’t noticed, but lots of people were crowding around us. Somebody came up and said, “He’s my friend. He has a 9-year-old daughter. He can’t die. Let me help with the compressions.” I was like, “Go for it.”

The guy started kind of pushing on the man’s abdomen. He had no idea how to do compressions. I said, “Okay, let me take over again.”

Out of the crowd, nobody else volunteered to help. No one asked me, “Hey, what can I do?” Meanwhile, I found out later that someone was filming the whole thing on their phone.

But what the guy said about the man’s young daughter stayed in my brain. I thought, we need to keep going.

I did more compressions and shocked him again. Still no pulse. At that point, the police and emergency medical services showed up. They checked, nothing had changed, so they got him into the ambulance.

I asked one of the paramedics, “Where are you taking him? I can call ahead.”

But he said, “That’s HIPAA. We can’t tell you.” They also wouldn’t let me go with him in the ambulance.

“I have an active Florida license, and I work in the ICU [intensive care unit],” I said.

“No, we need to follow our protocol,” he replied.

I understood that, but I just wanted to help.

It was around 10:30 PM by then, and I was drenched in sweat. I had to go home. The first thing I did after taking a shower was open the computer and check my system. I needed to find out what happened to the guy.

I was looking for admissions, and I didn’t see him. I called the main hospital downtown and the one in North Naples. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I stayed up until almost 1:00 AM checking for his name. At that point I thought, okay, maybe he died.

The next night, Saturday, I was home and got a call from one of my colleagues. “Hey, were you in a bar yesterday? Did you do CPR on somebody?”

“How did you know?” I said.

He said the paramedics had described me — “a tall doctor with glasses who was a nice guy.” It was funny that he knew that was me.

He told me, “The guy’s alive. He’s sick and needs to be put on dialysis, but he’s alive.”

Apparently, the guy had gone to the emergency department at North Naples, and the doctors in the emergency room (ER) worked on him for over an hour. They did continuous CPR and shocked him for close to 40 minutes. They finally got his pulse back, and after that, he was transferred to the main hospital ICU. They didn’t admit him at the ER, which was why I couldn’t find his name.

On Sunday, I was checking my patients’ charts for the ICU that coming week. And there he was. I saw his name and the documentation by the ED that CPR was provided by a critical care doctor in the field. He was still alive. That gave me so much joy.

So, the man I had helped became my patient. When I saw him on Monday, he was intubated and needed dialysis. I finally saw his face and thought, Oh, so that’s what you look like. I hadn’t realized he was only 39 years old.

When he was awake, I explained to him I was the doctor that provided CPR at the bar. He was very grateful, but of course, he didn’t remember anything.

Eventually, I met his daughter, and she just said, “Thank you for allowing me to have my dad.”

The funny part is that he broke his leg. Well, that’s not funny, but no one had any idea how it happened. That was his only complaint. He was asking me, “Doctor, how did you break my leg?”

“Hey, I have no idea how you broke your leg,” I replied. “I was trying to save your life.”

He was in the hospital for almost a month but made a full recovery. The amazing part: After all the evaluations, he has no neurological deficits. He’s back to a normal life now.

They never found a cause for the cardiac arrest. I mean, he had an ejection fraction of 10%. All my money was on something drug related, but that wasn’t the case. They’d done a cardiac cut, and there was no obstruction. They couldn’t find a reason.

We’ve become friends. He still works as a DJ at the bar. He changed his name to “DJ the Survivor” or something like that.

Sometimes, he’ll text me: “Doctor, what are you doing? You want to come down to the bar?”

I’m like, “No. I don’t.”

It’s been more than a year, but I remember every detail. When you go into medicine, you dream that one day you’ll be able to say, “I saved somebody.”

He texted me a year later and told me he’s celebrating two birthdays now. He said, “I’m turning 1 year old today!”

I think about the value of life. How we can take it for granted. We think, I’m young, nothing is going to happen to me. But this guy was 39. He went to work and died that night.

I was able to help bring him back. That makes me thankful for every day.

Jose Valle Giler, MD, is a pulmonary, critical care, and sleep medicine physician at NCH Healthcare System in Naples, Florida.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series by this news organization that tells these stories.

It was my first night off after 12 days. It was a Friday night, and I went to a bar in Naples to get a beer with some friends. As it turned out, it wasn’t a night off after all.

As soon as we got inside, we heard over the speaker that they needed medical personnel and to please go to the left side of the bar. I thought it would be syncope or something like that.

I went over there and saw a woman holding up a man. He was basically leaning all over her. The light was low, and the music was pounding. I started to assess him and tried to get him to answer me. No response. I checked for pulses — nothing.

Now, I’m in a bar, right? It’s a cardiac arrest. The first thing you think is overdose or alcohol. I asked the woman if the man was doing any drugs. She said she didn’t know. Turns out they were both employees. He was a bouncer and a DJ.

The woman helped me lower him to the floor. I checked again for a pulse. Still nothing. I said, “Call 911,” and started compressions.

The difficult part was the place was completely dark. I knew where his body was on the floor. I could see his chest. But I couldn’t see his face at all.

It was also extremely loud with the music thumping. After a while, they finally shut it off.

Pretty soon, the security personnel from the bar brought me an automated external defibrillator, and it showed the man was having V-fib arrest. I shocked him. Still no pulse. I continued with cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR).

I hadn’t noticed, but lots of people were crowding around us. Somebody came up and said, “He’s my friend. He has a 9-year-old daughter. He can’t die. Let me help with the compressions.” I was like, “Go for it.”

The guy started kind of pushing on the man’s abdomen. He had no idea how to do compressions. I said, “Okay, let me take over again.”

Out of the crowd, nobody else volunteered to help. No one asked me, “Hey, what can I do?” Meanwhile, I found out later that someone was filming the whole thing on their phone.

But what the guy said about the man’s young daughter stayed in my brain. I thought, we need to keep going.

I did more compressions and shocked him again. Still no pulse. At that point, the police and emergency medical services showed up. They checked, nothing had changed, so they got him into the ambulance.

I asked one of the paramedics, “Where are you taking him? I can call ahead.”

But he said, “That’s HIPAA. We can’t tell you.” They also wouldn’t let me go with him in the ambulance.

“I have an active Florida license, and I work in the ICU [intensive care unit],” I said.

“No, we need to follow our protocol,” he replied.

I understood that, but I just wanted to help.

It was around 10:30 PM by then, and I was drenched in sweat. I had to go home. The first thing I did after taking a shower was open the computer and check my system. I needed to find out what happened to the guy.

I was looking for admissions, and I didn’t see him. I called the main hospital downtown and the one in North Naples. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I stayed up until almost 1:00 AM checking for his name. At that point I thought, okay, maybe he died.

The next night, Saturday, I was home and got a call from one of my colleagues. “Hey, were you in a bar yesterday? Did you do CPR on somebody?”

“How did you know?” I said.

He said the paramedics had described me — “a tall doctor with glasses who was a nice guy.” It was funny that he knew that was me.

He told me, “The guy’s alive. He’s sick and needs to be put on dialysis, but he’s alive.”

Apparently, the guy had gone to the emergency department at North Naples, and the doctors in the emergency room (ER) worked on him for over an hour. They did continuous CPR and shocked him for close to 40 minutes. They finally got his pulse back, and after that, he was transferred to the main hospital ICU. They didn’t admit him at the ER, which was why I couldn’t find his name.

On Sunday, I was checking my patients’ charts for the ICU that coming week. And there he was. I saw his name and the documentation by the ED that CPR was provided by a critical care doctor in the field. He was still alive. That gave me so much joy.

So, the man I had helped became my patient. When I saw him on Monday, he was intubated and needed dialysis. I finally saw his face and thought, Oh, so that’s what you look like. I hadn’t realized he was only 39 years old.

When he was awake, I explained to him I was the doctor that provided CPR at the bar. He was very grateful, but of course, he didn’t remember anything.

Eventually, I met his daughter, and she just said, “Thank you for allowing me to have my dad.”

The funny part is that he broke his leg. Well, that’s not funny, but no one had any idea how it happened. That was his only complaint. He was asking me, “Doctor, how did you break my leg?”

“Hey, I have no idea how you broke your leg,” I replied. “I was trying to save your life.”

He was in the hospital for almost a month but made a full recovery. The amazing part: After all the evaluations, he has no neurological deficits. He’s back to a normal life now.

They never found a cause for the cardiac arrest. I mean, he had an ejection fraction of 10%. All my money was on something drug related, but that wasn’t the case. They’d done a cardiac cut, and there was no obstruction. They couldn’t find a reason.

We’ve become friends. He still works as a DJ at the bar. He changed his name to “DJ the Survivor” or something like that.

Sometimes, he’ll text me: “Doctor, what are you doing? You want to come down to the bar?”

I’m like, “No. I don’t.”

It’s been more than a year, but I remember every detail. When you go into medicine, you dream that one day you’ll be able to say, “I saved somebody.”

He texted me a year later and told me he’s celebrating two birthdays now. He said, “I’m turning 1 year old today!”

I think about the value of life. How we can take it for granted. We think, I’m young, nothing is going to happen to me. But this guy was 39. He went to work and died that night.

I was able to help bring him back. That makes me thankful for every day.

Jose Valle Giler, MD, is a pulmonary, critical care, and sleep medicine physician at NCH Healthcare System in Naples, Florida.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere and anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. 'Is There a Doctor in the House?' is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

Bill Madden, MD: It was a Saturday in October of 1996. I had gone to my favorite plant nursery in Tucson with my wife, Beth, and two of my kids, Zach and Katya, who were 9 years old. I went to the back of the nursery to use the bathroom, and I heard two of the workers yelling at each other. The tone was angry. 

I went back up to the front, and Zach said that he was bored. He asked if he could go to the car and get a book, so I gave him my car keys and told him to be careful crossing the street. 

Ron Quintia, DDS: It was late in the afternoon, probably close to 4 PM. I was also at the nursery picking up some plants. 

The noise came out of nowhere. Boom! Boom! Boom! I thought, Wow, that sounds like a gun. But no, it can’t be a gun. This is a plant nursery. 

BM: When I heard the rounds being fired, I knew what that sound meant. I was in the Army for 20 years doing critical care for kids. 

I turned and a young man came running toward me out of the sun. It was hard to see, but I realized a second guy was running about 10 feet behind him. Both men were screaming. 

My wife was about 10 feet away behind a raised planter with Katya. I yelled for them to get down as I dove for the ground.

The first guy, a young Hispanic man, tried to escape through some bushes. But the shooter was catching up. I recognized him. He was from Ethiopia and worked at the nursery. I had talked to him a week earlier about his life; he used to be a farmer.

Now, he was holding a 9-mm automatic — silver, very shiny. He shot the Hispanic man twice in the chest. Then he ran toward the back of the nursery. 

RQ: When I realized what was happening, I crouched down, so I couldn’t see very much. But I heard someone screaming, “He has a gun! He has a gun!” And then I heard more shots. 

BM: I yelled at my wife, “Get out!” Then I ran for the phone at the kiosk desk to call 911. This was before most people had cell phones. But the phone was hooked up to the paging system for the nursery, and I couldn’t get it to work. I turned and ran for the wounded man.

RQ: I got to the victim first. Both lungs had been hit, and I could hear he had sucking chest wounds. He was bleeding out of his mouth, saying, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I told him, “You’re not going to die,” while thinking to myself, He’s going to die. 

BM: I had never met Ron before, but we started working on the patient together. Both of his lungs were collapsing. With sucking chest wounds, the critical issue is to seal up the holes. So normally, you slap a Vaseline dressing on and tape it up real good. But obviously, we didn’t have anything. 

Ron and I took off our shirts and used them to bandage the man’s chest. He wasn’t looking good, starting to turn blue. He was dying. We were yelling for someone to call an ambulance. 

And then suddenly, the shooter was back. He was standing there yelling at us to leave so he could kill the man we were helping. The 9-mil was in his hand, ready to fire. He kept screaming, “I’m not a monkey! I’m not a monkey!”

RQ: The guy was less than 10 feet from us, and we were facing down this gun that looked like a cannon. I thought, This is it. It’s curtains. I’m going to die. We’re all going to die. 

BM: I had decided I would die too. I wasn’t frightened though. It’s hard to explain. Dying was okay because I’d gotten my family away. I just had to stay alive as long as I could in order to provide for the victim. 

It’s what I signed up for when I chose to be a doc — to do whatever was needed. And if I got killed in the process, that was just part of the story. So we started talking to the shooter.

I said, “No, you’re not a monkey. You’re a man, a human being. It’s okay.” We pleaded with him to put the weapon down and not to shoot. We did not leave the patient. Finally, the shooter ran off toward the back of the nursery.

RQ: About 30 seconds after that, we heard two more shots from that direction. 

Then there were sirens, and the place was suddenly crawling with police. The paramedics came and took over. I got up and got out of the way.

BM: A young woman ran up, her mouth covered with blood. She said that there was another victim in the back. I asked a police officer to go with us to check. We started for the back when suddenly, we heard yelling and many rounds being fired. The officer ran in the direction of the shooting. 

The woman and I kept walking through rows of plants and trees. It was like moving through a jungle. Finally, we reached the other victim, an American Indian man, lying on his back. He had a chest wound and a head wound. No respirations. No radial pulse. No carotid pulse. I pronounced him dead.

Then I heard a voice calling for help. There were two women hiding nearby in the bushes. I led them to where the police cars were.

Another officer came over and told me that they had the shooter. The police had shot him in the leg and arrested him.

RQ: The police kept us there for quite some time. Meanwhile, the TV crews arrived. I had a black Toyota 4Runner at the time. My family was home watching the news, and a bulletin came on about a shooting in Midtown. The camera panned around the area, and my wife saw our car on the street! They were all worried until I could call and let them know that I was okay.

BM: As we waited, the sun went down, and I was getting cold. My shirt was a bloody mess. Ron and I just sat there quietly, not saying a whole heck of a lot. 

Finally, an officer took our statements, a detective interviewed us, and they let us leave. I called Beth, and she and the kids came and got me. 

At home, we talked to the kids, letting them express their fears. We put them to bed. I didn’t sleep that night. 

RQ: I can’t describe how weird it was going home with this guy’s blood on my body. Needing to take a bath. Trying to get rid of the stench of what could have been a brutal killing. But it wasn’t. At least, not for our patient. 

Thankfully, there are three hospitals within a stone’s throw of the nursery. The paramedics got the man we helped to Tucson Medical Center and into the OR immediately. Then the general surgeons could get chest tubes in him to reinflate his lungs.

BM: The doctor who treated him called me later. He said that when they put the chest tubes in, they got a liter and a half of blood out of him. If it had taken another 10 minutes or so to get there, he very likely would’ve been dead on arrival in the emergency room. 

RQ: I checked on him at the hospital the next day, and he was doing okay. That was the last time I saw him. 

I only saw the shooter again in court. Dr. Madden and I were both called as witnesses at his trial. He was tried for capital murder and 12 charges of aggravated assault for every person who was at the nursery. He was found guilty on all of them and sentenced to 35 years to life in prison. 

BM: I don’t think the shooter was very well represented in court. It’s not that he didn’t kill one person and critically wound another. He did, and he deserves to be punished for that. But his story wasn’t told.

I knew that during the civil war in Ethiopia, his family had been killed by Cuban soldiers sent there to help the pro-communist government. In a way, I thought of him as two different people: the shooter and the farmer. They are both in prison, but only one of them deserves to be there.

After it happened, I wanted to visit the farmer in the hospital and tell him that, despite what he had done, he was not alone. Our family cared about him. The police wouldn’t let me see him, so I asked the Catholic chaplain of the hospital to go. He gave him my message: that despite all the sorrow and pain, in some distant way, I understood. I respected him as a human being. And I was praying for him.

RQ: It’s safe to say that the experience will affect me forever. For months, even years afterward, if somebody would ask me about what happened, I would start to cry. I would sit in the parking lot of my favorite running trail and worry about the people driving in. If I heard a car backfire, I thought about gunshots. 

It was terrifying. And thank God I’ve never found myself in that position again. But I suspect I’d probably react the same way. This is our calling. It’s what we do — protecting other people and taking care of them.

BM: I’d always wondered what I would do in a situation like this. I knew I could function in a critical care situation, a child in a hospital or in the back of an ambulance. But could I do it when my own life was threatened? I found out that I could, and that was really important to me. 

RQ: It was one of those great lessons in life. You realize how lucky you are and that your life can be snatched away from you in a millisecond. I went to a nursery to buy plants for my yard, and instead I ended up helping to save a life.Bill Madden, MD, is a retired US Army colonel and pediatrician, formerly an associate professor of Clinical Pediatrics at the College of Medicine of the University of Arizona, Tucson. 

Ron Quintia, DDS, is an oral and maxillofacial surgeon at Southern Arizona Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery in Tucson, Arizona. 

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere and anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. 'Is There a Doctor in the House?' is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

Bill Madden, MD: It was a Saturday in October of 1996. I had gone to my favorite plant nursery in Tucson with my wife, Beth, and two of my kids, Zach and Katya, who were 9 years old. I went to the back of the nursery to use the bathroom, and I heard two of the workers yelling at each other. The tone was angry. 

I went back up to the front, and Zach said that he was bored. He asked if he could go to the car and get a book, so I gave him my car keys and told him to be careful crossing the street. 

Ron Quintia, DDS: It was late in the afternoon, probably close to 4 PM. I was also at the nursery picking up some plants. 

The noise came out of nowhere. Boom! Boom! Boom! I thought, Wow, that sounds like a gun. But no, it can’t be a gun. This is a plant nursery. 

BM: When I heard the rounds being fired, I knew what that sound meant. I was in the Army for 20 years doing critical care for kids. 

I turned and a young man came running toward me out of the sun. It was hard to see, but I realized a second guy was running about 10 feet behind him. Both men were screaming. 

My wife was about 10 feet away behind a raised planter with Katya. I yelled for them to get down as I dove for the ground.

The first guy, a young Hispanic man, tried to escape through some bushes. But the shooter was catching up. I recognized him. He was from Ethiopia and worked at the nursery. I had talked to him a week earlier about his life; he used to be a farmer.

Now, he was holding a 9-mm automatic — silver, very shiny. He shot the Hispanic man twice in the chest. Then he ran toward the back of the nursery. 

RQ: When I realized what was happening, I crouched down, so I couldn’t see very much. But I heard someone screaming, “He has a gun! He has a gun!” And then I heard more shots. 

BM: I yelled at my wife, “Get out!” Then I ran for the phone at the kiosk desk to call 911. This was before most people had cell phones. But the phone was hooked up to the paging system for the nursery, and I couldn’t get it to work. I turned and ran for the wounded man.

RQ: I got to the victim first. Both lungs had been hit, and I could hear he had sucking chest wounds. He was bleeding out of his mouth, saying, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I told him, “You’re not going to die,” while thinking to myself, He’s going to die. 

BM: I had never met Ron before, but we started working on the patient together. Both of his lungs were collapsing. With sucking chest wounds, the critical issue is to seal up the holes. So normally, you slap a Vaseline dressing on and tape it up real good. But obviously, we didn’t have anything. 

Ron and I took off our shirts and used them to bandage the man’s chest. He wasn’t looking good, starting to turn blue. He was dying. We were yelling for someone to call an ambulance. 

And then suddenly, the shooter was back. He was standing there yelling at us to leave so he could kill the man we were helping. The 9-mil was in his hand, ready to fire. He kept screaming, “I’m not a monkey! I’m not a monkey!”

RQ: The guy was less than 10 feet from us, and we were facing down this gun that looked like a cannon. I thought, This is it. It’s curtains. I’m going to die. We’re all going to die. 

BM: I had decided I would die too. I wasn’t frightened though. It’s hard to explain. Dying was okay because I’d gotten my family away. I just had to stay alive as long as I could in order to provide for the victim. 

It’s what I signed up for when I chose to be a doc — to do whatever was needed. And if I got killed in the process, that was just part of the story. So we started talking to the shooter.

I said, “No, you’re not a monkey. You’re a man, a human being. It’s okay.” We pleaded with him to put the weapon down and not to shoot. We did not leave the patient. Finally, the shooter ran off toward the back of the nursery.

RQ: About 30 seconds after that, we heard two more shots from that direction. 

Then there were sirens, and the place was suddenly crawling with police. The paramedics came and took over. I got up and got out of the way.

BM: A young woman ran up, her mouth covered with blood. She said that there was another victim in the back. I asked a police officer to go with us to check. We started for the back when suddenly, we heard yelling and many rounds being fired. The officer ran in the direction of the shooting. 

The woman and I kept walking through rows of plants and trees. It was like moving through a jungle. Finally, we reached the other victim, an American Indian man, lying on his back. He had a chest wound and a head wound. No respirations. No radial pulse. No carotid pulse. I pronounced him dead.

Then I heard a voice calling for help. There were two women hiding nearby in the bushes. I led them to where the police cars were.

Another officer came over and told me that they had the shooter. The police had shot him in the leg and arrested him.

RQ: The police kept us there for quite some time. Meanwhile, the TV crews arrived. I had a black Toyota 4Runner at the time. My family was home watching the news, and a bulletin came on about a shooting in Midtown. The camera panned around the area, and my wife saw our car on the street! They were all worried until I could call and let them know that I was okay.

BM: As we waited, the sun went down, and I was getting cold. My shirt was a bloody mess. Ron and I just sat there quietly, not saying a whole heck of a lot. 

Finally, an officer took our statements, a detective interviewed us, and they let us leave. I called Beth, and she and the kids came and got me. 

At home, we talked to the kids, letting them express their fears. We put them to bed. I didn’t sleep that night. 

RQ: I can’t describe how weird it was going home with this guy’s blood on my body. Needing to take a bath. Trying to get rid of the stench of what could have been a brutal killing. But it wasn’t. At least, not for our patient. 

Thankfully, there are three hospitals within a stone’s throw of the nursery. The paramedics got the man we helped to Tucson Medical Center and into the OR immediately. Then the general surgeons could get chest tubes in him to reinflate his lungs.

BM: The doctor who treated him called me later. He said that when they put the chest tubes in, they got a liter and a half of blood out of him. If it had taken another 10 minutes or so to get there, he very likely would’ve been dead on arrival in the emergency room. 

RQ: I checked on him at the hospital the next day, and he was doing okay. That was the last time I saw him. 

I only saw the shooter again in court. Dr. Madden and I were both called as witnesses at his trial. He was tried for capital murder and 12 charges of aggravated assault for every person who was at the nursery. He was found guilty on all of them and sentenced to 35 years to life in prison. 

BM: I don’t think the shooter was very well represented in court. It’s not that he didn’t kill one person and critically wound another. He did, and he deserves to be punished for that. But his story wasn’t told.

I knew that during the civil war in Ethiopia, his family had been killed by Cuban soldiers sent there to help the pro-communist government. In a way, I thought of him as two different people: the shooter and the farmer. They are both in prison, but only one of them deserves to be there.

After it happened, I wanted to visit the farmer in the hospital and tell him that, despite what he had done, he was not alone. Our family cared about him. The police wouldn’t let me see him, so I asked the Catholic chaplain of the hospital to go. He gave him my message: that despite all the sorrow and pain, in some distant way, I understood. I respected him as a human being. And I was praying for him.

RQ: It’s safe to say that the experience will affect me forever. For months, even years afterward, if somebody would ask me about what happened, I would start to cry. I would sit in the parking lot of my favorite running trail and worry about the people driving in. If I heard a car backfire, I thought about gunshots. 

It was terrifying. And thank God I’ve never found myself in that position again. But I suspect I’d probably react the same way. This is our calling. It’s what we do — protecting other people and taking care of them.

BM: I’d always wondered what I would do in a situation like this. I knew I could function in a critical care situation, a child in a hospital or in the back of an ambulance. But could I do it when my own life was threatened? I found out that I could, and that was really important to me. 

RQ: It was one of those great lessons in life. You realize how lucky you are and that your life can be snatched away from you in a millisecond. I went to a nursery to buy plants for my yard, and instead I ended up helping to save a life.Bill Madden, MD, is a retired US Army colonel and pediatrician, formerly an associate professor of Clinical Pediatrics at the College of Medicine of the University of Arizona, Tucson. 

Ron Quintia, DDS, is an oral and maxillofacial surgeon at Southern Arizona Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery in Tucson, Arizona. 

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere and anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. 'Is There a Doctor in the House?' is a Medscape Medical News series telling these stories.

Bill Madden, MD: It was a Saturday in October of 1996. I had gone to my favorite plant nursery in Tucson with my wife, Beth, and two of my kids, Zach and Katya, who were 9 years old. I went to the back of the nursery to use the bathroom, and I heard two of the workers yelling at each other. The tone was angry. 

I went back up to the front, and Zach said that he was bored. He asked if he could go to the car and get a book, so I gave him my car keys and told him to be careful crossing the street. 

Ron Quintia, DDS: It was late in the afternoon, probably close to 4 PM. I was also at the nursery picking up some plants. 

The noise came out of nowhere. Boom! Boom! Boom! I thought, Wow, that sounds like a gun. But no, it can’t be a gun. This is a plant nursery. 

BM: When I heard the rounds being fired, I knew what that sound meant. I was in the Army for 20 years doing critical care for kids. 

I turned and a young man came running toward me out of the sun. It was hard to see, but I realized a second guy was running about 10 feet behind him. Both men were screaming. 

My wife was about 10 feet away behind a raised planter with Katya. I yelled for them to get down as I dove for the ground.

The first guy, a young Hispanic man, tried to escape through some bushes. But the shooter was catching up. I recognized him. He was from Ethiopia and worked at the nursery. I had talked to him a week earlier about his life; he used to be a farmer.

Now, he was holding a 9-mm automatic — silver, very shiny. He shot the Hispanic man twice in the chest. Then he ran toward the back of the nursery. 

RQ: When I realized what was happening, I crouched down, so I couldn’t see very much. But I heard someone screaming, “He has a gun! He has a gun!” And then I heard more shots. 

BM: I yelled at my wife, “Get out!” Then I ran for the phone at the kiosk desk to call 911. This was before most people had cell phones. But the phone was hooked up to the paging system for the nursery, and I couldn’t get it to work. I turned and ran for the wounded man.

RQ: I got to the victim first. Both lungs had been hit, and I could hear he had sucking chest wounds. He was bleeding out of his mouth, saying, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I told him, “You’re not going to die,” while thinking to myself, He’s going to die. 

BM: I had never met Ron before, but we started working on the patient together. Both of his lungs were collapsing. With sucking chest wounds, the critical issue is to seal up the holes. So normally, you slap a Vaseline dressing on and tape it up real good. But obviously, we didn’t have anything. 

Ron and I took off our shirts and used them to bandage the man’s chest. He wasn’t looking good, starting to turn blue. He was dying. We were yelling for someone to call an ambulance. 

And then suddenly, the shooter was back. He was standing there yelling at us to leave so he could kill the man we were helping. The 9-mil was in his hand, ready to fire. He kept screaming, “I’m not a monkey! I’m not a monkey!”

RQ: The guy was less than 10 feet from us, and we were facing down this gun that looked like a cannon. I thought, This is it. It’s curtains. I’m going to die. We’re all going to die. 

BM: I had decided I would die too. I wasn’t frightened though. It’s hard to explain. Dying was okay because I’d gotten my family away. I just had to stay alive as long as I could in order to provide for the victim. 

It’s what I signed up for when I chose to be a doc — to do whatever was needed. And if I got killed in the process, that was just part of the story. So we started talking to the shooter.

I said, “No, you’re not a monkey. You’re a man, a human being. It’s okay.” We pleaded with him to put the weapon down and not to shoot. We did not leave the patient. Finally, the shooter ran off toward the back of the nursery.

RQ: About 30 seconds after that, we heard two more shots from that direction. 

Then there were sirens, and the place was suddenly crawling with police. The paramedics came and took over. I got up and got out of the way.

BM: A young woman ran up, her mouth covered with blood. She said that there was another victim in the back. I asked a police officer to go with us to check. We started for the back when suddenly, we heard yelling and many rounds being fired. The officer ran in the direction of the shooting. 

The woman and I kept walking through rows of plants and trees. It was like moving through a jungle. Finally, we reached the other victim, an American Indian man, lying on his back. He had a chest wound and a head wound. No respirations. No radial pulse. No carotid pulse. I pronounced him dead.

Then I heard a voice calling for help. There were two women hiding nearby in the bushes. I led them to where the police cars were.

Another officer came over and told me that they had the shooter. The police had shot him in the leg and arrested him.

RQ: The police kept us there for quite some time. Meanwhile, the TV crews arrived. I had a black Toyota 4Runner at the time. My family was home watching the news, and a bulletin came on about a shooting in Midtown. The camera panned around the area, and my wife saw our car on the street! They were all worried until I could call and let them know that I was okay.

BM: As we waited, the sun went down, and I was getting cold. My shirt was a bloody mess. Ron and I just sat there quietly, not saying a whole heck of a lot. 

Finally, an officer took our statements, a detective interviewed us, and they let us leave. I called Beth, and she and the kids came and got me. 

At home, we talked to the kids, letting them express their fears. We put them to bed. I didn’t sleep that night. 

RQ: I can’t describe how weird it was going home with this guy’s blood on my body. Needing to take a bath. Trying to get rid of the stench of what could have been a brutal killing. But it wasn’t. At least, not for our patient. 

Thankfully, there are three hospitals within a stone’s throw of the nursery. The paramedics got the man we helped to Tucson Medical Center and into the OR immediately. Then the general surgeons could get chest tubes in him to reinflate his lungs.

BM: The doctor who treated him called me later. He said that when they put the chest tubes in, they got a liter and a half of blood out of him. If it had taken another 10 minutes or so to get there, he very likely would’ve been dead on arrival in the emergency room. 

RQ: I checked on him at the hospital the next day, and he was doing okay. That was the last time I saw him. 

I only saw the shooter again in court. Dr. Madden and I were both called as witnesses at his trial. He was tried for capital murder and 12 charges of aggravated assault for every person who was at the nursery. He was found guilty on all of them and sentenced to 35 years to life in prison. 

BM: I don’t think the shooter was very well represented in court. It’s not that he didn’t kill one person and critically wound another. He did, and he deserves to be punished for that. But his story wasn’t told.

I knew that during the civil war in Ethiopia, his family had been killed by Cuban soldiers sent there to help the pro-communist government. In a way, I thought of him as two different people: the shooter and the farmer. They are both in prison, but only one of them deserves to be there.

After it happened, I wanted to visit the farmer in the hospital and tell him that, despite what he had done, he was not alone. Our family cared about him. The police wouldn’t let me see him, so I asked the Catholic chaplain of the hospital to go. He gave him my message: that despite all the sorrow and pain, in some distant way, I understood. I respected him as a human being. And I was praying for him.

RQ: It’s safe to say that the experience will affect me forever. For months, even years afterward, if somebody would ask me about what happened, I would start to cry. I would sit in the parking lot of my favorite running trail and worry about the people driving in. If I heard a car backfire, I thought about gunshots. 

It was terrifying. And thank God I’ve never found myself in that position again. But I suspect I’d probably react the same way. This is our calling. It’s what we do — protecting other people and taking care of them.

BM: I’d always wondered what I would do in a situation like this. I knew I could function in a critical care situation, a child in a hospital or in the back of an ambulance. But could I do it when my own life was threatened? I found out that I could, and that was really important to me. 

RQ: It was one of those great lessons in life. You realize how lucky you are and that your life can be snatched away from you in a millisecond. I went to a nursery to buy plants for my yard, and instead I ended up helping to save a life.Bill Madden, MD, is a retired US Army colonel and pediatrician, formerly an associate professor of Clinical Pediatrics at the College of Medicine of the University of Arizona, Tucson. 

Ron Quintia, DDS, is an oral and maxillofacial surgeon at Southern Arizona Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery in Tucson, Arizona. 

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com .

Emergencies happen anywhere and anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

A week earlier I’d had a heart surgery and was heading out for a post-op appointment when I saw it: I had a flat tire. It didn’t make sense. The tire was brand new, and there was no puncture. But it was flat.

I swapped out the flat for the spare and went off base to a tire shop. While I was there, my surgeon’s office called and rescheduled my appointment for a couple of hours later. That was lucky because by the time the tire was fixed, I had just enough time to get there.

The hospital is right near I-35 in San Antonio, Texas. I got off the freeway and onto the access road and paused to turn into the parking lot. That’s when I heard an enormous crash.

I saw a big poof of white smoke, and a car barreled off the freeway and came rolling down the embankment.

When the car hit the access road, I saw a woman ejected through the windshield. She bounced and landed in the road about 25 feet in front of me.

I put my car in park, grabbed my face mask and gloves, and started running toward her. But another vehicle — a truck towing a trailer — came from behind to drive around me. The driver didn’t realize what had happened and couldn’t stop in time…

The trailer ran over her.

I didn’t know if anyone could’ve survived that, but I went to her. I saw several other bystanders, but they were frozen in shock. I was praying, dear God, if she’s alive, let me do whatever I need to do to save her life.

It was a horrible scene. This poor lady was in a bloody heap in the middle of the road. Her right arm was twisted up under her neck so tightly, she was choking herself. So, the first thing I did was straighten her arm out to protect her airway.

I started yelling at people, “Call 9-1-1! Run to the hospital! Let them know there’s an accident out here, and I need help!”

The woman had a pulse, but it was super rapid. On first glance, she clearly had multiple fractures and a bad head bleed. With the sheer number of times she’d been injured, I didn’t know what was going on internally, but it was bad. She was gargling on her own blood and spitting it up. She was drowning.

A couple of technicians from the hospital came and brought me a tiny emergency kit. It had a blood pressure cuff and an oral airway. All the vital signs indicated the lady was going into shock. She’d lost a lot of blood on the pavement.

I was able to get the oral airway in. A few minutes later, a fire chief showed up. By now, the traffic had backed up so badly, the emergency vehicles couldn’t get in. But he managed to get there another way and gave me a cervical collar (C collar) and an Ambu bag.

I was hyper-focused on what I could do at that moment and what I needed to do next. Her stats were going down, but she still had a pulse. If she lost the pulse or went into a lethal rhythm, I’d have to start cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). I asked the other people, but nobody else knew CPR, so I wouldn’t have help.

I could tell the lady had a pelvic fracture, and we needed to stabilize her. I directed people how to hold her neck safely and log-roll her flat on the ground. I also needed to put pressure on the back of her head because of all the bleeding. I got people to give me their clothes and tried to do that as I was bagging her.

The windows of her vehicle had all been blown out. I asked somebody to go find her purse with her ID. Then I noticed something …

My heart jumped into my stomach.

A car seat. There was an empty child’s car seat in the back of the car.

I started yelling at everyone, “Look for a baby! Go up and down the embankment and across the road. There might have been a baby in the car!”

But there wasn’t. Thank God. She hadn’t been driving with her child.

At that point, a paramedic came running from behind all the traffic. We did life support together until the ambulance finally arrived.

Emergency medical services got an intravenous line in and used medical anti-shock trousers. Thankfully, I already had the C collar on, and we’d been bagging her, so they could load her very quickly.

I got rid of my bloody gloves. I told a police officer I would come back. And then I went to my doctor’s appointment.

The window at my doctor’s office faced the access road, so the people there had seen all the traffic. They asked me what happened, and I said, “It was me. I saw it happen. I tried to help.” I was a little frazzled.

When I got back to the scene, the police and the fire chief kept thanking me for stopping. Why wouldn’t I stop? It was astounding to realize that they imagined somebody wouldn’t stop in a situation like this.

They told me the lady was alive. She was in the intensive care unit in critical condition, but she had survived. At that moment, I had this overwhelming feeling: God had put me in this exact place at the exact time to save her life.

Looking back, I think about how God ordered my steps. Without the mysterious flat tire, I would’ve gone to the hospital earlier. If my appointment hadn’t been rescheduled, I wouldn’t have been on the access road. All those events brought me there.

Several months later, the woman’s family contacted me and asked if we could meet. I found out more about her injuries. She’d had multiple skull fractures, facial fractures, and a broken jaw. Her upper arm was broken in three places. Her clavicle was broken. She had internal bleeding, a pelvic fracture, and a broken leg. She was 28 years old.

She’d had multiple surgeries, spent 2 months in the ICU, and another 3 months in intensive rehab. But she survived. It was incredible.

We all met up at a McDonald’s. First, her little son — who was the baby I thought might have been in the car — ran up to me and said, “Thank you for saving my mommy’s life.”

Then I turned, and there she was — a beautiful lady looking at me with awe and crying, saying, “It’s me.”

She obviously had gone through a transformation from all the injuries and the medications. She had a little bit of a speech delay, but mentally, she was there. She could walk.

She said, “You’re my angel. God put you there to save my life.” Her family all came up and hugged me. It was so beautiful.

She told me about the accident. She’d been speeding that day, zigzagging through lanes to get around the traffic. And she didn’t have her seatbelt on. She’d driven onto the shoulder to try to pass everyone, but it started narrowing. She clipped somebody’s bumper, went into a tailspin, and collided with a second vehicle, which caused her to flip over and down the embankment.

“God’s given me a new lease on life,” she said, “a fresh start. I will forever wear my seatbelt. And I’m going to do whatever I can to give back to other people because I don’t even feel like I deserve this.”

I just cried.

I’ve been a nurse for 29 years, first on the civilian side and later in the military. I’ve led codes and responded to trauma in a hospital setting or a deployed environment. I was well prepared to do what I did. But doing it under such stress with adrenaline bombarding me ... I’m amazed. I just think God’s hand was on me.

At that time, I was personally going through some things. After my heart surgery, I was in an emotional place where I didn’t feel loved or valued. But when I had that realization — when I knew that I was meant to be there to save her life, I also got the very clear message that I was valued and loved so much.

I know I have a very strong purpose. That day changed my life.
 

US Air Force Lt. Col. Anne Staley is the officer in charge of the Military Training Network, a division of the Defense Health Agency Education and Training Directorate in San Antonio, Texas.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere and anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

A week earlier I’d had a heart surgery and was heading out for a post-op appointment when I saw it: I had a flat tire. It didn’t make sense. The tire was brand new, and there was no puncture. But it was flat.

I swapped out the flat for the spare and went off base to a tire shop. While I was there, my surgeon’s office called and rescheduled my appointment for a couple of hours later. That was lucky because by the time the tire was fixed, I had just enough time to get there.

The hospital is right near I-35 in San Antonio, Texas. I got off the freeway and onto the access road and paused to turn into the parking lot. That’s when I heard an enormous crash.

I saw a big poof of white smoke, and a car barreled off the freeway and came rolling down the embankment.

When the car hit the access road, I saw a woman ejected through the windshield. She bounced and landed in the road about 25 feet in front of me.

I put my car in park, grabbed my face mask and gloves, and started running toward her. But another vehicle — a truck towing a trailer — came from behind to drive around me. The driver didn’t realize what had happened and couldn’t stop in time…

The trailer ran over her.

I didn’t know if anyone could’ve survived that, but I went to her. I saw several other bystanders, but they were frozen in shock. I was praying, dear God, if she’s alive, let me do whatever I need to do to save her life.

It was a horrible scene. This poor lady was in a bloody heap in the middle of the road. Her right arm was twisted up under her neck so tightly, she was choking herself. So, the first thing I did was straighten her arm out to protect her airway.

I started yelling at people, “Call 9-1-1! Run to the hospital! Let them know there’s an accident out here, and I need help!”

The woman had a pulse, but it was super rapid. On first glance, she clearly had multiple fractures and a bad head bleed. With the sheer number of times she’d been injured, I didn’t know what was going on internally, but it was bad. She was gargling on her own blood and spitting it up. She was drowning.

A couple of technicians from the hospital came and brought me a tiny emergency kit. It had a blood pressure cuff and an oral airway. All the vital signs indicated the lady was going into shock. She’d lost a lot of blood on the pavement.

I was able to get the oral airway in. A few minutes later, a fire chief showed up. By now, the traffic had backed up so badly, the emergency vehicles couldn’t get in. But he managed to get there another way and gave me a cervical collar (C collar) and an Ambu bag.

I was hyper-focused on what I could do at that moment and what I needed to do next. Her stats were going down, but she still had a pulse. If she lost the pulse or went into a lethal rhythm, I’d have to start cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). I asked the other people, but nobody else knew CPR, so I wouldn’t have help.

I could tell the lady had a pelvic fracture, and we needed to stabilize her. I directed people how to hold her neck safely and log-roll her flat on the ground. I also needed to put pressure on the back of her head because of all the bleeding. I got people to give me their clothes and tried to do that as I was bagging her.

The windows of her vehicle had all been blown out. I asked somebody to go find her purse with her ID. Then I noticed something …

My heart jumped into my stomach.

A car seat. There was an empty child’s car seat in the back of the car.

I started yelling at everyone, “Look for a baby! Go up and down the embankment and across the road. There might have been a baby in the car!”

But there wasn’t. Thank God. She hadn’t been driving with her child.

At that point, a paramedic came running from behind all the traffic. We did life support together until the ambulance finally arrived.

Emergency medical services got an intravenous line in and used medical anti-shock trousers. Thankfully, I already had the C collar on, and we’d been bagging her, so they could load her very quickly.

I got rid of my bloody gloves. I told a police officer I would come back. And then I went to my doctor’s appointment.

The window at my doctor’s office faced the access road, so the people there had seen all the traffic. They asked me what happened, and I said, “It was me. I saw it happen. I tried to help.” I was a little frazzled.

When I got back to the scene, the police and the fire chief kept thanking me for stopping. Why wouldn’t I stop? It was astounding to realize that they imagined somebody wouldn’t stop in a situation like this.

They told me the lady was alive. She was in the intensive care unit in critical condition, but she had survived. At that moment, I had this overwhelming feeling: God had put me in this exact place at the exact time to save her life.

Looking back, I think about how God ordered my steps. Without the mysterious flat tire, I would’ve gone to the hospital earlier. If my appointment hadn’t been rescheduled, I wouldn’t have been on the access road. All those events brought me there.

Several months later, the woman’s family contacted me and asked if we could meet. I found out more about her injuries. She’d had multiple skull fractures, facial fractures, and a broken jaw. Her upper arm was broken in three places. Her clavicle was broken. She had internal bleeding, a pelvic fracture, and a broken leg. She was 28 years old.

She’d had multiple surgeries, spent 2 months in the ICU, and another 3 months in intensive rehab. But she survived. It was incredible.

We all met up at a McDonald’s. First, her little son — who was the baby I thought might have been in the car — ran up to me and said, “Thank you for saving my mommy’s life.”

Then I turned, and there she was — a beautiful lady looking at me with awe and crying, saying, “It’s me.”

She obviously had gone through a transformation from all the injuries and the medications. She had a little bit of a speech delay, but mentally, she was there. She could walk.

She said, “You’re my angel. God put you there to save my life.” Her family all came up and hugged me. It was so beautiful.

She told me about the accident. She’d been speeding that day, zigzagging through lanes to get around the traffic. And she didn’t have her seatbelt on. She’d driven onto the shoulder to try to pass everyone, but it started narrowing. She clipped somebody’s bumper, went into a tailspin, and collided with a second vehicle, which caused her to flip over and down the embankment.

“God’s given me a new lease on life,” she said, “a fresh start. I will forever wear my seatbelt. And I’m going to do whatever I can to give back to other people because I don’t even feel like I deserve this.”

I just cried.

I’ve been a nurse for 29 years, first on the civilian side and later in the military. I’ve led codes and responded to trauma in a hospital setting or a deployed environment. I was well prepared to do what I did. But doing it under such stress with adrenaline bombarding me ... I’m amazed. I just think God’s hand was on me.

At that time, I was personally going through some things. After my heart surgery, I was in an emotional place where I didn’t feel loved or valued. But when I had that realization — when I knew that I was meant to be there to save her life, I also got the very clear message that I was valued and loved so much.

I know I have a very strong purpose. That day changed my life.
 

US Air Force Lt. Col. Anne Staley is the officer in charge of the Military Training Network, a division of the Defense Health Agency Education and Training Directorate in San Antonio, Texas.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere and anytime, and sometimes, medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

A week earlier I’d had a heart surgery and was heading out for a post-op appointment when I saw it: I had a flat tire. It didn’t make sense. The tire was brand new, and there was no puncture. But it was flat.

I swapped out the flat for the spare and went off base to a tire shop. While I was there, my surgeon’s office called and rescheduled my appointment for a couple of hours later. That was lucky because by the time the tire was fixed, I had just enough time to get there.

The hospital is right near I-35 in San Antonio, Texas. I got off the freeway and onto the access road and paused to turn into the parking lot. That’s when I heard an enormous crash.

I saw a big poof of white smoke, and a car barreled off the freeway and came rolling down the embankment.

When the car hit the access road, I saw a woman ejected through the windshield. She bounced and landed in the road about 25 feet in front of me.

I put my car in park, grabbed my face mask and gloves, and started running toward her. But another vehicle — a truck towing a trailer — came from behind to drive around me. The driver didn’t realize what had happened and couldn’t stop in time…

The trailer ran over her.

I didn’t know if anyone could’ve survived that, but I went to her. I saw several other bystanders, but they were frozen in shock. I was praying, dear God, if she’s alive, let me do whatever I need to do to save her life.

It was a horrible scene. This poor lady was in a bloody heap in the middle of the road. Her right arm was twisted up under her neck so tightly, she was choking herself. So, the first thing I did was straighten her arm out to protect her airway.

I started yelling at people, “Call 9-1-1! Run to the hospital! Let them know there’s an accident out here, and I need help!”

The woman had a pulse, but it was super rapid. On first glance, she clearly had multiple fractures and a bad head bleed. With the sheer number of times she’d been injured, I didn’t know what was going on internally, but it was bad. She was gargling on her own blood and spitting it up. She was drowning.

A couple of technicians from the hospital came and brought me a tiny emergency kit. It had a blood pressure cuff and an oral airway. All the vital signs indicated the lady was going into shock. She’d lost a lot of blood on the pavement.

I was able to get the oral airway in. A few minutes later, a fire chief showed up. By now, the traffic had backed up so badly, the emergency vehicles couldn’t get in. But he managed to get there another way and gave me a cervical collar (C collar) and an Ambu bag.

I was hyper-focused on what I could do at that moment and what I needed to do next. Her stats were going down, but she still had a pulse. If she lost the pulse or went into a lethal rhythm, I’d have to start cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). I asked the other people, but nobody else knew CPR, so I wouldn’t have help.

I could tell the lady had a pelvic fracture, and we needed to stabilize her. I directed people how to hold her neck safely and log-roll her flat on the ground. I also needed to put pressure on the back of her head because of all the bleeding. I got people to give me their clothes and tried to do that as I was bagging her.

The windows of her vehicle had all been blown out. I asked somebody to go find her purse with her ID. Then I noticed something …

My heart jumped into my stomach.

A car seat. There was an empty child’s car seat in the back of the car.

I started yelling at everyone, “Look for a baby! Go up and down the embankment and across the road. There might have been a baby in the car!”

But there wasn’t. Thank God. She hadn’t been driving with her child.

At that point, a paramedic came running from behind all the traffic. We did life support together until the ambulance finally arrived.

Emergency medical services got an intravenous line in and used medical anti-shock trousers. Thankfully, I already had the C collar on, and we’d been bagging her, so they could load her very quickly.

I got rid of my bloody gloves. I told a police officer I would come back. And then I went to my doctor’s appointment.

The window at my doctor’s office faced the access road, so the people there had seen all the traffic. They asked me what happened, and I said, “It was me. I saw it happen. I tried to help.” I was a little frazzled.

When I got back to the scene, the police and the fire chief kept thanking me for stopping. Why wouldn’t I stop? It was astounding to realize that they imagined somebody wouldn’t stop in a situation like this.

They told me the lady was alive. She was in the intensive care unit in critical condition, but she had survived. At that moment, I had this overwhelming feeling: God had put me in this exact place at the exact time to save her life.

Looking back, I think about how God ordered my steps. Without the mysterious flat tire, I would’ve gone to the hospital earlier. If my appointment hadn’t been rescheduled, I wouldn’t have been on the access road. All those events brought me there.

Several months later, the woman’s family contacted me and asked if we could meet. I found out more about her injuries. She’d had multiple skull fractures, facial fractures, and a broken jaw. Her upper arm was broken in three places. Her clavicle was broken. She had internal bleeding, a pelvic fracture, and a broken leg. She was 28 years old.

She’d had multiple surgeries, spent 2 months in the ICU, and another 3 months in intensive rehab. But she survived. It was incredible.

We all met up at a McDonald’s. First, her little son — who was the baby I thought might have been in the car — ran up to me and said, “Thank you for saving my mommy’s life.”

Then I turned, and there she was — a beautiful lady looking at me with awe and crying, saying, “It’s me.”

She obviously had gone through a transformation from all the injuries and the medications. She had a little bit of a speech delay, but mentally, she was there. She could walk.

She said, “You’re my angel. God put you there to save my life.” Her family all came up and hugged me. It was so beautiful.

She told me about the accident. She’d been speeding that day, zigzagging through lanes to get around the traffic. And she didn’t have her seatbelt on. She’d driven onto the shoulder to try to pass everyone, but it started narrowing. She clipped somebody’s bumper, went into a tailspin, and collided with a second vehicle, which caused her to flip over and down the embankment.

“God’s given me a new lease on life,” she said, “a fresh start. I will forever wear my seatbelt. And I’m going to do whatever I can to give back to other people because I don’t even feel like I deserve this.”

I just cried.

I’ve been a nurse for 29 years, first on the civilian side and later in the military. I’ve led codes and responded to trauma in a hospital setting or a deployed environment. I was well prepared to do what I did. But doing it under such stress with adrenaline bombarding me ... I’m amazed. I just think God’s hand was on me.

At that time, I was personally going through some things. After my heart surgery, I was in an emotional place where I didn’t feel loved or valued. But when I had that realization — when I knew that I was meant to be there to save her life, I also got the very clear message that I was valued and loved so much.

I know I have a very strong purpose. That day changed my life.
 

US Air Force Lt. Col. Anne Staley is the officer in charge of the Military Training Network, a division of the Defense Health Agency Education and Training Directorate in San Antonio, Texas.

A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

I was running my 25th New York City Marathon. It was 2018, and I almost pulled out of running that year. I wasn’t myself, and maybe that’s an understatement.

A month earlier, I had been involved in a malpractice case. I was found liable for $10 million. My colleagues didn’t think I had done anything wrong, but the jury did. And the local newspapers made me look like a villain.

I was devastated. But my priest, my friends, and my family all told me, “You can’t quit.” So, I decided to run for them.

I started on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge that morning with some friends from work. I usually listen to music as I’m running, but I didn’t that year. I was just in my zone, enjoying the crowds. They’re huge. Millions of people on the streets.

I was running well. I did half the race in an hour and 57 minutes. My family always meets me at mile 17, and I was almost there. I had reached 59th Street and was about to make the turn onto First Avenue.

That’s one of the noisiest places in the marathon. There’s a kind of tunnel, and with the crowd and the throng of runners, it’s incredibly loud. But somehow, I heard somebody yell, “Help!”

Now, how I heard that, I don’t know. And if I’d been listening to music like I always do, no way I would’ve heard it. I could swear it was an angel on my shoulder that said, “Turn around, dummy. You’ve got a person that needs your help to your left.”

I turned around and about 30 feet behind me, I saw a woman waving her hands and a runner on the ground. I thought, Somebody fainted. I pushed through the crowd to get to them. The woman was crying, saying, “My friend went down to tie her shoe and she fell back. I think she’s seizing or something.”

I got down and tried to wake the other woman up. I lifted her legs up. But I quickly realized there was more to the story. I felt for pulses and couldn’t feel them. I screamed for a defibrillator and started to do CPR.

Some volunteers and police started coming toward us. The police officers looked at me like, What’s this guy doing? I explained that I was a physician, and one of them began helping me with the CPR. As we did that, someone brought a defibrillator.

Meanwhile, runners were going past, almost over us. The police officers were trying to create a barrier.

The machine gave the woman a shock, but we didn’t get a response, so we resumed CPR. At that point, my legs began to cramp so badly I couldn’t go on. So the police officer took over, and I yelled, “I need an ambu bag!” Somebody brought one, and I started giving her oxygen.

At that point, a paramedic team arrived with a bigger defibrillator. We shocked her again. And again. That time we got results, but she quickly went out again. The fourth time, we got her heart back and she started breathing on her own.

We finally got her into an ambulance. I wanted to go with them, but the woman’s friend needed to get in, so there wasn’t enough room.

And then they were gone, and I was just standing there.

A police officer put his arm around me. He said, “Doc, you’re amazing. What do you need? Where can I take you?”

I said, “Take me? My wife is waiting for me at mile 17.”

I took off and ran. When I got to my wife and kids, they were so worried. We all wear tracking devices, and they could see that I had stopped for more than 20 minutes.

I fell into my wife’s arms and told her what had happened. I was crying. “I don’t know what to do. I need to get to the hospital.”

And she said, “No, you need to go finish the race.”

So, I did. It was painful because of the cramps, but I was numb at that point. I was thinking about the woman the whole way. My time was 5 hours and 20 minutes.

As soon as I finished, I went to every police officer I could find, but nobody knew anything. Suddenly, I remembered my cousin. He had previously been the head of EMS for New York City. I called him. “Abdo, it’s Ted, you’ve got to do me a favor.”

“What?” he said. “Are you delirious from running the marathon?”

I told him what I needed. He called me back 5 minutes later and said, “Ted, what’d you do? Everybody wants to know who you are and where you are! The woman just went out again at New York Cornell. But they got her back, and they’re bringing her up to the cath lab.”

After every marathon that I run, we host a big party at our house. My family and friends and neighbors all celebrate while I’m dying on the couch. That night, my daughter told everyone the story of what happened.

But I was still not right. Still thinking about the malpractice suit.

Yes, I just did something great. But I’d recently been called the worst physician in the world. The distraction of the marathon was gone, and I was back to thinking, What am I going to do with my life? Who’s ever going to want to see me again? I’m a pariah.

Everybody said, “Ted, what happened a month ago isn’t you. What happened today was you.”

I told them to leave it alone, but my daughter and my neighbor started calling people anyway. The next day I got a call from the local newspaper. It was the same journalist who had written about me from the trial. I told him I didn’t want to talk. I was actually pretty nasty.

But my wife said, “Ted, what are you doing? That guy was trying to help you.” So, I called back and apologized.

“Dr. Strange, we knew that story wasn’t right,” he said. “We have to write this story.”

After the article came out, I started getting more calls from the media. Channel 7 News and CBS News did segments. The New York Knicks invited us to a game and presented me with a watch. It was incredible. But I was also really embarrassed by it.

People started calling me a hero. I’m not a hero. I just did what I’m supposed to do, what I’m trained to do. Shame on me if I don’t do that. Good guy and hopefully good physician, sure, but not a hero.

I also give credit to the City of New York Police Department, the FDNY, and the volunteers. Without them, I couldn’t have done what I did. It was a true team effort.

A few weeks later, the woman went home to Minnesota. She’ll never run a marathon again, but she’s still alive to this day. It turned out she had a single lesion called the “widow-maker” lesion. She was in perfect health and had just completed an ultramarathon a few months before; but she had a genetic predisposition. She still calls me every December to thank me for another Christmas.

There’s more.

One year after this whole thing, almost to the date, I got a call from my attorney. “The court just threw out the malpractice verdict,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I’m a man of faith. And I believe all this happened for a reason. Maybe God was sending me a message, and that’s why I heard a call for help on 59th Street in my 25th marathon among millions of people in a crowd.

I ran the marathon the next year. And when I got to that spot, I stopped and reflected. Nobody knew why I was standing there, but I knew. To this day, I could take you to that spot.

I turn 65 next July, and I plan to keep on running the race.
 

Dr. Strange is chair of medicine at Staten Island University Hospital, associate ambulatory physician executive of the Staten Island Region, and an internal medicine and geriatric medicine physician with Northwell Health.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

I was running my 25th New York City Marathon. It was 2018, and I almost pulled out of running that year. I wasn’t myself, and maybe that’s an understatement.

A month earlier, I had been involved in a malpractice case. I was found liable for $10 million. My colleagues didn’t think I had done anything wrong, but the jury did. And the local newspapers made me look like a villain.

I was devastated. But my priest, my friends, and my family all told me, “You can’t quit.” So, I decided to run for them.

I started on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge that morning with some friends from work. I usually listen to music as I’m running, but I didn’t that year. I was just in my zone, enjoying the crowds. They’re huge. Millions of people on the streets.

I was running well. I did half the race in an hour and 57 minutes. My family always meets me at mile 17, and I was almost there. I had reached 59th Street and was about to make the turn onto First Avenue.

That’s one of the noisiest places in the marathon. There’s a kind of tunnel, and with the crowd and the throng of runners, it’s incredibly loud. But somehow, I heard somebody yell, “Help!”

Now, how I heard that, I don’t know. And if I’d been listening to music like I always do, no way I would’ve heard it. I could swear it was an angel on my shoulder that said, “Turn around, dummy. You’ve got a person that needs your help to your left.”

I turned around and about 30 feet behind me, I saw a woman waving her hands and a runner on the ground. I thought, Somebody fainted. I pushed through the crowd to get to them. The woman was crying, saying, “My friend went down to tie her shoe and she fell back. I think she’s seizing or something.”

I got down and tried to wake the other woman up. I lifted her legs up. But I quickly realized there was more to the story. I felt for pulses and couldn’t feel them. I screamed for a defibrillator and started to do CPR.

Some volunteers and police started coming toward us. The police officers looked at me like, What’s this guy doing? I explained that I was a physician, and one of them began helping me with the CPR. As we did that, someone brought a defibrillator.

Meanwhile, runners were going past, almost over us. The police officers were trying to create a barrier.

The machine gave the woman a shock, but we didn’t get a response, so we resumed CPR. At that point, my legs began to cramp so badly I couldn’t go on. So the police officer took over, and I yelled, “I need an ambu bag!” Somebody brought one, and I started giving her oxygen.

At that point, a paramedic team arrived with a bigger defibrillator. We shocked her again. And again. That time we got results, but she quickly went out again. The fourth time, we got her heart back and she started breathing on her own.

We finally got her into an ambulance. I wanted to go with them, but the woman’s friend needed to get in, so there wasn’t enough room.

And then they were gone, and I was just standing there.

A police officer put his arm around me. He said, “Doc, you’re amazing. What do you need? Where can I take you?”

I said, “Take me? My wife is waiting for me at mile 17.”

I took off and ran. When I got to my wife and kids, they were so worried. We all wear tracking devices, and they could see that I had stopped for more than 20 minutes.

I fell into my wife’s arms and told her what had happened. I was crying. “I don’t know what to do. I need to get to the hospital.”

And she said, “No, you need to go finish the race.”

So, I did. It was painful because of the cramps, but I was numb at that point. I was thinking about the woman the whole way. My time was 5 hours and 20 minutes.

As soon as I finished, I went to every police officer I could find, but nobody knew anything. Suddenly, I remembered my cousin. He had previously been the head of EMS for New York City. I called him. “Abdo, it’s Ted, you’ve got to do me a favor.”

“What?” he said. “Are you delirious from running the marathon?”

I told him what I needed. He called me back 5 minutes later and said, “Ted, what’d you do? Everybody wants to know who you are and where you are! The woman just went out again at New York Cornell. But they got her back, and they’re bringing her up to the cath lab.”

After every marathon that I run, we host a big party at our house. My family and friends and neighbors all celebrate while I’m dying on the couch. That night, my daughter told everyone the story of what happened.

But I was still not right. Still thinking about the malpractice suit.

Yes, I just did something great. But I’d recently been called the worst physician in the world. The distraction of the marathon was gone, and I was back to thinking, What am I going to do with my life? Who’s ever going to want to see me again? I’m a pariah.

Everybody said, “Ted, what happened a month ago isn’t you. What happened today was you.”

I told them to leave it alone, but my daughter and my neighbor started calling people anyway. The next day I got a call from the local newspaper. It was the same journalist who had written about me from the trial. I told him I didn’t want to talk. I was actually pretty nasty.

But my wife said, “Ted, what are you doing? That guy was trying to help you.” So, I called back and apologized.

“Dr. Strange, we knew that story wasn’t right,” he said. “We have to write this story.”

After the article came out, I started getting more calls from the media. Channel 7 News and CBS News did segments. The New York Knicks invited us to a game and presented me with a watch. It was incredible. But I was also really embarrassed by it.

People started calling me a hero. I’m not a hero. I just did what I’m supposed to do, what I’m trained to do. Shame on me if I don’t do that. Good guy and hopefully good physician, sure, but not a hero.

I also give credit to the City of New York Police Department, the FDNY, and the volunteers. Without them, I couldn’t have done what I did. It was a true team effort.

A few weeks later, the woman went home to Minnesota. She’ll never run a marathon again, but she’s still alive to this day. It turned out she had a single lesion called the “widow-maker” lesion. She was in perfect health and had just completed an ultramarathon a few months before; but she had a genetic predisposition. She still calls me every December to thank me for another Christmas.

There’s more.

One year after this whole thing, almost to the date, I got a call from my attorney. “The court just threw out the malpractice verdict,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I’m a man of faith. And I believe all this happened for a reason. Maybe God was sending me a message, and that’s why I heard a call for help on 59th Street in my 25th marathon among millions of people in a crowd.

I ran the marathon the next year. And when I got to that spot, I stopped and reflected. Nobody knew why I was standing there, but I knew. To this day, I could take you to that spot.

I turn 65 next July, and I plan to keep on running the race.
 

Dr. Strange is chair of medicine at Staten Island University Hospital, associate ambulatory physician executive of the Staten Island Region, and an internal medicine and geriatric medicine physician with Northwell Health.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

I was running my 25th New York City Marathon. It was 2018, and I almost pulled out of running that year. I wasn’t myself, and maybe that’s an understatement.

A month earlier, I had been involved in a malpractice case. I was found liable for $10 million. My colleagues didn’t think I had done anything wrong, but the jury did. And the local newspapers made me look like a villain.

I was devastated. But my priest, my friends, and my family all told me, “You can’t quit.” So, I decided to run for them.

I started on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge that morning with some friends from work. I usually listen to music as I’m running, but I didn’t that year. I was just in my zone, enjoying the crowds. They’re huge. Millions of people on the streets.

I was running well. I did half the race in an hour and 57 minutes. My family always meets me at mile 17, and I was almost there. I had reached 59th Street and was about to make the turn onto First Avenue.

That’s one of the noisiest places in the marathon. There’s a kind of tunnel, and with the crowd and the throng of runners, it’s incredibly loud. But somehow, I heard somebody yell, “Help!”

Now, how I heard that, I don’t know. And if I’d been listening to music like I always do, no way I would’ve heard it. I could swear it was an angel on my shoulder that said, “Turn around, dummy. You’ve got a person that needs your help to your left.”

I turned around and about 30 feet behind me, I saw a woman waving her hands and a runner on the ground. I thought, Somebody fainted. I pushed through the crowd to get to them. The woman was crying, saying, “My friend went down to tie her shoe and she fell back. I think she’s seizing or something.”

I got down and tried to wake the other woman up. I lifted her legs up. But I quickly realized there was more to the story. I felt for pulses and couldn’t feel them. I screamed for a defibrillator and started to do CPR.

Some volunteers and police started coming toward us. The police officers looked at me like, What’s this guy doing? I explained that I was a physician, and one of them began helping me with the CPR. As we did that, someone brought a defibrillator.

Meanwhile, runners were going past, almost over us. The police officers were trying to create a barrier.

The machine gave the woman a shock, but we didn’t get a response, so we resumed CPR. At that point, my legs began to cramp so badly I couldn’t go on. So the police officer took over, and I yelled, “I need an ambu bag!” Somebody brought one, and I started giving her oxygen.

At that point, a paramedic team arrived with a bigger defibrillator. We shocked her again. And again. That time we got results, but she quickly went out again. The fourth time, we got her heart back and she started breathing on her own.

We finally got her into an ambulance. I wanted to go with them, but the woman’s friend needed to get in, so there wasn’t enough room.

And then they were gone, and I was just standing there.

A police officer put his arm around me. He said, “Doc, you’re amazing. What do you need? Where can I take you?”

I said, “Take me? My wife is waiting for me at mile 17.”

I took off and ran. When I got to my wife and kids, they were so worried. We all wear tracking devices, and they could see that I had stopped for more than 20 minutes.

I fell into my wife’s arms and told her what had happened. I was crying. “I don’t know what to do. I need to get to the hospital.”

And she said, “No, you need to go finish the race.”

So, I did. It was painful because of the cramps, but I was numb at that point. I was thinking about the woman the whole way. My time was 5 hours and 20 minutes.

As soon as I finished, I went to every police officer I could find, but nobody knew anything. Suddenly, I remembered my cousin. He had previously been the head of EMS for New York City. I called him. “Abdo, it’s Ted, you’ve got to do me a favor.”

“What?” he said. “Are you delirious from running the marathon?”

I told him what I needed. He called me back 5 minutes later and said, “Ted, what’d you do? Everybody wants to know who you are and where you are! The woman just went out again at New York Cornell. But they got her back, and they’re bringing her up to the cath lab.”

After every marathon that I run, we host a big party at our house. My family and friends and neighbors all celebrate while I’m dying on the couch. That night, my daughter told everyone the story of what happened.

But I was still not right. Still thinking about the malpractice suit.

Yes, I just did something great. But I’d recently been called the worst physician in the world. The distraction of the marathon was gone, and I was back to thinking, What am I going to do with my life? Who’s ever going to want to see me again? I’m a pariah.

Everybody said, “Ted, what happened a month ago isn’t you. What happened today was you.”

I told them to leave it alone, but my daughter and my neighbor started calling people anyway. The next day I got a call from the local newspaper. It was the same journalist who had written about me from the trial. I told him I didn’t want to talk. I was actually pretty nasty.

But my wife said, “Ted, what are you doing? That guy was trying to help you.” So, I called back and apologized.

“Dr. Strange, we knew that story wasn’t right,” he said. “We have to write this story.”

After the article came out, I started getting more calls from the media. Channel 7 News and CBS News did segments. The New York Knicks invited us to a game and presented me with a watch. It was incredible. But I was also really embarrassed by it.

People started calling me a hero. I’m not a hero. I just did what I’m supposed to do, what I’m trained to do. Shame on me if I don’t do that. Good guy and hopefully good physician, sure, but not a hero.

I also give credit to the City of New York Police Department, the FDNY, and the volunteers. Without them, I couldn’t have done what I did. It was a true team effort.

A few weeks later, the woman went home to Minnesota. She’ll never run a marathon again, but she’s still alive to this day. It turned out she had a single lesion called the “widow-maker” lesion. She was in perfect health and had just completed an ultramarathon a few months before; but she had a genetic predisposition. She still calls me every December to thank me for another Christmas.

There’s more.

One year after this whole thing, almost to the date, I got a call from my attorney. “The court just threw out the malpractice verdict,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I’m a man of faith. And I believe all this happened for a reason. Maybe God was sending me a message, and that’s why I heard a call for help on 59th Street in my 25th marathon among millions of people in a crowd.

I ran the marathon the next year. And when I got to that spot, I stopped and reflected. Nobody knew why I was standing there, but I knew. To this day, I could take you to that spot.

I turn 65 next July, and I plan to keep on running the race.
 

Dr. Strange is chair of medicine at Staten Island University Hospital, associate ambulatory physician executive of the Staten Island Region, and an internal medicine and geriatric medicine physician with Northwell Health.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Sunday night. Las Vegas. Jason Aldean had just started playing.

My wife and I were at the 2017 Route 91 Harvest Festival with three other couples; two of them were our close friends. We were sitting in the VIP section, a tented area right next to the stage. We started hearing what I was convinced were fireworks.

I’ve been in the Army for 20 some years. I’ve been deployed and shot at multiple times. But these shots were far away. And you don’t expect people to be shooting at you at a concert.

I was on the edge of the VIP area, so I could see around the corner of the tent. I looked up at the Mandalay Bay and saw the muzzle flash in the hotel window. That’s when I knew.

I screamed: “Somebody’s shooting at us! Everybody get down!”

It took a while for people to realize what was going on. When the first couple volleys sprayed into the crowd, nobody understood. But once enough people had been hit and dropped, everyone knew, and it was just mass exodus.

People screamed and ran everywhere. Some of them tried to jump over the front barrier so they could get underneath the stage. Others were trying to pick up loved ones who’d been shot.

The next 15 minutes are a little foggy. I was helping my wife and the people around us to get down. Funny things come back to you afterward. One of my friends was carrying a 16-ounce beer in his hand. Somebody’s shooting at him and he’s walking around with his beer like he’s afraid to put it down. It was so surreal.

We got everybody underneath the tent, and then we just sat there. There would be shooting and then a pause. You’d think it was over. And then there would be more shooting and another pause. It felt like it never was going to stop.

After a short period of time, somebody came in with an official badge, maybe FBI, who knows. They said: “Okay, everybody up. We’ve got to get you out of here.” So, we all got up and headed across the stage. The gate they were taking us to was in full view of the shooter, so it wasn’t very safe.

As I got up, I looked out at the field. Bodies were scattered everywhere. I’m a trauma surgeon by trade. I couldn’t just leave.

I told my two best friends to take my wife with them. My wife lost her mind at that point. She didn’t want me to run out on the field. But I had to. I saw the injured and they needed help. Another buddy and I jumped over the fence and started taking care of people.

The feeling of being out on the field was one of complete frustration. I was in sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. We had no stretchers, no medical supplies, no nothing. I didn’t have a belt to use as a tourniquet. I didn’t even have a bandage.

Worse: We were seeing high-velocity gunshot wounds that I’ve seen for 20 years in the Army. I know how to take care of them. I know how to fix them. But there wasn’t a single thing I could do.

We had to get people off the field, so we started gathering up as many as we could. We didn’t know if we were going to get shot at again, so we were trying to hide behind things as we ran. Our main objective was just to get people to a place of safety.

A lot of it is a blur. But a few patients stick out in my mind.

A father and son. The father had been shot through the abdomen, exited out through his back. He was in severe pain and couldn’t walk.

A young girl shot in the arm. Her parents carrying her.

A group of people doing CPR on a young lady. She had a gunshot wound to the head or neck. She was obviously dead. But they were still doing chest compressions in the middle of the field. I had to say to them: “She’s dead. You can’t save her. You need to get off the field.” But they wouldn’t stop. We picked her up and took her out while they continued to do CPR.

Later, I realized I knew that woman. She was part of a group of friends that we would see at the festival. I hadn’t recognized her. I also didn’t know that my friend Marco was there. A month or 2 later, we figured out that he was one of the people doing CPR. And I was the guy who came up and said his friend was dead.

Some people were so badly injured we couldn’t lift them. We started tearing apart the fencing used to separate the crowd and slid sections of the barricades under the wounded to carry them. We also carried off a bunch of people who were dead.

We were moving patients to a covered bar area where we thought they would be safer. What we didn’t know was there was an ambulance rally point at the very far end of the field. Unfortunately, we had no idea it was there.

I saw a lot of other first responders out there, people from the fire department, corpsmen from the Navy, medics. I ran into an anesthesia provider and a series of nurses.

When we got everybody off the field, we started moving them into vehicles. People were bringing their trucks up. One guy even stole a truck so he could drive people to the ED. There wasn’t a lot of triage. We were just stacking whoever we could into the backs of these pickups.

I tried to help a nurse taking care of a lady who had been shot in the neck. She was sitting sort of half upright with the patient lying in her arms. When I reached to help her, she said: “You can’t move her.”

“We need to get her to the hospital,” I replied.

“This is the only position that this lady has an airway,” she said. “You’re going to have to move both of us together. If I move at all, she loses her airway.”

So, a group of us managed to slide something underneath and lift them into the back of a truck.

Loading the wounded went on for a while. And then, just like that, everybody was gone.

I walked back out onto this field which not too long ago held 30,000 people. It was as if aliens had just suddenly beamed everyone out.

There was stuff on the ground everywhere – blankets, clothing, single boots, wallets, purses. I walked past a food stand with food still cooking on the grill. There was a beer tap still running. It was the weirdest feeling I’d ever had in my life.

After that, things got a little crazy again. There had been a report of a second shooter, and no one knew if it was real or not. The police started herding a group of us across the street to the Tropicana. We were still trying to take cover as we walked there. We went past a big lion statue in front of one of the casinos. I have a picture from two years earlier of me sitting on the back of that lion. I remember thinking: Now I’m hunkered down behind the same lion hiding from a shooter. Times change.

They brought about 50 of us into a food court, which was closed. They wouldn’t tell us what was going on. And they wouldn’t let us leave. This went on for hours. Meanwhile, I had dropped my cell phone on the field, so my wife couldn’t get hold of me, and later she told me she assumed I’d been shot. I was just hoping that she was safe.

People were huddled together, crying, holding each other. Most were wearing Western concert–going stuff, which for a lot of them wasn’t very much clothing. The hotel eventually brought some blankets.

I was covered in blood. My shirt, shorts, and sandals were soaked. It was running down my legs. I couldn’t find anything to eat or drink. At one point, I sat down at a slot machine, put a hundred dollars in, and started playing slots. I didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t take me very long to lose it all.

Finally, I started looking for a way to get out. I checked all the exits, but there were security and police there. Then I ran into a guy who said he had found a fire exit. When we opened the fire door, there was a big security guard there, and he said: “You can’t leave.”

We said: “Try to stop us. We’re out of here.”

Another thing I’ll always remember – after I broke out of the Tropicana, I was low crawling through the bushes along the Strip toward my hotel. I got a block away and stood up to cross the street. I pushed the crosswalk button and waited. There were no cars, no people. I’ve just broken all the rules, violated police orders, and now I’m standing there waiting for a blinking light to allow me to cross the street!

I made it back to my hotel room around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. My wife was hysterical because I hadn’t been answering my cell phone. I came in, and she gave me a big hug, and I got in the shower. Our plane was leaving in a few hours, so we laid down, but didn’t sleep.

As we were getting ready to leave, my wife’s phone rang, and it was my number. A guy at the same hotel had found my phone on the field and called the “in case of emergency” number. So, I got my phone back.

It wasn’t easy to deal with the aftermath. It really affected everybody’s life. To this day, I’m particular about where we sit at concerts. My wife isn’t comfortable if she can’t see an exit. I now have a med bag in my car with tourniquets, pressure dressings, airway masks for CPR.

I’ll never forget that feeling of absolute frustration. That lady without an airway – I could’ve put a trach in her very quickly and made a difference. Were they able to keep her airway? Did she live?

The father and son – did the father make it? I have no idea what happened to any of them. Later, I went through and looked at the pictures of all the people who had died, but I couldn’t recognize anybody.

The hardest part was being there with my wife. I’ve been in places where people are shooting at you, in vehicles that are getting bombed. I’ve always believed that when it’s your time, it’s your time. If I get shot, well, okay, that happens. But if she got shot or my friends ... that would be really tough.

A year later, I gave a talk about it at a conference. I thought I had worked through everything. But all of those feelings, all of that helplessness, that anger, everything came roaring back to the surface again. They asked me how I deal with it, and I said: “Well ... poorly.” I’m the guy who sticks it in a box in the back of his brain, tucks it in and buries it with a bunch of other boxes, and hopes it never comes out again. But every once in a while, it does.

There were all kinds of people out on that field, some with medical training, some without, all determined to help, trying to get those injured people where they needed to be. In retrospect, it does make you feel good. Somebody was shooting at us, but people were still willing to stand up and risk their lives to help others.

We still talk with our friends about what happened that night. Over the years, it’s become less and less. But there’s still a text sent out every year on that day: “Today is the anniversary. Glad we’re all alive. Thanks for being our friends.”

Dr. Sebesta is a bariatric surgeon with MultiCare Health System in Tacoma, Wash.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Sunday night. Las Vegas. Jason Aldean had just started playing.

My wife and I were at the 2017 Route 91 Harvest Festival with three other couples; two of them were our close friends. We were sitting in the VIP section, a tented area right next to the stage. We started hearing what I was convinced were fireworks.

I’ve been in the Army for 20 some years. I’ve been deployed and shot at multiple times. But these shots were far away. And you don’t expect people to be shooting at you at a concert.

I was on the edge of the VIP area, so I could see around the corner of the tent. I looked up at the Mandalay Bay and saw the muzzle flash in the hotel window. That’s when I knew.

I screamed: “Somebody’s shooting at us! Everybody get down!”

It took a while for people to realize what was going on. When the first couple volleys sprayed into the crowd, nobody understood. But once enough people had been hit and dropped, everyone knew, and it was just mass exodus.

People screamed and ran everywhere. Some of them tried to jump over the front barrier so they could get underneath the stage. Others were trying to pick up loved ones who’d been shot.

The next 15 minutes are a little foggy. I was helping my wife and the people around us to get down. Funny things come back to you afterward. One of my friends was carrying a 16-ounce beer in his hand. Somebody’s shooting at him and he’s walking around with his beer like he’s afraid to put it down. It was so surreal.

We got everybody underneath the tent, and then we just sat there. There would be shooting and then a pause. You’d think it was over. And then there would be more shooting and another pause. It felt like it never was going to stop.

After a short period of time, somebody came in with an official badge, maybe FBI, who knows. They said: “Okay, everybody up. We’ve got to get you out of here.” So, we all got up and headed across the stage. The gate they were taking us to was in full view of the shooter, so it wasn’t very safe.

As I got up, I looked out at the field. Bodies were scattered everywhere. I’m a trauma surgeon by trade. I couldn’t just leave.

I told my two best friends to take my wife with them. My wife lost her mind at that point. She didn’t want me to run out on the field. But I had to. I saw the injured and they needed help. Another buddy and I jumped over the fence and started taking care of people.

The feeling of being out on the field was one of complete frustration. I was in sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. We had no stretchers, no medical supplies, no nothing. I didn’t have a belt to use as a tourniquet. I didn’t even have a bandage.

Worse: We were seeing high-velocity gunshot wounds that I’ve seen for 20 years in the Army. I know how to take care of them. I know how to fix them. But there wasn’t a single thing I could do.

We had to get people off the field, so we started gathering up as many as we could. We didn’t know if we were going to get shot at again, so we were trying to hide behind things as we ran. Our main objective was just to get people to a place of safety.

A lot of it is a blur. But a few patients stick out in my mind.

A father and son. The father had been shot through the abdomen, exited out through his back. He was in severe pain and couldn’t walk.

A young girl shot in the arm. Her parents carrying her.

A group of people doing CPR on a young lady. She had a gunshot wound to the head or neck. She was obviously dead. But they were still doing chest compressions in the middle of the field. I had to say to them: “She’s dead. You can’t save her. You need to get off the field.” But they wouldn’t stop. We picked her up and took her out while they continued to do CPR.

Later, I realized I knew that woman. She was part of a group of friends that we would see at the festival. I hadn’t recognized her. I also didn’t know that my friend Marco was there. A month or 2 later, we figured out that he was one of the people doing CPR. And I was the guy who came up and said his friend was dead.

Some people were so badly injured we couldn’t lift them. We started tearing apart the fencing used to separate the crowd and slid sections of the barricades under the wounded to carry them. We also carried off a bunch of people who were dead.

We were moving patients to a covered bar area where we thought they would be safer. What we didn’t know was there was an ambulance rally point at the very far end of the field. Unfortunately, we had no idea it was there.

I saw a lot of other first responders out there, people from the fire department, corpsmen from the Navy, medics. I ran into an anesthesia provider and a series of nurses.

When we got everybody off the field, we started moving them into vehicles. People were bringing their trucks up. One guy even stole a truck so he could drive people to the ED. There wasn’t a lot of triage. We were just stacking whoever we could into the backs of these pickups.

I tried to help a nurse taking care of a lady who had been shot in the neck. She was sitting sort of half upright with the patient lying in her arms. When I reached to help her, she said: “You can’t move her.”

“We need to get her to the hospital,” I replied.

“This is the only position that this lady has an airway,” she said. “You’re going to have to move both of us together. If I move at all, she loses her airway.”

So, a group of us managed to slide something underneath and lift them into the back of a truck.

Loading the wounded went on for a while. And then, just like that, everybody was gone.

I walked back out onto this field which not too long ago held 30,000 people. It was as if aliens had just suddenly beamed everyone out.

There was stuff on the ground everywhere – blankets, clothing, single boots, wallets, purses. I walked past a food stand with food still cooking on the grill. There was a beer tap still running. It was the weirdest feeling I’d ever had in my life.

After that, things got a little crazy again. There had been a report of a second shooter, and no one knew if it was real or not. The police started herding a group of us across the street to the Tropicana. We were still trying to take cover as we walked there. We went past a big lion statue in front of one of the casinos. I have a picture from two years earlier of me sitting on the back of that lion. I remember thinking: Now I’m hunkered down behind the same lion hiding from a shooter. Times change.

They brought about 50 of us into a food court, which was closed. They wouldn’t tell us what was going on. And they wouldn’t let us leave. This went on for hours. Meanwhile, I had dropped my cell phone on the field, so my wife couldn’t get hold of me, and later she told me she assumed I’d been shot. I was just hoping that she was safe.

People were huddled together, crying, holding each other. Most were wearing Western concert–going stuff, which for a lot of them wasn’t very much clothing. The hotel eventually brought some blankets.

I was covered in blood. My shirt, shorts, and sandals were soaked. It was running down my legs. I couldn’t find anything to eat or drink. At one point, I sat down at a slot machine, put a hundred dollars in, and started playing slots. I didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t take me very long to lose it all.

Finally, I started looking for a way to get out. I checked all the exits, but there were security and police there. Then I ran into a guy who said he had found a fire exit. When we opened the fire door, there was a big security guard there, and he said: “You can’t leave.”

We said: “Try to stop us. We’re out of here.”

Another thing I’ll always remember – after I broke out of the Tropicana, I was low crawling through the bushes along the Strip toward my hotel. I got a block away and stood up to cross the street. I pushed the crosswalk button and waited. There were no cars, no people. I’ve just broken all the rules, violated police orders, and now I’m standing there waiting for a blinking light to allow me to cross the street!

I made it back to my hotel room around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. My wife was hysterical because I hadn’t been answering my cell phone. I came in, and she gave me a big hug, and I got in the shower. Our plane was leaving in a few hours, so we laid down, but didn’t sleep.

As we were getting ready to leave, my wife’s phone rang, and it was my number. A guy at the same hotel had found my phone on the field and called the “in case of emergency” number. So, I got my phone back.

It wasn’t easy to deal with the aftermath. It really affected everybody’s life. To this day, I’m particular about where we sit at concerts. My wife isn’t comfortable if she can’t see an exit. I now have a med bag in my car with tourniquets, pressure dressings, airway masks for CPR.

I’ll never forget that feeling of absolute frustration. That lady without an airway – I could’ve put a trach in her very quickly and made a difference. Were they able to keep her airway? Did she live?

The father and son – did the father make it? I have no idea what happened to any of them. Later, I went through and looked at the pictures of all the people who had died, but I couldn’t recognize anybody.

The hardest part was being there with my wife. I’ve been in places where people are shooting at you, in vehicles that are getting bombed. I’ve always believed that when it’s your time, it’s your time. If I get shot, well, okay, that happens. But if she got shot or my friends ... that would be really tough.

A year later, I gave a talk about it at a conference. I thought I had worked through everything. But all of those feelings, all of that helplessness, that anger, everything came roaring back to the surface again. They asked me how I deal with it, and I said: “Well ... poorly.” I’m the guy who sticks it in a box in the back of his brain, tucks it in and buries it with a bunch of other boxes, and hopes it never comes out again. But every once in a while, it does.

There were all kinds of people out on that field, some with medical training, some without, all determined to help, trying to get those injured people where they needed to be. In retrospect, it does make you feel good. Somebody was shooting at us, but people were still willing to stand up and risk their lives to help others.

We still talk with our friends about what happened that night. Over the years, it’s become less and less. But there’s still a text sent out every year on that day: “Today is the anniversary. Glad we’re all alive. Thanks for being our friends.”

Dr. Sebesta is a bariatric surgeon with MultiCare Health System in Tacoma, Wash.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Sunday night. Las Vegas. Jason Aldean had just started playing.

My wife and I were at the 2017 Route 91 Harvest Festival with three other couples; two of them were our close friends. We were sitting in the VIP section, a tented area right next to the stage. We started hearing what I was convinced were fireworks.

I’ve been in the Army for 20 some years. I’ve been deployed and shot at multiple times. But these shots were far away. And you don’t expect people to be shooting at you at a concert.

I was on the edge of the VIP area, so I could see around the corner of the tent. I looked up at the Mandalay Bay and saw the muzzle flash in the hotel window. That’s when I knew.

I screamed: “Somebody’s shooting at us! Everybody get down!”

It took a while for people to realize what was going on. When the first couple volleys sprayed into the crowd, nobody understood. But once enough people had been hit and dropped, everyone knew, and it was just mass exodus.

People screamed and ran everywhere. Some of them tried to jump over the front barrier so they could get underneath the stage. Others were trying to pick up loved ones who’d been shot.

The next 15 minutes are a little foggy. I was helping my wife and the people around us to get down. Funny things come back to you afterward. One of my friends was carrying a 16-ounce beer in his hand. Somebody’s shooting at him and he’s walking around with his beer like he’s afraid to put it down. It was so surreal.

We got everybody underneath the tent, and then we just sat there. There would be shooting and then a pause. You’d think it was over. And then there would be more shooting and another pause. It felt like it never was going to stop.

After a short period of time, somebody came in with an official badge, maybe FBI, who knows. They said: “Okay, everybody up. We’ve got to get you out of here.” So, we all got up and headed across the stage. The gate they were taking us to was in full view of the shooter, so it wasn’t very safe.

As I got up, I looked out at the field. Bodies were scattered everywhere. I’m a trauma surgeon by trade. I couldn’t just leave.

I told my two best friends to take my wife with them. My wife lost her mind at that point. She didn’t want me to run out on the field. But I had to. I saw the injured and they needed help. Another buddy and I jumped over the fence and started taking care of people.

The feeling of being out on the field was one of complete frustration. I was in sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. We had no stretchers, no medical supplies, no nothing. I didn’t have a belt to use as a tourniquet. I didn’t even have a bandage.

Worse: We were seeing high-velocity gunshot wounds that I’ve seen for 20 years in the Army. I know how to take care of them. I know how to fix them. But there wasn’t a single thing I could do.

We had to get people off the field, so we started gathering up as many as we could. We didn’t know if we were going to get shot at again, so we were trying to hide behind things as we ran. Our main objective was just to get people to a place of safety.

A lot of it is a blur. But a few patients stick out in my mind.

A father and son. The father had been shot through the abdomen, exited out through his back. He was in severe pain and couldn’t walk.

A young girl shot in the arm. Her parents carrying her.

A group of people doing CPR on a young lady. She had a gunshot wound to the head or neck. She was obviously dead. But they were still doing chest compressions in the middle of the field. I had to say to them: “She’s dead. You can’t save her. You need to get off the field.” But they wouldn’t stop. We picked her up and took her out while they continued to do CPR.

Later, I realized I knew that woman. She was part of a group of friends that we would see at the festival. I hadn’t recognized her. I also didn’t know that my friend Marco was there. A month or 2 later, we figured out that he was one of the people doing CPR. And I was the guy who came up and said his friend was dead.

Some people were so badly injured we couldn’t lift them. We started tearing apart the fencing used to separate the crowd and slid sections of the barricades under the wounded to carry them. We also carried off a bunch of people who were dead.

We were moving patients to a covered bar area where we thought they would be safer. What we didn’t know was there was an ambulance rally point at the very far end of the field. Unfortunately, we had no idea it was there.

I saw a lot of other first responders out there, people from the fire department, corpsmen from the Navy, medics. I ran into an anesthesia provider and a series of nurses.

When we got everybody off the field, we started moving them into vehicles. People were bringing their trucks up. One guy even stole a truck so he could drive people to the ED. There wasn’t a lot of triage. We were just stacking whoever we could into the backs of these pickups.

I tried to help a nurse taking care of a lady who had been shot in the neck. She was sitting sort of half upright with the patient lying in her arms. When I reached to help her, she said: “You can’t move her.”

“We need to get her to the hospital,” I replied.

“This is the only position that this lady has an airway,” she said. “You’re going to have to move both of us together. If I move at all, she loses her airway.”

So, a group of us managed to slide something underneath and lift them into the back of a truck.

Loading the wounded went on for a while. And then, just like that, everybody was gone.

I walked back out onto this field which not too long ago held 30,000 people. It was as if aliens had just suddenly beamed everyone out.

There was stuff on the ground everywhere – blankets, clothing, single boots, wallets, purses. I walked past a food stand with food still cooking on the grill. There was a beer tap still running. It was the weirdest feeling I’d ever had in my life.

After that, things got a little crazy again. There had been a report of a second shooter, and no one knew if it was real or not. The police started herding a group of us across the street to the Tropicana. We were still trying to take cover as we walked there. We went past a big lion statue in front of one of the casinos. I have a picture from two years earlier of me sitting on the back of that lion. I remember thinking: Now I’m hunkered down behind the same lion hiding from a shooter. Times change.

They brought about 50 of us into a food court, which was closed. They wouldn’t tell us what was going on. And they wouldn’t let us leave. This went on for hours. Meanwhile, I had dropped my cell phone on the field, so my wife couldn’t get hold of me, and later she told me she assumed I’d been shot. I was just hoping that she was safe.

People were huddled together, crying, holding each other. Most were wearing Western concert–going stuff, which for a lot of them wasn’t very much clothing. The hotel eventually brought some blankets.

I was covered in blood. My shirt, shorts, and sandals were soaked. It was running down my legs. I couldn’t find anything to eat or drink. At one point, I sat down at a slot machine, put a hundred dollars in, and started playing slots. I didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t take me very long to lose it all.

Finally, I started looking for a way to get out. I checked all the exits, but there were security and police there. Then I ran into a guy who said he had found a fire exit. When we opened the fire door, there was a big security guard there, and he said: “You can’t leave.”

We said: “Try to stop us. We’re out of here.”

Another thing I’ll always remember – after I broke out of the Tropicana, I was low crawling through the bushes along the Strip toward my hotel. I got a block away and stood up to cross the street. I pushed the crosswalk button and waited. There were no cars, no people. I’ve just broken all the rules, violated police orders, and now I’m standing there waiting for a blinking light to allow me to cross the street!

I made it back to my hotel room around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. My wife was hysterical because I hadn’t been answering my cell phone. I came in, and she gave me a big hug, and I got in the shower. Our plane was leaving in a few hours, so we laid down, but didn’t sleep.

As we were getting ready to leave, my wife’s phone rang, and it was my number. A guy at the same hotel had found my phone on the field and called the “in case of emergency” number. So, I got my phone back.

It wasn’t easy to deal with the aftermath. It really affected everybody’s life. To this day, I’m particular about where we sit at concerts. My wife isn’t comfortable if she can’t see an exit. I now have a med bag in my car with tourniquets, pressure dressings, airway masks for CPR.

I’ll never forget that feeling of absolute frustration. That lady without an airway – I could’ve put a trach in her very quickly and made a difference. Were they able to keep her airway? Did she live?

The father and son – did the father make it? I have no idea what happened to any of them. Later, I went through and looked at the pictures of all the people who had died, but I couldn’t recognize anybody.

The hardest part was being there with my wife. I’ve been in places where people are shooting at you, in vehicles that are getting bombed. I’ve always believed that when it’s your time, it’s your time. If I get shot, well, okay, that happens. But if she got shot or my friends ... that would be really tough.

A year later, I gave a talk about it at a conference. I thought I had worked through everything. But all of those feelings, all of that helplessness, that anger, everything came roaring back to the surface again. They asked me how I deal with it, and I said: “Well ... poorly.” I’m the guy who sticks it in a box in the back of his brain, tucks it in and buries it with a bunch of other boxes, and hopes it never comes out again. But every once in a while, it does.

There were all kinds of people out on that field, some with medical training, some without, all determined to help, trying to get those injured people where they needed to be. In retrospect, it does make you feel good. Somebody was shooting at us, but people were still willing to stand up and risk their lives to help others.

We still talk with our friends about what happened that night. Over the years, it’s become less and less. But there’s still a text sent out every year on that day: “Today is the anniversary. Glad we’re all alive. Thanks for being our friends.”

Dr. Sebesta is a bariatric surgeon with MultiCare Health System in Tacoma, Wash.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.