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 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.

It seemed like a typical kind of day. I was out the door by 6:00 a.m., heading into work for a shift on I-35 West, my daily commute. It was still dark out. A little bit colder that morning, but nothing us Texans aren’t used to.

I was cruising down the tollway, which is separated from the main highway by a barrier. That stretch has a slight hill and turns to the left. You can’t see anything beyond the hill when you’re at the bottom.

As I made my way up, I spotted brake lights about 400 yards ahead. I eased on my brake, and next thing I knew, I was sliding.

I realized, I’m on black ice.

I was driving a 2011 Toyota FJ Cruiser and I had it all beefed up – lift tires, winch bumpers front and back. I had never had any sort of issue like that.

My ABS brakes kicked in. I slowed, but not fast enough. I saw a wall of crashed cars in front of me.

I was in the left-hand lane, so I turned my steering wheel into the center median. I could hear the whole side of my vehicle scraping against it. I managed to slow down enough to just tap the vehicle in front of me.

I looked in my passenger side-view mirror and saw headlights coming in the right lane. But this car couldn’t slow down. It crashed into the wreckage to my right.

That’s when it sunk in: There was going to be a car coming in my lane, and it might not be able to stop.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw headlights. Sparks flying off that center median.

I didn’t know at the time, but it was a fully loaded semi-truck traveling about 60 miles an hour.

I had a split second to think: This is it. This is how it ends. I closed my eyes.

It was the most violent impact I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I had no idea until afterward, but I had slammed into the vehicle in front of me and my SUV did a kind of 360° barrel roll over the median into the northbound lanes, landing wheels down on top of my sheared off roof rack.

Everything stopped. I opened my eyes. All my airbags had deployed. I gently tried moving my arms and legs, and they worked. I couldn’t move my left foot. It was wedged underneath the brake pedal. But I wasn’t in any pain, just very confused and disoriented. I knew I needed to get out of the vehicle.

My door was wedged shut, so I crawled out of the broken window, slipping on the black ice. I realized I had hit a Fort Worth police cruiser, now all smashed up. The driver couldn’t open his door. So, I helped him force it open, got him out of the vehicle, and checked on him. He was fine.

I had no idea how many vehicles and people were involved. I was in so much shock that the only thing I could do was immediately revert back to my training. I was the only first responder there. No ambulances on scene yet, no fire. So, I did what I know how to do – except without any tools. I tried to triage as many people as I could.

I was helping people with lacerations, back and neck issues from the violent impacts. When you’re involved in a mass casualty incident like that, you have to assess which patients will be the most viable and need the most immediate attention. You have greens, yellows, reds, and then blacks – the deceased. Someone who doesn’t have a pulse and isn’t breathing, you can’t necessarily do CPR because you don’t have enough resources. You have to use your best judgment.

Meanwhile, the crashes kept coming. I found out later I was roughly vehicle No. 50 in the pileup; 83 more would follow. I heard them over and over – a crash and then screams from people in their vehicles. Each time a car hit, the entire pileup would move a couple of inches, getting more and more compacted. With that going on, I couldn’t go in there to pull people out. That scene was absolutely unsafe.

It felt like forever, but about 10 minutes later, an ambulance showed up, and I walked over to them. Because I was in my work uniform, they thought I was there on a call.

A couple fire crews came, and a firefighter yelled, “Hey, we need a backboard!” So, I grabbed a backboard from their unit and helped load up a patient. Then I heard somebody screaming, “This patient needs a stretcher!” A woman was having lumbar pain that seemed excruciating. I helped move her from the wreckage and carry her over to the stretcher. I started trying to get as many people as I could out of their cars.

Around this time, one of my supervisors showed up. He thought I was there working. But then he asked me, “Why is your face bleeding? Why do you have blood coming from your nose?” I pointed to my vehicle, and his jaw just dropped. He said, “Okay, you’re done. Go sit in my vehicle over there.”

He put a stop to my helping out, which was probably for the best. Because I actually had a concussion, a bone contusion in my foot, and a severely sprained ankle. The next day, I felt like I had gotten hit by a truck. (I had!) But when you have so much adrenaline pumping, you don’t feel pain or emotion. You don’t really feel anything.

While I was sitting in that vehicle, I called my mom to let her know I was okay. My parents were watching the news, and there was an aerial view of the accident. It was massive – a giant pile of metal stretching 200 or 300 yards. Six people had perished, more than 60 were hurt.

That night, our public information officer reached out to me about doing an interview with NBC. So, I told my story about what happened. Because of the concussion, a lot of it was a blur.

A day later, I got a call on my cell phone and someone said, “This is Tyler from Toyota. We saw the NBC interview. We wanted to let you know, don’t worry about getting a new vehicle. Just tell us what color 4Runner you want.”

My first thought was: Okay, this can’t be real. This doesn’t happen to people like me. But it turned out that it was, and they put me in a brand new vehicle.

Toyota started sending me to events like NASCAR races, putting me up in VIP suites. It was a cool experience. But it’s just surface stuff – it’s never going to erase what happened. The experience left a mark. It took me 6 months to a year to get rid of that feeling of the impact. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the whole scenario would replay in my head.

In EMS, we have a saying: “Every patient is practice for the next one.” That pileup – you can’t train for something like that. We all learned from it, so we can better prepare if anything like that happens again.

Since then, I’ve seen people die in motor vehicle collisions from a lot less than what happened to me. I’m not religious or spiritual, but I believe there must be a reason why I’m still here.

Now I see patients in traffic accidents who are very distraught even though they’re going to be okay. I tell them, “I’m sorry this happened to you. But remember, this is not the end. You are alive. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t change while you’re with me.”
 

Trey McDaniel is a paramedic with MedStar Mobile Healthcare in Fort Worth, Tex.

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

It seemed like a typical kind of day. I was out the door by 6:00 a.m., heading into work for a shift on I-35 West, my daily commute. It was still dark out. A little bit colder that morning, but nothing us Texans aren’t used to.

I was cruising down the tollway, which is separated from the main highway by a barrier. That stretch has a slight hill and turns to the left. You can’t see anything beyond the hill when you’re at the bottom.

As I made my way up, I spotted brake lights about 400 yards ahead. I eased on my brake, and next thing I knew, I was sliding.

I realized, I’m on black ice.

I was driving a 2011 Toyota FJ Cruiser and I had it all beefed up – lift tires, winch bumpers front and back. I had never had any sort of issue like that.

My ABS brakes kicked in. I slowed, but not fast enough. I saw a wall of crashed cars in front of me.

I was in the left-hand lane, so I turned my steering wheel into the center median. I could hear the whole side of my vehicle scraping against it. I managed to slow down enough to just tap the vehicle in front of me.

I looked in my passenger side-view mirror and saw headlights coming in the right lane. But this car couldn’t slow down. It crashed into the wreckage to my right.

That’s when it sunk in: There was going to be a car coming in my lane, and it might not be able to stop.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw headlights. Sparks flying off that center median.

I didn’t know at the time, but it was a fully loaded semi-truck traveling about 60 miles an hour.

I had a split second to think: This is it. This is how it ends. I closed my eyes.

It was the most violent impact I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I had no idea until afterward, but I had slammed into the vehicle in front of me and my SUV did a kind of 360° barrel roll over the median into the northbound lanes, landing wheels down on top of my sheared off roof rack.

Everything stopped. I opened my eyes. All my airbags had deployed. I gently tried moving my arms and legs, and they worked. I couldn’t move my left foot. It was wedged underneath the brake pedal. But I wasn’t in any pain, just very confused and disoriented. I knew I needed to get out of the vehicle.

My door was wedged shut, so I crawled out of the broken window, slipping on the black ice. I realized I had hit a Fort Worth police cruiser, now all smashed up. The driver couldn’t open his door. So, I helped him force it open, got him out of the vehicle, and checked on him. He was fine.

I had no idea how many vehicles and people were involved. I was in so much shock that the only thing I could do was immediately revert back to my training. I was the only first responder there. No ambulances on scene yet, no fire. So, I did what I know how to do – except without any tools. I tried to triage as many people as I could.

I was helping people with lacerations, back and neck issues from the violent impacts. When you’re involved in a mass casualty incident like that, you have to assess which patients will be the most viable and need the most immediate attention. You have greens, yellows, reds, and then blacks – the deceased. Someone who doesn’t have a pulse and isn’t breathing, you can’t necessarily do CPR because you don’t have enough resources. You have to use your best judgment.

Meanwhile, the crashes kept coming. I found out later I was roughly vehicle No. 50 in the pileup; 83 more would follow. I heard them over and over – a crash and then screams from people in their vehicles. Each time a car hit, the entire pileup would move a couple of inches, getting more and more compacted. With that going on, I couldn’t go in there to pull people out. That scene was absolutely unsafe.

It felt like forever, but about 10 minutes later, an ambulance showed up, and I walked over to them. Because I was in my work uniform, they thought I was there on a call.

A couple fire crews came, and a firefighter yelled, “Hey, we need a backboard!” So, I grabbed a backboard from their unit and helped load up a patient. Then I heard somebody screaming, “This patient needs a stretcher!” A woman was having lumbar pain that seemed excruciating. I helped move her from the wreckage and carry her over to the stretcher. I started trying to get as many people as I could out of their cars.

Around this time, one of my supervisors showed up. He thought I was there working. But then he asked me, “Why is your face bleeding? Why do you have blood coming from your nose?” I pointed to my vehicle, and his jaw just dropped. He said, “Okay, you’re done. Go sit in my vehicle over there.”

He put a stop to my helping out, which was probably for the best. Because I actually had a concussion, a bone contusion in my foot, and a severely sprained ankle. The next day, I felt like I had gotten hit by a truck. (I had!) But when you have so much adrenaline pumping, you don’t feel pain or emotion. You don’t really feel anything.

While I was sitting in that vehicle, I called my mom to let her know I was okay. My parents were watching the news, and there was an aerial view of the accident. It was massive – a giant pile of metal stretching 200 or 300 yards. Six people had perished, more than 60 were hurt.

That night, our public information officer reached out to me about doing an interview with NBC. So, I told my story about what happened. Because of the concussion, a lot of it was a blur.

A day later, I got a call on my cell phone and someone said, “This is Tyler from Toyota. We saw the NBC interview. We wanted to let you know, don’t worry about getting a new vehicle. Just tell us what color 4Runner you want.”

My first thought was: Okay, this can’t be real. This doesn’t happen to people like me. But it turned out that it was, and they put me in a brand new vehicle.

Toyota started sending me to events like NASCAR races, putting me up in VIP suites. It was a cool experience. But it’s just surface stuff – it’s never going to erase what happened. The experience left a mark. It took me 6 months to a year to get rid of that feeling of the impact. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the whole scenario would replay in my head.

In EMS, we have a saying: “Every patient is practice for the next one.” That pileup – you can’t train for something like that. We all learned from it, so we can better prepare if anything like that happens again.

Since then, I’ve seen people die in motor vehicle collisions from a lot less than what happened to me. I’m not religious or spiritual, but I believe there must be a reason why I’m still here.

Now I see patients in traffic accidents who are very distraught even though they’re going to be okay. I tell them, “I’m sorry this happened to you. But remember, this is not the end. You are alive. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t change while you’re with me.”
 

Trey McDaniel is a paramedic with MedStar Mobile Healthcare in Fort Worth, Tex.

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

It seemed like a typical kind of day. I was out the door by 6:00 a.m., heading into work for a shift on I-35 West, my daily commute. It was still dark out. A little bit colder that morning, but nothing us Texans aren’t used to.

I was cruising down the tollway, which is separated from the main highway by a barrier. That stretch has a slight hill and turns to the left. You can’t see anything beyond the hill when you’re at the bottom.

As I made my way up, I spotted brake lights about 400 yards ahead. I eased on my brake, and next thing I knew, I was sliding.

I realized, I’m on black ice.

I was driving a 2011 Toyota FJ Cruiser and I had it all beefed up – lift tires, winch bumpers front and back. I had never had any sort of issue like that.

My ABS brakes kicked in. I slowed, but not fast enough. I saw a wall of crashed cars in front of me.

I was in the left-hand lane, so I turned my steering wheel into the center median. I could hear the whole side of my vehicle scraping against it. I managed to slow down enough to just tap the vehicle in front of me.

I looked in my passenger side-view mirror and saw headlights coming in the right lane. But this car couldn’t slow down. It crashed into the wreckage to my right.

That’s when it sunk in: There was going to be a car coming in my lane, and it might not be able to stop.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw headlights. Sparks flying off that center median.

I didn’t know at the time, but it was a fully loaded semi-truck traveling about 60 miles an hour.

I had a split second to think: This is it. This is how it ends. I closed my eyes.

It was the most violent impact I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I had no idea until afterward, but I had slammed into the vehicle in front of me and my SUV did a kind of 360° barrel roll over the median into the northbound lanes, landing wheels down on top of my sheared off roof rack.

Everything stopped. I opened my eyes. All my airbags had deployed. I gently tried moving my arms and legs, and they worked. I couldn’t move my left foot. It was wedged underneath the brake pedal. But I wasn’t in any pain, just very confused and disoriented. I knew I needed to get out of the vehicle.

My door was wedged shut, so I crawled out of the broken window, slipping on the black ice. I realized I had hit a Fort Worth police cruiser, now all smashed up. The driver couldn’t open his door. So, I helped him force it open, got him out of the vehicle, and checked on him. He was fine.

I had no idea how many vehicles and people were involved. I was in so much shock that the only thing I could do was immediately revert back to my training. I was the only first responder there. No ambulances on scene yet, no fire. So, I did what I know how to do – except without any tools. I tried to triage as many people as I could.

I was helping people with lacerations, back and neck issues from the violent impacts. When you’re involved in a mass casualty incident like that, you have to assess which patients will be the most viable and need the most immediate attention. You have greens, yellows, reds, and then blacks – the deceased. Someone who doesn’t have a pulse and isn’t breathing, you can’t necessarily do CPR because you don’t have enough resources. You have to use your best judgment.

Meanwhile, the crashes kept coming. I found out later I was roughly vehicle No. 50 in the pileup; 83 more would follow. I heard them over and over – a crash and then screams from people in their vehicles. Each time a car hit, the entire pileup would move a couple of inches, getting more and more compacted. With that going on, I couldn’t go in there to pull people out. That scene was absolutely unsafe.

It felt like forever, but about 10 minutes later, an ambulance showed up, and I walked over to them. Because I was in my work uniform, they thought I was there on a call.

A couple fire crews came, and a firefighter yelled, “Hey, we need a backboard!” So, I grabbed a backboard from their unit and helped load up a patient. Then I heard somebody screaming, “This patient needs a stretcher!” A woman was having lumbar pain that seemed excruciating. I helped move her from the wreckage and carry her over to the stretcher. I started trying to get as many people as I could out of their cars.

Around this time, one of my supervisors showed up. He thought I was there working. But then he asked me, “Why is your face bleeding? Why do you have blood coming from your nose?” I pointed to my vehicle, and his jaw just dropped. He said, “Okay, you’re done. Go sit in my vehicle over there.”

He put a stop to my helping out, which was probably for the best. Because I actually had a concussion, a bone contusion in my foot, and a severely sprained ankle. The next day, I felt like I had gotten hit by a truck. (I had!) But when you have so much adrenaline pumping, you don’t feel pain or emotion. You don’t really feel anything.

While I was sitting in that vehicle, I called my mom to let her know I was okay. My parents were watching the news, and there was an aerial view of the accident. It was massive – a giant pile of metal stretching 200 or 300 yards. Six people had perished, more than 60 were hurt.

That night, our public information officer reached out to me about doing an interview with NBC. So, I told my story about what happened. Because of the concussion, a lot of it was a blur.

A day later, I got a call on my cell phone and someone said, “This is Tyler from Toyota. We saw the NBC interview. We wanted to let you know, don’t worry about getting a new vehicle. Just tell us what color 4Runner you want.”

My first thought was: Okay, this can’t be real. This doesn’t happen to people like me. But it turned out that it was, and they put me in a brand new vehicle.

Toyota started sending me to events like NASCAR races, putting me up in VIP suites. It was a cool experience. But it’s just surface stuff – it’s never going to erase what happened. The experience left a mark. It took me 6 months to a year to get rid of that feeling of the impact. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the whole scenario would replay in my head.

In EMS, we have a saying: “Every patient is practice for the next one.” That pileup – you can’t train for something like that. We all learned from it, so we can better prepare if anything like that happens again.

Since then, I’ve seen people die in motor vehicle collisions from a lot less than what happened to me. I’m not religious or spiritual, but I believe there must be a reason why I’m still here.

Now I see patients in traffic accidents who are very distraught even though they’re going to be okay. I tell them, “I’m sorry this happened to you. But remember, this is not the end. You are alive. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t change while you’re with me.”
 

Trey McDaniel is a paramedic with MedStar Mobile Healthcare in Fort Worth, Tex.

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

It was one of those dog days of August where the humidity is palpable and the pressure is so hot and thick you can almost feel the ions in the air. At the time (2022), I was a White House fellow and senior adviser in the West Wing Office of Public Engagement and in the Office of the Vice President.

I was leaving the White House around 7:00 p.m. through the front gate on Lafayette Square. I had a dinner reservation with a friend, so I was in a rush. It was super overcast. Lo and behold, three steps after I closed the gate behind me, it started pouring. Rain came down so hard I had to take shelter.

There’s a stone building in front of the White House with archways, so I took cover underneath one of them, hoping that in a couple of minutes the rain would pass. Behind the archways are these thick, black, iron gates.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, I heard: BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off. In one moment, I saw the lightning bolt, heard the thunder, and felt the heat. It was all one rush of sensation. I couldn’t remember having been that scared in a long time.

I thought, “I definitely have to get out of here. In a couple of minutes there might be another strike, and I’m sitting next to iron gates!” I saw a little bit of a window in the downpour, so I started booking it. I knew there was a sheltered Secret Service area around the corner where they park their cars. A much safer place to be.

I was sprinting on the sidewalk and spotted a bunch of Secret Service agents on their bikes riding in the opposite direction, back toward the park. I knew they wouldn’t be out on bikes in this mess without a reason. As they reached me, one agent said, “Clear the sidewalk! We’re coming through with a bunch of equipment.”

I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Four people were just struck by lightning,” he said as he zoomed past.

I thought: “Sh*t. I have to go back.”

It was like two different parts of my brain were active at the exact same time. My subcortical brain at the level of the amygdala was like: “You just ran from there, idiot. Why are you running back?” And another part of my brain was like: “This is who you are.”

The lightning had struck one of the largest trees in the park. Four bodies splayed out in one direction from the tree. They’d been taking shelter underneath it when they were hit and were blown off to one side. By the time I got there, two Secret Service agents were on the scene doing CPR. Some bystanders had started to run over.

I did a quick round of pulse checks to see everyone’s status, and all four were apneic and pulseless. I told the two Secret Service agents to keep doing compressions on the first person. Two bystanders also began compressions on another person, an older man.

More Secret Service agents arrived, and I said, “We need to do compressions on this other person right now.” One of the agents took a moment to question who I could be and why I was there. I said, “I’m a doctor. I know I’m not dressed like one, but I’m a physician.”

I told some agents to go find an AED, because these people needed to be shocked.

After they left, I was effectively trying to triage which of these four people would get the AED first. Initially, I spent more of my time on the young man, and we began to get some response from him. I then spent some time with the young woman.

It turned out there were AEDs in the pouches on the Secret Service bikes, but they were very small, dinky AEDs. We tried to apply the pads, but it was downpouring so much that the adhesive wouldn’t stick. I told one of the agents we needed a towel.

Through all this I was concerned we were going to be struck again. I mean, the metal statue of Lafayette was right there! They say lighting doesn’t strike in the same place twice, but who knows if that’s really true?

The towel arrived, and we were able to get the chests of the younger people dry enough for the AED pads. We applied two shocks first to the woman, then the young man. We got his pulse back quickly. The woman’s came back as well, but it felt much weaker.

EMS arrived shortly thereafter. We got all four patients on the transport, and they were transferred to the hospital.

The whole experience had taken 14 minutes.

At the time, I felt confident that the young man was going to survive. We’re taught that lightning bolt strikes are survivable if you can shock someone quickly. He also got pretty good CPR. But the next day I was watching the news and learned that he had passed away. So, of course I was thinking the worst about the others as well.

But a week and a half later, I learned that the young woman had been discharged from the ICU. She was the only one who made it. Her name is Amber, and we got connected through a reporter. About 2 weeks later, I invited her to the White House. I took her to the Oval Office. I met her mom and dad and husband, and we had dinner. We’ve been in touch ever since.

I remember the first time we talked on the phone, Amber said something along the lines of, “This sucks. Obviously, I was not planning for any of this to happen. But I also think there’s something good that could come from this.”

I was so surprised and happy to hear her say that. I had something similar happen to me when I was a teenager – caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to intervene in a gang fight in my neighborhood. I thought a kid was going to get killed, so I jumped in, imagining I could save the day. I didn’t. They broke a bunch of my bones and I was in the hospital for a bit.

I remember thinking then that my life was over. But after some time, I found a new perspective, which was: Maybe that life is over. But maybe this could be the beginning of a new one. And maybe those things that I’ve been afraid of doing, the dreams that I have, maybe now I’m actually free to go after them.

I told Amber, if there are things that you have been waiting to do, this could be the time. She wants to be an international human rights activist, and she is kicking butt in a graduate school program to begin on that pathway. It’s been really cool to watch her chase this dream with way more vigor than she had before.

I think we bonded because we’ve gone through – obviously not the same thing, but a similar moment of being confronted with your own mortality. Realizing that life can just shatter. And so, while we’re here, we might as well go for it with all the force of a person who knows this could all disappear in an instant.

It was an extremely humbling moment. It reaffirmed that my life is not about me. I have to use the time that I’ve got on behalf of other people as much as I can. What is my life about if not being useful?

Dr. Martin is an emergency medicine physician and faculty member at the MGH Center for Social Justice and Health Equity at Harvard Medical School, Boston.

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

It was one of those dog days of August where the humidity is palpable and the pressure is so hot and thick you can almost feel the ions in the air. At the time (2022), I was a White House fellow and senior adviser in the West Wing Office of Public Engagement and in the Office of the Vice President.

I was leaving the White House around 7:00 p.m. through the front gate on Lafayette Square. I had a dinner reservation with a friend, so I was in a rush. It was super overcast. Lo and behold, three steps after I closed the gate behind me, it started pouring. Rain came down so hard I had to take shelter.

There’s a stone building in front of the White House with archways, so I took cover underneath one of them, hoping that in a couple of minutes the rain would pass. Behind the archways are these thick, black, iron gates.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, I heard: BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off. In one moment, I saw the lightning bolt, heard the thunder, and felt the heat. It was all one rush of sensation. I couldn’t remember having been that scared in a long time.

I thought, “I definitely have to get out of here. In a couple of minutes there might be another strike, and I’m sitting next to iron gates!” I saw a little bit of a window in the downpour, so I started booking it. I knew there was a sheltered Secret Service area around the corner where they park their cars. A much safer place to be.

I was sprinting on the sidewalk and spotted a bunch of Secret Service agents on their bikes riding in the opposite direction, back toward the park. I knew they wouldn’t be out on bikes in this mess without a reason. As they reached me, one agent said, “Clear the sidewalk! We’re coming through with a bunch of equipment.”

I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Four people were just struck by lightning,” he said as he zoomed past.

I thought: “Sh*t. I have to go back.”

It was like two different parts of my brain were active at the exact same time. My subcortical brain at the level of the amygdala was like: “You just ran from there, idiot. Why are you running back?” And another part of my brain was like: “This is who you are.”

The lightning had struck one of the largest trees in the park. Four bodies splayed out in one direction from the tree. They’d been taking shelter underneath it when they were hit and were blown off to one side. By the time I got there, two Secret Service agents were on the scene doing CPR. Some bystanders had started to run over.

I did a quick round of pulse checks to see everyone’s status, and all four were apneic and pulseless. I told the two Secret Service agents to keep doing compressions on the first person. Two bystanders also began compressions on another person, an older man.

More Secret Service agents arrived, and I said, “We need to do compressions on this other person right now.” One of the agents took a moment to question who I could be and why I was there. I said, “I’m a doctor. I know I’m not dressed like one, but I’m a physician.”

I told some agents to go find an AED, because these people needed to be shocked.

After they left, I was effectively trying to triage which of these four people would get the AED first. Initially, I spent more of my time on the young man, and we began to get some response from him. I then spent some time with the young woman.

It turned out there were AEDs in the pouches on the Secret Service bikes, but they were very small, dinky AEDs. We tried to apply the pads, but it was downpouring so much that the adhesive wouldn’t stick. I told one of the agents we needed a towel.

Through all this I was concerned we were going to be struck again. I mean, the metal statue of Lafayette was right there! They say lighting doesn’t strike in the same place twice, but who knows if that’s really true?

The towel arrived, and we were able to get the chests of the younger people dry enough for the AED pads. We applied two shocks first to the woman, then the young man. We got his pulse back quickly. The woman’s came back as well, but it felt much weaker.

EMS arrived shortly thereafter. We got all four patients on the transport, and they were transferred to the hospital.

The whole experience had taken 14 minutes.

At the time, I felt confident that the young man was going to survive. We’re taught that lightning bolt strikes are survivable if you can shock someone quickly. He also got pretty good CPR. But the next day I was watching the news and learned that he had passed away. So, of course I was thinking the worst about the others as well.

But a week and a half later, I learned that the young woman had been discharged from the ICU. She was the only one who made it. Her name is Amber, and we got connected through a reporter. About 2 weeks later, I invited her to the White House. I took her to the Oval Office. I met her mom and dad and husband, and we had dinner. We’ve been in touch ever since.

I remember the first time we talked on the phone, Amber said something along the lines of, “This sucks. Obviously, I was not planning for any of this to happen. But I also think there’s something good that could come from this.”

I was so surprised and happy to hear her say that. I had something similar happen to me when I was a teenager – caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to intervene in a gang fight in my neighborhood. I thought a kid was going to get killed, so I jumped in, imagining I could save the day. I didn’t. They broke a bunch of my bones and I was in the hospital for a bit.

I remember thinking then that my life was over. But after some time, I found a new perspective, which was: Maybe that life is over. But maybe this could be the beginning of a new one. And maybe those things that I’ve been afraid of doing, the dreams that I have, maybe now I’m actually free to go after them.

I told Amber, if there are things that you have been waiting to do, this could be the time. She wants to be an international human rights activist, and she is kicking butt in a graduate school program to begin on that pathway. It’s been really cool to watch her chase this dream with way more vigor than she had before.

I think we bonded because we’ve gone through – obviously not the same thing, but a similar moment of being confronted with your own mortality. Realizing that life can just shatter. And so, while we’re here, we might as well go for it with all the force of a person who knows this could all disappear in an instant.

It was an extremely humbling moment. It reaffirmed that my life is not about me. I have to use the time that I’ve got on behalf of other people as much as I can. What is my life about if not being useful?

Dr. Martin is an emergency medicine physician and faculty member at the MGH Center for Social Justice and Health Equity at Harvard Medical School, Boston.

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

It was one of those dog days of August where the humidity is palpable and the pressure is so hot and thick you can almost feel the ions in the air. At the time (2022), I was a White House fellow and senior adviser in the West Wing Office of Public Engagement and in the Office of the Vice President.

I was leaving the White House around 7:00 p.m. through the front gate on Lafayette Square. I had a dinner reservation with a friend, so I was in a rush. It was super overcast. Lo and behold, three steps after I closed the gate behind me, it started pouring. Rain came down so hard I had to take shelter.

There’s a stone building in front of the White House with archways, so I took cover underneath one of them, hoping that in a couple of minutes the rain would pass. Behind the archways are these thick, black, iron gates.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, I heard: BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off. In one moment, I saw the lightning bolt, heard the thunder, and felt the heat. It was all one rush of sensation. I couldn’t remember having been that scared in a long time.

I thought, “I definitely have to get out of here. In a couple of minutes there might be another strike, and I’m sitting next to iron gates!” I saw a little bit of a window in the downpour, so I started booking it. I knew there was a sheltered Secret Service area around the corner where they park their cars. A much safer place to be.

I was sprinting on the sidewalk and spotted a bunch of Secret Service agents on their bikes riding in the opposite direction, back toward the park. I knew they wouldn’t be out on bikes in this mess without a reason. As they reached me, one agent said, “Clear the sidewalk! We’re coming through with a bunch of equipment.”

I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Four people were just struck by lightning,” he said as he zoomed past.

I thought: “Sh*t. I have to go back.”

It was like two different parts of my brain were active at the exact same time. My subcortical brain at the level of the amygdala was like: “You just ran from there, idiot. Why are you running back?” And another part of my brain was like: “This is who you are.”

The lightning had struck one of the largest trees in the park. Four bodies splayed out in one direction from the tree. They’d been taking shelter underneath it when they were hit and were blown off to one side. By the time I got there, two Secret Service agents were on the scene doing CPR. Some bystanders had started to run over.

I did a quick round of pulse checks to see everyone’s status, and all four were apneic and pulseless. I told the two Secret Service agents to keep doing compressions on the first person. Two bystanders also began compressions on another person, an older man.

More Secret Service agents arrived, and I said, “We need to do compressions on this other person right now.” One of the agents took a moment to question who I could be and why I was there. I said, “I’m a doctor. I know I’m not dressed like one, but I’m a physician.”

I told some agents to go find an AED, because these people needed to be shocked.

After they left, I was effectively trying to triage which of these four people would get the AED first. Initially, I spent more of my time on the young man, and we began to get some response from him. I then spent some time with the young woman.

It turned out there were AEDs in the pouches on the Secret Service bikes, but they were very small, dinky AEDs. We tried to apply the pads, but it was downpouring so much that the adhesive wouldn’t stick. I told one of the agents we needed a towel.

Through all this I was concerned we were going to be struck again. I mean, the metal statue of Lafayette was right there! They say lighting doesn’t strike in the same place twice, but who knows if that’s really true?

The towel arrived, and we were able to get the chests of the younger people dry enough for the AED pads. We applied two shocks first to the woman, then the young man. We got his pulse back quickly. The woman’s came back as well, but it felt much weaker.

EMS arrived shortly thereafter. We got all four patients on the transport, and they were transferred to the hospital.

The whole experience had taken 14 minutes.

At the time, I felt confident that the young man was going to survive. We’re taught that lightning bolt strikes are survivable if you can shock someone quickly. He also got pretty good CPR. But the next day I was watching the news and learned that he had passed away. So, of course I was thinking the worst about the others as well.

But a week and a half later, I learned that the young woman had been discharged from the ICU. She was the only one who made it. Her name is Amber, and we got connected through a reporter. About 2 weeks later, I invited her to the White House. I took her to the Oval Office. I met her mom and dad and husband, and we had dinner. We’ve been in touch ever since.

I remember the first time we talked on the phone, Amber said something along the lines of, “This sucks. Obviously, I was not planning for any of this to happen. But I also think there’s something good that could come from this.”

I was so surprised and happy to hear her say that. I had something similar happen to me when I was a teenager – caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to intervene in a gang fight in my neighborhood. I thought a kid was going to get killed, so I jumped in, imagining I could save the day. I didn’t. They broke a bunch of my bones and I was in the hospital for a bit.

I remember thinking then that my life was over. But after some time, I found a new perspective, which was: Maybe that life is over. But maybe this could be the beginning of a new one. And maybe those things that I’ve been afraid of doing, the dreams that I have, maybe now I’m actually free to go after them.

I told Amber, if there are things that you have been waiting to do, this could be the time. She wants to be an international human rights activist, and she is kicking butt in a graduate school program to begin on that pathway. It’s been really cool to watch her chase this dream with way more vigor than she had before.

I think we bonded because we’ve gone through – obviously not the same thing, but a similar moment of being confronted with your own mortality. Realizing that life can just shatter. And so, while we’re here, we might as well go for it with all the force of a person who knows this could all disappear in an instant.

It was an extremely humbling moment. It reaffirmed that my life is not about me. I have to use the time that I’ve got on behalf of other people as much as I can. What is my life about if not being useful?

Dr. Martin is an emergency medicine physician and faculty member at the MGH Center for Social Justice and Health Equity at Harvard Medical School, Boston.

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

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was Saturday night, and we had just gone to bed. Suddenly, Ali sat up, and screamed, “My head!” She then became nonresponsive and had a seizure. I was in disbelief, but I also knew exactly what was happening. I called 911: “My wife is having a head bleed. I need an ambulance.” It was a bad connection, and they could barely understand me.

As I tried to carry Ali downstairs, she vomited. She still had rubber bands in her mouth from the jaw fracture that was a result of her accident just a month ago. I knew she needed an airway. 

I grabbed a tracheostomy tube, but the opening over her trachea put in for the accident had since closed. I tried to push the tube through her neck, but it hurt her; her eyes opened.

I thought to myself: Maybe she doesn’t need it. This can wait until she gets to the hospital. I can’t do this to her. But she vomited again, and I knew what I had to do.

We were at the top of our stairs. I didn’t have a blade or any other equipment, just the tracheostomy tube with the dilator. I pushed hard, and she started fighting me. I had to hold her hands away with one arm. The tube popped in and she stared back at me in pain and fear.

I finally got her downstairs and called medical control at University Hospital of Cincinnati. I was able to speak with one of the attendings: “Ali’s aneurysm ruptured, and she just had a seizure. She has a GCS of 11 or 12. I replaced her tracheostomy tube. We’ll be there shortly.”

When I heard sirens come down our street, I carried Ali outside, but the sirens were from a firetruck. They likely assumed someone had fallen and had a head laceration. It was beyond deflating. I yelled incredulously: “We need an ambulance here now!”

When the ambulance finally arrived, they tried to tell me that I could not ride with them. Or if I did, I would have to sit up front. After arguing back and forth for a few seconds, I finally demanded: “This is medical control. This is MD-88, and this is my patient. I’m sitting in back with you. She needs four Zofran and two midazolam IV now.”
 

One month earlier ...

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor and I were both 4 months into our second year of residency, and we had been married for 5 months. I was a pediatric resident at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. She was an emergency medicine resident at the University Hospital. I was having my first day off in a couple weeks, and she was working a shift in the emergency department. She was also a part of the flight crew that day. Second-year residents would go out to the scenes of accidents or to other hospitals to transport the patient back to their Level I trauma center via helicopter. The resident was the physician and considered the leader on these flights.

That afternoon, I went for a bicycle ride. About three-quarters of the way through my ride, I was struck by a car.

The EMS crew got to me fairly quickly. They intubated me at the scene and got me to the closest hospital. Immediately, the hospital realized my case was outside the scope of their care. They contacted University Hospital requesting that their flight crew come to transport me.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: At around 5:30 p.m. the day of my shift, the tones went out on the radio: “AirCare 1 and Pod Doc, you are requested for interhospital transfer, 27-year-old Jane Doe, GCS 5.” That was the only information given.

When we landed at the hospital, I walked in with my nurse. I was listening to the doctor’s report and doing my once over. The patient was a little bit bradycardic, heart rate in the 40s or 50s. Blood pressure was normal if not a little bit elevated. There was obvious facial trauma. The endotracheal tube in place.

She was covered with a blanket, but some of her clothing was visible. Suddenly, I recognized it. It was our cycling team’s kit. I thought, please don’t let it be Ali. I looked at her face and realized that this was Alison.

I said: “That’s my wife.” Everyone stopped and looked at me. The room went silent.

My flight nurse went out and called back to dispatch. “This is my doc’s wife. Dispatch the second helicopter!” She had to repeat herself a few times before they understood what was happening.

As Ali’s spouse, I couldn’t be the flight doctor. I didn’t care. I called medical control myself and told them: “This is Ali. We have to fly her. She has a head injury.” They said: “You can’t fly her.” I said: “We can’t delay her care. I have to fly her.” They said: “No, you can’t fly her.” I broke down. Devastated.

I went back into the room and looked at Ali. Her heart rate was dropping. My flight nurse was in the trauma bay with the emergency physician. We realized definitive care was being delayed because of my presence, which was an awful feeling to have. I think at that point we realized, you do nothing, or you act. So, we acted.

I told my flight nurse: “Let’s give her atropine to increase her heart rate.” I asked about sedation, and she hadn’t had anything. I spurted off some doses: “a hundred of fentanyl and five of midazolam.” My flight nurse actually administered smaller doses. She thought it was a bit aggressive, and she was correct. I was trying to maintain composure, but it was hard.

The emergency medicine physician volunteered to fly with her, so I called back medical control in desperation: “This doctor’s willing to fly. Let him take her.”

They told me apologetically, knowing my agony, that he was not trained to fly and therefore could not do so. I sat down in the ambulance bay crying, waiting for the second helicopter to arrive.

When we got Ali onto AirCare 2, my nurse then told me I couldn’t fly with her. I said, “I’m flying with her.” She said, “no, it’s not safe.” I said, “I’m not leaving her. I’ll sit in the front. What do you think I’m going to do? Jump out of the helicopter?” I think they realized there was no other option that I would agree to. I rode up front.

It was the fastest flight to the trauma center that I had ever experienced. They did a hot offload, meaning they didn’t even shut down the blades. We got her to the trauma center. And then it was a whole other layer of chaos.

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor’s presence may have delayed my transfer, but the University emergency department was prepped and waiting for me. Radiology was on hold, surgery and neurosurgery were there waiting. Everyone was in the trauma bay.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: My younger sister was a social worker in that emergency department, and she was on shift. She and my residency director went to CT with Ali. As the images from Ali’s CT scan showed up on the screens, everyone in the room gasped. She had a nonsurvivable head injury.

The AirCare 2 doctor collapsed into our director’s arms and cried: “She’s going to die tonight.” He responded: “I know. But we’ve got work to do.” Then he asked my sister how close she was with me. She told him we were extremely close. “Good, because we have to break the news that she’s going to die tonight.”

But the doctor never told me. I was in the consultation room. He came in and told me that she had a lot of bleeding around the brain, but he couldn’t find the words to tell me the true severity. He didn’t have to.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was in a coma for 5 days. Shift by shift, they were amazed that I was still there. I had a broken jaw, broken vertebrae in my spine, a broken clavicle and sternum and contusions to my heart and lungs. I was later found to have a dissection of my carotid artery as well as an aneurysm to the carotid artery. These were both caused by the accident.

My jaw was wired shut and a tracheostomy was placed. They coiled the aneurysm and put a stent in the dissection. I was placed on dual antiplatelet therapy to prevent stent thrombosis.

When I initially woke from the coma during my hospital stay, I could not speak, but I remember being told why I was there. My first two thoughts were: Was it my fault? and I need to get back to work.

Two and a half weeks later, I was stable enough to go to an in-patient rehab facility.

I was very motivated. I made a lot of good progress, because Taylor was there with me. We looked through pictures, trying to jog my memory and help with my vocabulary. I’d look at a bird and know this is a flying animal but couldn’t think of the word bird. I couldn’t remember my mom’s name.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: She was becoming more fluent with her speech each day. Her right arm was working more normally. We started going on walks outside. Within 14 days she was discharged home.

When we left the rehab facility, I took a couple extra tracheostomy tubes and supplies, because I didn’t know how long Ali would have her trach. The emergency medicine person in me just thought, always have these things on hand.

A few days later, her ENT doctor decannulated her tracheostomy tube. In our minds, we were done.

The next night, she had the intracranial hemorrhage.
 

Return to the hospital ...

Dr. Taylor Delgado: The aneurysm they had coiled had ruptured. Ali had a recurrent subarachnoid hemorrhage and an intracranial hemorrhage, and she was still bleeding. So, they took her to IR to try to embolize it and accomplished as much as they possibly could.

She had hydrocephalus, the ventricles in her brain were enlarged. Normally, they would put in a drain, but they couldn’t because she was on aspirin and Plavix (clopidogrel). That would risk her having a bleed around that insertion site, which would cause a brain hemorrhage.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was like a ticking time bomb. We knew I would have to have surgery as soon as possible to open my skull and clip the aneurysm. But I had to be on the Plavix and aspirin for at least 6 weeks before it would be considered safe to discontinue them. It was another 3 weeks before they could proceed with the surgery.

The second hospitalization was scarier than the first, because I was much more aware. I knew that I might not be able to return to my residency and do the thing I had dreamed of doing. There were risks of me becoming blind or paralyzed during the surgery. I might not even leave the hospital.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was mid-December by then, and my dad asked her, “Ali, what do you want for Christmas?” She looked at him deadpan and said, “normal brain.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: The surgery was successful. I went home a few days later. But I’d lost everything I had gained in rehabilitation. My speech was back to square one.

None of the doctors really expected me to go back to work. But from my standpoint, I thought, I could have died the day I was hit. I could have died when the aneurysm ruptured, or at any point along the way. But I’m here and I’m going back to work.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: In January, I went back to work and I had to fly on the helicopter. They were worried about how I would react. My flight director flew with me on my first shift. Our first flight was an inter-facility STEMI transfer. No big deal. The second one was a car accident outside of Batesville, Ind. We were in the back of the ambulance, and I looked at this woman. She was 27 years old, thin, with long hair. She looked exactly like Ali.

Ali flashed into my mind, and I was like, nope. Ali’s at home. She’s fine. This person is right here, right now. Do what you do. I intubated her in the helicopter. We gave her hypertonic saline. I started a blood transfusion. Afterward, my flight director came up to me and said: “You’re released back to full duty. That was the hardest test you could possibly have on your first day back flying, and you nailed it.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: I finished my residency in December of 2012 and passed my pediatric board exam on the first try, almost exactly 3 years after my accident.

The spring before I started medical school in 2005, I had won the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon. In 2011, a few months after my accident, they invited us to be the starters of the race. When we stood at the starting line, I decided right then I was going to run this marathon again the next year. In spring 2012, I returned and finished in fourth place, beating my previous winning time by two minutes.

I have a different level of empathy for my patients now. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to not know if you’re going to leave the hospital. I’ve lived that. The process of writing my book was also cathartic for me. I told my story to try to give people hope.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: I have a tattoo on my wrist showing the date of Ali’s accident. The idea was to remind myself of what we’ve come through and everyone who went above and beyond. To show gratitude to them and remember everything that they did for us. It’s also to remember that every patient I see is somebody else’s Alison.

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

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was Saturday night, and we had just gone to bed. Suddenly, Ali sat up, and screamed, “My head!” She then became nonresponsive and had a seizure. I was in disbelief, but I also knew exactly what was happening. I called 911: “My wife is having a head bleed. I need an ambulance.” It was a bad connection, and they could barely understand me.

As I tried to carry Ali downstairs, she vomited. She still had rubber bands in her mouth from the jaw fracture that was a result of her accident just a month ago. I knew she needed an airway. 

I grabbed a tracheostomy tube, but the opening over her trachea put in for the accident had since closed. I tried to push the tube through her neck, but it hurt her; her eyes opened.

I thought to myself: Maybe she doesn’t need it. This can wait until she gets to the hospital. I can’t do this to her. But she vomited again, and I knew what I had to do.

We were at the top of our stairs. I didn’t have a blade or any other equipment, just the tracheostomy tube with the dilator. I pushed hard, and she started fighting me. I had to hold her hands away with one arm. The tube popped in and she stared back at me in pain and fear.

I finally got her downstairs and called medical control at University Hospital of Cincinnati. I was able to speak with one of the attendings: “Ali’s aneurysm ruptured, and she just had a seizure. She has a GCS of 11 or 12. I replaced her tracheostomy tube. We’ll be there shortly.”

When I heard sirens come down our street, I carried Ali outside, but the sirens were from a firetruck. They likely assumed someone had fallen and had a head laceration. It was beyond deflating. I yelled incredulously: “We need an ambulance here now!”

When the ambulance finally arrived, they tried to tell me that I could not ride with them. Or if I did, I would have to sit up front. After arguing back and forth for a few seconds, I finally demanded: “This is medical control. This is MD-88, and this is my patient. I’m sitting in back with you. She needs four Zofran and two midazolam IV now.”
 

One month earlier ...

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor and I were both 4 months into our second year of residency, and we had been married for 5 months. I was a pediatric resident at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. She was an emergency medicine resident at the University Hospital. I was having my first day off in a couple weeks, and she was working a shift in the emergency department. She was also a part of the flight crew that day. Second-year residents would go out to the scenes of accidents or to other hospitals to transport the patient back to their Level I trauma center via helicopter. The resident was the physician and considered the leader on these flights.

That afternoon, I went for a bicycle ride. About three-quarters of the way through my ride, I was struck by a car.

The EMS crew got to me fairly quickly. They intubated me at the scene and got me to the closest hospital. Immediately, the hospital realized my case was outside the scope of their care. They contacted University Hospital requesting that their flight crew come to transport me.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: At around 5:30 p.m. the day of my shift, the tones went out on the radio: “AirCare 1 and Pod Doc, you are requested for interhospital transfer, 27-year-old Jane Doe, GCS 5.” That was the only information given.

When we landed at the hospital, I walked in with my nurse. I was listening to the doctor’s report and doing my once over. The patient was a little bit bradycardic, heart rate in the 40s or 50s. Blood pressure was normal if not a little bit elevated. There was obvious facial trauma. The endotracheal tube in place.

She was covered with a blanket, but some of her clothing was visible. Suddenly, I recognized it. It was our cycling team’s kit. I thought, please don’t let it be Ali. I looked at her face and realized that this was Alison.

I said: “That’s my wife.” Everyone stopped and looked at me. The room went silent.

My flight nurse went out and called back to dispatch. “This is my doc’s wife. Dispatch the second helicopter!” She had to repeat herself a few times before they understood what was happening.

As Ali’s spouse, I couldn’t be the flight doctor. I didn’t care. I called medical control myself and told them: “This is Ali. We have to fly her. She has a head injury.” They said: “You can’t fly her.” I said: “We can’t delay her care. I have to fly her.” They said: “No, you can’t fly her.” I broke down. Devastated.

I went back into the room and looked at Ali. Her heart rate was dropping. My flight nurse was in the trauma bay with the emergency physician. We realized definitive care was being delayed because of my presence, which was an awful feeling to have. I think at that point we realized, you do nothing, or you act. So, we acted.

I told my flight nurse: “Let’s give her atropine to increase her heart rate.” I asked about sedation, and she hadn’t had anything. I spurted off some doses: “a hundred of fentanyl and five of midazolam.” My flight nurse actually administered smaller doses. She thought it was a bit aggressive, and she was correct. I was trying to maintain composure, but it was hard.

The emergency medicine physician volunteered to fly with her, so I called back medical control in desperation: “This doctor’s willing to fly. Let him take her.”

They told me apologetically, knowing my agony, that he was not trained to fly and therefore could not do so. I sat down in the ambulance bay crying, waiting for the second helicopter to arrive.

When we got Ali onto AirCare 2, my nurse then told me I couldn’t fly with her. I said, “I’m flying with her.” She said, “no, it’s not safe.” I said, “I’m not leaving her. I’ll sit in the front. What do you think I’m going to do? Jump out of the helicopter?” I think they realized there was no other option that I would agree to. I rode up front.

It was the fastest flight to the trauma center that I had ever experienced. They did a hot offload, meaning they didn’t even shut down the blades. We got her to the trauma center. And then it was a whole other layer of chaos.

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor’s presence may have delayed my transfer, but the University emergency department was prepped and waiting for me. Radiology was on hold, surgery and neurosurgery were there waiting. Everyone was in the trauma bay.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: My younger sister was a social worker in that emergency department, and she was on shift. She and my residency director went to CT with Ali. As the images from Ali’s CT scan showed up on the screens, everyone in the room gasped. She had a nonsurvivable head injury.

The AirCare 2 doctor collapsed into our director’s arms and cried: “She’s going to die tonight.” He responded: “I know. But we’ve got work to do.” Then he asked my sister how close she was with me. She told him we were extremely close. “Good, because we have to break the news that she’s going to die tonight.”

But the doctor never told me. I was in the consultation room. He came in and told me that she had a lot of bleeding around the brain, but he couldn’t find the words to tell me the true severity. He didn’t have to.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was in a coma for 5 days. Shift by shift, they were amazed that I was still there. I had a broken jaw, broken vertebrae in my spine, a broken clavicle and sternum and contusions to my heart and lungs. I was later found to have a dissection of my carotid artery as well as an aneurysm to the carotid artery. These were both caused by the accident.

My jaw was wired shut and a tracheostomy was placed. They coiled the aneurysm and put a stent in the dissection. I was placed on dual antiplatelet therapy to prevent stent thrombosis.

When I initially woke from the coma during my hospital stay, I could not speak, but I remember being told why I was there. My first two thoughts were: Was it my fault? and I need to get back to work.

Two and a half weeks later, I was stable enough to go to an in-patient rehab facility.

I was very motivated. I made a lot of good progress, because Taylor was there with me. We looked through pictures, trying to jog my memory and help with my vocabulary. I’d look at a bird and know this is a flying animal but couldn’t think of the word bird. I couldn’t remember my mom’s name.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: She was becoming more fluent with her speech each day. Her right arm was working more normally. We started going on walks outside. Within 14 days she was discharged home.

When we left the rehab facility, I took a couple extra tracheostomy tubes and supplies, because I didn’t know how long Ali would have her trach. The emergency medicine person in me just thought, always have these things on hand.

A few days later, her ENT doctor decannulated her tracheostomy tube. In our minds, we were done.

The next night, she had the intracranial hemorrhage.
 

Return to the hospital ...

Dr. Taylor Delgado: The aneurysm they had coiled had ruptured. Ali had a recurrent subarachnoid hemorrhage and an intracranial hemorrhage, and she was still bleeding. So, they took her to IR to try to embolize it and accomplished as much as they possibly could.

She had hydrocephalus, the ventricles in her brain were enlarged. Normally, they would put in a drain, but they couldn’t because she was on aspirin and Plavix (clopidogrel). That would risk her having a bleed around that insertion site, which would cause a brain hemorrhage.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was like a ticking time bomb. We knew I would have to have surgery as soon as possible to open my skull and clip the aneurysm. But I had to be on the Plavix and aspirin for at least 6 weeks before it would be considered safe to discontinue them. It was another 3 weeks before they could proceed with the surgery.

The second hospitalization was scarier than the first, because I was much more aware. I knew that I might not be able to return to my residency and do the thing I had dreamed of doing. There were risks of me becoming blind or paralyzed during the surgery. I might not even leave the hospital.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was mid-December by then, and my dad asked her, “Ali, what do you want for Christmas?” She looked at him deadpan and said, “normal brain.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: The surgery was successful. I went home a few days later. But I’d lost everything I had gained in rehabilitation. My speech was back to square one.

None of the doctors really expected me to go back to work. But from my standpoint, I thought, I could have died the day I was hit. I could have died when the aneurysm ruptured, or at any point along the way. But I’m here and I’m going back to work.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: In January, I went back to work and I had to fly on the helicopter. They were worried about how I would react. My flight director flew with me on my first shift. Our first flight was an inter-facility STEMI transfer. No big deal. The second one was a car accident outside of Batesville, Ind. We were in the back of the ambulance, and I looked at this woman. She was 27 years old, thin, with long hair. She looked exactly like Ali.

Ali flashed into my mind, and I was like, nope. Ali’s at home. She’s fine. This person is right here, right now. Do what you do. I intubated her in the helicopter. We gave her hypertonic saline. I started a blood transfusion. Afterward, my flight director came up to me and said: “You’re released back to full duty. That was the hardest test you could possibly have on your first day back flying, and you nailed it.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: I finished my residency in December of 2012 and passed my pediatric board exam on the first try, almost exactly 3 years after my accident.

The spring before I started medical school in 2005, I had won the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon. In 2011, a few months after my accident, they invited us to be the starters of the race. When we stood at the starting line, I decided right then I was going to run this marathon again the next year. In spring 2012, I returned and finished in fourth place, beating my previous winning time by two minutes.

I have a different level of empathy for my patients now. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to not know if you’re going to leave the hospital. I’ve lived that. The process of writing my book was also cathartic for me. I told my story to try to give people hope.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: I have a tattoo on my wrist showing the date of Ali’s accident. The idea was to remind myself of what we’ve come through and everyone who went above and beyond. To show gratitude to them and remember everything that they did for us. It’s also to remember that every patient I see is somebody else’s Alison.

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

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was Saturday night, and we had just gone to bed. Suddenly, Ali sat up, and screamed, “My head!” She then became nonresponsive and had a seizure. I was in disbelief, but I also knew exactly what was happening. I called 911: “My wife is having a head bleed. I need an ambulance.” It was a bad connection, and they could barely understand me.

As I tried to carry Ali downstairs, she vomited. She still had rubber bands in her mouth from the jaw fracture that was a result of her accident just a month ago. I knew she needed an airway. 

I grabbed a tracheostomy tube, but the opening over her trachea put in for the accident had since closed. I tried to push the tube through her neck, but it hurt her; her eyes opened.

I thought to myself: Maybe she doesn’t need it. This can wait until she gets to the hospital. I can’t do this to her. But she vomited again, and I knew what I had to do.

We were at the top of our stairs. I didn’t have a blade or any other equipment, just the tracheostomy tube with the dilator. I pushed hard, and she started fighting me. I had to hold her hands away with one arm. The tube popped in and she stared back at me in pain and fear.

I finally got her downstairs and called medical control at University Hospital of Cincinnati. I was able to speak with one of the attendings: “Ali’s aneurysm ruptured, and she just had a seizure. She has a GCS of 11 or 12. I replaced her tracheostomy tube. We’ll be there shortly.”

When I heard sirens come down our street, I carried Ali outside, but the sirens were from a firetruck. They likely assumed someone had fallen and had a head laceration. It was beyond deflating. I yelled incredulously: “We need an ambulance here now!”

When the ambulance finally arrived, they tried to tell me that I could not ride with them. Or if I did, I would have to sit up front. After arguing back and forth for a few seconds, I finally demanded: “This is medical control. This is MD-88, and this is my patient. I’m sitting in back with you. She needs four Zofran and two midazolam IV now.”
 

One month earlier ...

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor and I were both 4 months into our second year of residency, and we had been married for 5 months. I was a pediatric resident at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. She was an emergency medicine resident at the University Hospital. I was having my first day off in a couple weeks, and she was working a shift in the emergency department. She was also a part of the flight crew that day. Second-year residents would go out to the scenes of accidents or to other hospitals to transport the patient back to their Level I trauma center via helicopter. The resident was the physician and considered the leader on these flights.

That afternoon, I went for a bicycle ride. About three-quarters of the way through my ride, I was struck by a car.

The EMS crew got to me fairly quickly. They intubated me at the scene and got me to the closest hospital. Immediately, the hospital realized my case was outside the scope of their care. They contacted University Hospital requesting that their flight crew come to transport me.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: At around 5:30 p.m. the day of my shift, the tones went out on the radio: “AirCare 1 and Pod Doc, you are requested for interhospital transfer, 27-year-old Jane Doe, GCS 5.” That was the only information given.

When we landed at the hospital, I walked in with my nurse. I was listening to the doctor’s report and doing my once over. The patient was a little bit bradycardic, heart rate in the 40s or 50s. Blood pressure was normal if not a little bit elevated. There was obvious facial trauma. The endotracheal tube in place.

She was covered with a blanket, but some of her clothing was visible. Suddenly, I recognized it. It was our cycling team’s kit. I thought, please don’t let it be Ali. I looked at her face and realized that this was Alison.

I said: “That’s my wife.” Everyone stopped and looked at me. The room went silent.

My flight nurse went out and called back to dispatch. “This is my doc’s wife. Dispatch the second helicopter!” She had to repeat herself a few times before they understood what was happening.

As Ali’s spouse, I couldn’t be the flight doctor. I didn’t care. I called medical control myself and told them: “This is Ali. We have to fly her. She has a head injury.” They said: “You can’t fly her.” I said: “We can’t delay her care. I have to fly her.” They said: “No, you can’t fly her.” I broke down. Devastated.

I went back into the room and looked at Ali. Her heart rate was dropping. My flight nurse was in the trauma bay with the emergency physician. We realized definitive care was being delayed because of my presence, which was an awful feeling to have. I think at that point we realized, you do nothing, or you act. So, we acted.

I told my flight nurse: “Let’s give her atropine to increase her heart rate.” I asked about sedation, and she hadn’t had anything. I spurted off some doses: “a hundred of fentanyl and five of midazolam.” My flight nurse actually administered smaller doses. She thought it was a bit aggressive, and she was correct. I was trying to maintain composure, but it was hard.

The emergency medicine physician volunteered to fly with her, so I called back medical control in desperation: “This doctor’s willing to fly. Let him take her.”

They told me apologetically, knowing my agony, that he was not trained to fly and therefore could not do so. I sat down in the ambulance bay crying, waiting for the second helicopter to arrive.

When we got Ali onto AirCare 2, my nurse then told me I couldn’t fly with her. I said, “I’m flying with her.” She said, “no, it’s not safe.” I said, “I’m not leaving her. I’ll sit in the front. What do you think I’m going to do? Jump out of the helicopter?” I think they realized there was no other option that I would agree to. I rode up front.

It was the fastest flight to the trauma center that I had ever experienced. They did a hot offload, meaning they didn’t even shut down the blades. We got her to the trauma center. And then it was a whole other layer of chaos.

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor’s presence may have delayed my transfer, but the University emergency department was prepped and waiting for me. Radiology was on hold, surgery and neurosurgery were there waiting. Everyone was in the trauma bay.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: My younger sister was a social worker in that emergency department, and she was on shift. She and my residency director went to CT with Ali. As the images from Ali’s CT scan showed up on the screens, everyone in the room gasped. She had a nonsurvivable head injury.

The AirCare 2 doctor collapsed into our director’s arms and cried: “She’s going to die tonight.” He responded: “I know. But we’ve got work to do.” Then he asked my sister how close she was with me. She told him we were extremely close. “Good, because we have to break the news that she’s going to die tonight.”

But the doctor never told me. I was in the consultation room. He came in and told me that she had a lot of bleeding around the brain, but he couldn’t find the words to tell me the true severity. He didn’t have to.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was in a coma for 5 days. Shift by shift, they were amazed that I was still there. I had a broken jaw, broken vertebrae in my spine, a broken clavicle and sternum and contusions to my heart and lungs. I was later found to have a dissection of my carotid artery as well as an aneurysm to the carotid artery. These were both caused by the accident.

My jaw was wired shut and a tracheostomy was placed. They coiled the aneurysm and put a stent in the dissection. I was placed on dual antiplatelet therapy to prevent stent thrombosis.

When I initially woke from the coma during my hospital stay, I could not speak, but I remember being told why I was there. My first two thoughts were: Was it my fault? and I need to get back to work.

Two and a half weeks later, I was stable enough to go to an in-patient rehab facility.

I was very motivated. I made a lot of good progress, because Taylor was there with me. We looked through pictures, trying to jog my memory and help with my vocabulary. I’d look at a bird and know this is a flying animal but couldn’t think of the word bird. I couldn’t remember my mom’s name.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: She was becoming more fluent with her speech each day. Her right arm was working more normally. We started going on walks outside. Within 14 days she was discharged home.

When we left the rehab facility, I took a couple extra tracheostomy tubes and supplies, because I didn’t know how long Ali would have her trach. The emergency medicine person in me just thought, always have these things on hand.

A few days later, her ENT doctor decannulated her tracheostomy tube. In our minds, we were done.

The next night, she had the intracranial hemorrhage.
 

Return to the hospital ...

Dr. Taylor Delgado: The aneurysm they had coiled had ruptured. Ali had a recurrent subarachnoid hemorrhage and an intracranial hemorrhage, and she was still bleeding. So, they took her to IR to try to embolize it and accomplished as much as they possibly could.

She had hydrocephalus, the ventricles in her brain were enlarged. Normally, they would put in a drain, but they couldn’t because she was on aspirin and Plavix (clopidogrel). That would risk her having a bleed around that insertion site, which would cause a brain hemorrhage.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was like a ticking time bomb. We knew I would have to have surgery as soon as possible to open my skull and clip the aneurysm. But I had to be on the Plavix and aspirin for at least 6 weeks before it would be considered safe to discontinue them. It was another 3 weeks before they could proceed with the surgery.

The second hospitalization was scarier than the first, because I was much more aware. I knew that I might not be able to return to my residency and do the thing I had dreamed of doing. There were risks of me becoming blind or paralyzed during the surgery. I might not even leave the hospital.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was mid-December by then, and my dad asked her, “Ali, what do you want for Christmas?” She looked at him deadpan and said, “normal brain.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: The surgery was successful. I went home a few days later. But I’d lost everything I had gained in rehabilitation. My speech was back to square one.

None of the doctors really expected me to go back to work. But from my standpoint, I thought, I could have died the day I was hit. I could have died when the aneurysm ruptured, or at any point along the way. But I’m here and I’m going back to work.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: In January, I went back to work and I had to fly on the helicopter. They were worried about how I would react. My flight director flew with me on my first shift. Our first flight was an inter-facility STEMI transfer. No big deal. The second one was a car accident outside of Batesville, Ind. We were in the back of the ambulance, and I looked at this woman. She was 27 years old, thin, with long hair. She looked exactly like Ali.

Ali flashed into my mind, and I was like, nope. Ali’s at home. She’s fine. This person is right here, right now. Do what you do. I intubated her in the helicopter. We gave her hypertonic saline. I started a blood transfusion. Afterward, my flight director came up to me and said: “You’re released back to full duty. That was the hardest test you could possibly have on your first day back flying, and you nailed it.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: I finished my residency in December of 2012 and passed my pediatric board exam on the first try, almost exactly 3 years after my accident.

The spring before I started medical school in 2005, I had won the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon. In 2011, a few months after my accident, they invited us to be the starters of the race. When we stood at the starting line, I decided right then I was going to run this marathon again the next year. In spring 2012, I returned and finished in fourth place, beating my previous winning time by two minutes.

I have a different level of empathy for my patients now. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to not know if you’re going to leave the hospital. I’ve lived that. The process of writing my book was also cathartic for me. I told my story to try to give people hope.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: I have a tattoo on my wrist showing the date of Ali’s accident. The idea was to remind myself of what we’ve come through and everyone who went above and beyond. To show gratitude to them and remember everything that they did for us. It’s also to remember that every patient I see is somebody else’s Alison.

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