As Told To Sarah Yahr Tucker

It was a quiet day. I got up around 3 o’clock in the afternoon for my shift at 6 p.m. I was shaking off the cobwebs and making coffee at our front window that overlooked Brown Street in North Philadelphia. I looked out the window and saw a man stumbling down the street, grabbing his abdomen and yelling for help. There was nobody else around so I went outside to see what was going on.

He was in his 50s or 60s, bleeding and obviously in distress. I had him sit down. Then I ran back inside and grabbed a dish towel and some exam gloves that I had in the house.

I ran back out and assessed him. A bullet had gone through one of his hands, but he had other wounds. I had to expose him, so I trauma stripped him on the sidewalk. I got his pants and his shirt off and saw a gunshot going through his lower pelvis. He was bleeding out from there.

I got the towel and started applying deep pressure down into the iliac vein in case they hit something, which I found out later, they had. I held it there. The man was just lying there begging not to die.

I’m someone who is very calm, maybe abnormally calm, as people tell me. I try to use that during my resuscitations and traumas. Just keeping everybody calm makes the situation easier. Afterwards, people asked me, “Weren’t you worried that you were going to get shot?” That does happen in North Philadelphia. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

I didn’t have to think at all about what I was doing. We saw so many gunshots, especially at Einstein Medical Center. We saw them daily. I’d sometimes get more than half a dozen gunshots in one shift.

So, I was holding pressure and some people started to come over. I got somebody to call 911 and asked the man about his medical history. I found out he had diabetes. Five or 10 minutes later, EMS showed up. They looked pretty stunned when I was able to give the handoff presentation to them. I told them what happened and his back-story. I wanted to make sure they would check his sugar and take extra precautions.

They got him on the stretcher, and he eventually made it to the hospital where he had surgery. They had to have a vascular surgeon work on him. I called later, and they told me, “Yeah, he’s alive.” But that’s about the extent of the update I got.

After the ambulance left, it was kind of chaos. All the neighbors poured out of their houses. People were panicked, talking and getting excited about it. I didn’t know, but everyone else had actually been home the whole time. They didn’t come out until then.

I went back inside and tried to get ready for work. I wasn’t planning on talking to the media, but my next door neighbor just walked the news camera crew over to my house and knocked on my door. I wasn’t exactly dressed to be on TV, but they talked to me on camera, and it was on the news later that night.

I went to work and didn’t say anything about it. To be honest, I was trying to avoid telling anyone. Our team had a close-knit bond, and we would often tease each other when we received any type of recognition.

Naturally one of my attendings saw it on the local news and told everybody. So, I got a lot of happy harassment for quite some time. Someone baked me a cake that said, “Hero of Fairmount” (the Philly neighborhood in which I live). Someone else printed out a photo of me that said, “Stop the Bleed Hero of Fairmount,” and put it on every single computer screen.

The man came to see me about 2 weeks later (a neighbor told him where I lived). The man was very tearful and gave me a big hug. We just embraced for a while, and he said how thankful he was. He brought me a bottle of wine, which I thought was really nice.

He told me what happened to him: There was a lot of construction on our street and he was the contractor overseeing a couple of home remodels and demolitions. Sometimes he paid workers in cash and carried it with him. Somebody had tipped off somebody else that he was going to be there that day. The contractor walked into one of the houses and a guy in a ski mask waited there with a gun. The guy shot him and took the cash. The bullet went through his hand into his pelvis.

I had never had to deal with something that intense before outside of work. Most of it really comes down to the basics – the ABCs and bleeding control. You do whatever you can with what you have. In this case, it was just a dish towel, gloves, and my hands to put as much pressure as possible.

It really was strange that I happened to be looking out the window at that moment. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence. The man told me he believed God had put somebody there at the right place at the right time to save his life. I just felt very fortunate to have been able to help him. I never saw him again.

I think something like this gives you a little confidence that you can actually do something and make a meaningful impact anywhere when it’s needed. It lets you know that you’re capable of doing it. You always think about it, but you don’t know until it happens.

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

It was a quiet day. I got up around 3 o’clock in the afternoon for my shift at 6 p.m. I was shaking off the cobwebs and making coffee at our front window that overlooked Brown Street in North Philadelphia. I looked out the window and saw a man stumbling down the street, grabbing his abdomen and yelling for help. There was nobody else around so I went outside to see what was going on.

He was in his 50s or 60s, bleeding and obviously in distress. I had him sit down. Then I ran back inside and grabbed a dish towel and some exam gloves that I had in the house.

I ran back out and assessed him. A bullet had gone through one of his hands, but he had other wounds. I had to expose him, so I trauma stripped him on the sidewalk. I got his pants and his shirt off and saw a gunshot going through his lower pelvis. He was bleeding out from there.

I got the towel and started applying deep pressure down into the iliac vein in case they hit something, which I found out later, they had. I held it there. The man was just lying there begging not to die.

I’m someone who is very calm, maybe abnormally calm, as people tell me. I try to use that during my resuscitations and traumas. Just keeping everybody calm makes the situation easier. Afterwards, people asked me, “Weren’t you worried that you were going to get shot?” That does happen in North Philadelphia. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

I didn’t have to think at all about what I was doing. We saw so many gunshots, especially at Einstein Medical Center. We saw them daily. I’d sometimes get more than half a dozen gunshots in one shift.

So, I was holding pressure and some people started to come over. I got somebody to call 911 and asked the man about his medical history. I found out he had diabetes. Five or 10 minutes later, EMS showed up. They looked pretty stunned when I was able to give the handoff presentation to them. I told them what happened and his back-story. I wanted to make sure they would check his sugar and take extra precautions.

They got him on the stretcher, and he eventually made it to the hospital where he had surgery. They had to have a vascular surgeon work on him. I called later, and they told me, “Yeah, he’s alive.” But that’s about the extent of the update I got.

After the ambulance left, it was kind of chaos. All the neighbors poured out of their houses. People were panicked, talking and getting excited about it. I didn’t know, but everyone else had actually been home the whole time. They didn’t come out until then.

I went back inside and tried to get ready for work. I wasn’t planning on talking to the media, but my next door neighbor just walked the news camera crew over to my house and knocked on my door. I wasn’t exactly dressed to be on TV, but they talked to me on camera, and it was on the news later that night.

I went to work and didn’t say anything about it. To be honest, I was trying to avoid telling anyone. Our team had a close-knit bond, and we would often tease each other when we received any type of recognition.

Naturally one of my attendings saw it on the local news and told everybody. So, I got a lot of happy harassment for quite some time. Someone baked me a cake that said, “Hero of Fairmount” (the Philly neighborhood in which I live). Someone else printed out a photo of me that said, “Stop the Bleed Hero of Fairmount,” and put it on every single computer screen.

The man came to see me about 2 weeks later (a neighbor told him where I lived). The man was very tearful and gave me a big hug. We just embraced for a while, and he said how thankful he was. He brought me a bottle of wine, which I thought was really nice.

He told me what happened to him: There was a lot of construction on our street and he was the contractor overseeing a couple of home remodels and demolitions. Sometimes he paid workers in cash and carried it with him. Somebody had tipped off somebody else that he was going to be there that day. The contractor walked into one of the houses and a guy in a ski mask waited there with a gun. The guy shot him and took the cash. The bullet went through his hand into his pelvis.

I had never had to deal with something that intense before outside of work. Most of it really comes down to the basics – the ABCs and bleeding control. You do whatever you can with what you have. In this case, it was just a dish towel, gloves, and my hands to put as much pressure as possible.

It really was strange that I happened to be looking out the window at that moment. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence. The man told me he believed God had put somebody there at the right place at the right time to save his life. I just felt very fortunate to have been able to help him. I never saw him again.

I think something like this gives you a little confidence that you can actually do something and make a meaningful impact anywhere when it’s needed. It lets you know that you’re capable of doing it. You always think about it, but you don’t know until it happens.

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

It was a quiet day. I got up around 3 o’clock in the afternoon for my shift at 6 p.m. I was shaking off the cobwebs and making coffee at our front window that overlooked Brown Street in North Philadelphia. I looked out the window and saw a man stumbling down the street, grabbing his abdomen and yelling for help. There was nobody else around so I went outside to see what was going on.

He was in his 50s or 60s, bleeding and obviously in distress. I had him sit down. Then I ran back inside and grabbed a dish towel and some exam gloves that I had in the house.

I ran back out and assessed him. A bullet had gone through one of his hands, but he had other wounds. I had to expose him, so I trauma stripped him on the sidewalk. I got his pants and his shirt off and saw a gunshot going through his lower pelvis. He was bleeding out from there.

I got the towel and started applying deep pressure down into the iliac vein in case they hit something, which I found out later, they had. I held it there. The man was just lying there begging not to die.

I’m someone who is very calm, maybe abnormally calm, as people tell me. I try to use that during my resuscitations and traumas. Just keeping everybody calm makes the situation easier. Afterwards, people asked me, “Weren’t you worried that you were going to get shot?” That does happen in North Philadelphia. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

I didn’t have to think at all about what I was doing. We saw so many gunshots, especially at Einstein Medical Center. We saw them daily. I’d sometimes get more than half a dozen gunshots in one shift.

So, I was holding pressure and some people started to come over. I got somebody to call 911 and asked the man about his medical history. I found out he had diabetes. Five or 10 minutes later, EMS showed up. They looked pretty stunned when I was able to give the handoff presentation to them. I told them what happened and his back-story. I wanted to make sure they would check his sugar and take extra precautions.

They got him on the stretcher, and he eventually made it to the hospital where he had surgery. They had to have a vascular surgeon work on him. I called later, and they told me, “Yeah, he’s alive.” But that’s about the extent of the update I got.

After the ambulance left, it was kind of chaos. All the neighbors poured out of their houses. People were panicked, talking and getting excited about it. I didn’t know, but everyone else had actually been home the whole time. They didn’t come out until then.

I went back inside and tried to get ready for work. I wasn’t planning on talking to the media, but my next door neighbor just walked the news camera crew over to my house and knocked on my door. I wasn’t exactly dressed to be on TV, but they talked to me on camera, and it was on the news later that night.

I went to work and didn’t say anything about it. To be honest, I was trying to avoid telling anyone. Our team had a close-knit bond, and we would often tease each other when we received any type of recognition.

Naturally one of my attendings saw it on the local news and told everybody. So, I got a lot of happy harassment for quite some time. Someone baked me a cake that said, “Hero of Fairmount” (the Philly neighborhood in which I live). Someone else printed out a photo of me that said, “Stop the Bleed Hero of Fairmount,” and put it on every single computer screen.

The man came to see me about 2 weeks later (a neighbor told him where I lived). The man was very tearful and gave me a big hug. We just embraced for a while, and he said how thankful he was. He brought me a bottle of wine, which I thought was really nice.

He told me what happened to him: There was a lot of construction on our street and he was the contractor overseeing a couple of home remodels and demolitions. Sometimes he paid workers in cash and carried it with him. Somebody had tipped off somebody else that he was going to be there that day. The contractor walked into one of the houses and a guy in a ski mask waited there with a gun. The guy shot him and took the cash. The bullet went through his hand into his pelvis.

I had never had to deal with something that intense before outside of work. Most of it really comes down to the basics – the ABCs and bleeding control. You do whatever you can with what you have. In this case, it was just a dish towel, gloves, and my hands to put as much pressure as possible.

It really was strange that I happened to be looking out the window at that moment. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence. The man told me he believed God had put somebody there at the right place at the right time to save his life. I just felt very fortunate to have been able to help him. I never saw him again.

I think something like this gives you a little confidence that you can actually do something and make a meaningful impact anywhere when it’s needed. It lets you know that you’re capable of doing it. You always think about it, but you don’t know until it happens.

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

My son needed a physical for his football team, and we couldn’t get an appointment. So, we went to the urgent care next to the H Mart in Cary, N.C. While I was waiting, I thought, let me go get a coffee or an iced tea at the H Mart. They have this French bakery in there.

I went in and ordered my drink, and I was waiting in line. I saw this woman pass me running with a baby. Another woman – I found out later it was her sister – was running after her, and she said: “Call 911!”

“I don’t have my phone,” I said. I left my phone with my son; he was using it.

The lady came running back holding the baby. She was hysterical, screaming: “My baby’s not breathing!”

I said: “Are you okay?” And she just handed me the baby. The baby was gray, and there was blood in her nose and mouth. The woman said: “She’s my baby. She’s 1 week old.”

I was trying to think very quickly. I didn’t see any bubbles in the blood around the baby’s nose or mouth to tell me if she was breathing. She was just limp. The mom was still screaming, but I couldn’t even hear her anymore. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. All I could hear were my thoughts: “I need to put this baby down to start CPR. Someone was calling 911. I should go in the front of the store to save time, so EMS doesn’t have to look for me when they come.”

I started moving and trying to clean the blood from the baby’s face with her blanket. At the front of the store, I saw a display of rice bags. I put the baby on top of one of the bags. “Okay, where do I check for a pulse on a baby?” I took care of adults, never pediatric patients, never babies. She was so tiny. I put my hand on her chest and felt nothing. No heartbeat. She still wasn’t breathing.

People were around me, but I couldn’t see or hear anybody. All I was thinking was: “What can I do for this patient right now?” I started CPR with two fingers. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever for me. I couldn’t do mouth-to-mouth because there was so much blood on her face. I still don’t know what caused the bleeding.

It was COVID time, so I had my mask on. I was, like: “You know what? Screw this. She’s a 1-week-old baby. Her lungs are tiny. Maybe I don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. I can just blow in her mouth.” I took off my mask and opened her mouth. I took a deep breath and blew a little bit of air in her mouth. I continued CPR for maybe 5 or 10 seconds.

And then she gasped! She opened her eyes, but they were rolled up. I was still doing CPR, and maybe 2 second after that, I could feel under my hand a very rapid heart rate. I took my hand away and lifted her up.

Just then the EMS got there. I gave them the baby and said: “I did CPR. I don’t know how long it lasted.” The EMS person looked at me, said: “Thank you for what you did. Now we need you to help us with mom.” I said, “okay.”

I turned around, and the mom was still screaming and crying. I asked one of the ladies that worked there, “Can you get me water?” She brought it, and I gave some to the mom, and she started talking to EMS.

People were asking me: “What happened? What happened?” It’s funny, I guess the nurse in me didn’t want to give out information. And I didn’t want to ask for information. I was thinking about privacy. I said, “I don’t know,” and walked away.

The mom’s sister came and hugged me and said thank you. I was still in this out-of-body zone, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So, I left. I went to my car and when I got in it, I started shaking and sweating and crying.

I had been so calm in the moment, not thinking about if the baby was going to survive or not. I didn’t know how long she was without oxygen, if she would have some anoxic brain injury or stroke. I’m a mom, too. I would have been just as terrified as that mom. I just hoped there was a chance that she could take her baby home.

I went back to the urgent care, and my son was, like, “are you okay?” I said: “You will not believe this. I just did CPR on a baby.” He said: “Oh. Okay.” I don’t think he even knew what that meant.

I’ve been an ICU nurse since 2008. I’ve been in very critical moments with patients, life or death situations. I help save people all the time at the hospital. Most of the time, you know what you’re getting. You can prepare. You have everything you need, and everyone knows what to do. You know what the worst will look like. You know the outcome.

But this was something else. You read about things like this. You hear about them. But you never think it’ll happen to you – until it happens.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. So, 2 days later, I posted on Next Door to see if somebody would read it and say, “hey, the baby survived.” I was amazed at how many people responded, but no one knew the family.

The local news got hold of me and asked me to do a story. I told them, “the only way I can do a story is if the baby survived. I’m not going to do a story about a dead baby, and the mom has to live through it again.”

The reporter called me later on that day and said she had talked to the police. They said the family was visiting from out of state. The baby went to the hospital and was discharged home 2 days later. I said, “okay, then I can talk.”

When the news story came out, I started getting texts from people at work the same night. So many people were reaching out. Even people from out of state. But I never heard from the family. No one knew how to reach them.

Since I was very young, I wanted to work in a hospital, to help people. It really brings me joy, seeing somebody go home, knowing, yes, we did this. It’s a great feeling. I love this job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I just wish I had asked the mom’s name. Because I always think about that baby. I always wonder, what did she become? I hope somebody reads this who might know that little girl. It would be so nice to meet her one day.

Ms. Diallo is an ICU nurse and now works as nurse care coordinator at the University of North Carolina’s Children’s Neurology Clinic in Chapel Hill.
 

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

My son needed a physical for his football team, and we couldn’t get an appointment. So, we went to the urgent care next to the H Mart in Cary, N.C. While I was waiting, I thought, let me go get a coffee or an iced tea at the H Mart. They have this French bakery in there.

I went in and ordered my drink, and I was waiting in line. I saw this woman pass me running with a baby. Another woman – I found out later it was her sister – was running after her, and she said: “Call 911!”

“I don’t have my phone,” I said. I left my phone with my son; he was using it.

The lady came running back holding the baby. She was hysterical, screaming: “My baby’s not breathing!”

I said: “Are you okay?” And she just handed me the baby. The baby was gray, and there was blood in her nose and mouth. The woman said: “She’s my baby. She’s 1 week old.”

I was trying to think very quickly. I didn’t see any bubbles in the blood around the baby’s nose or mouth to tell me if she was breathing. She was just limp. The mom was still screaming, but I couldn’t even hear her anymore. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. All I could hear were my thoughts: “I need to put this baby down to start CPR. Someone was calling 911. I should go in the front of the store to save time, so EMS doesn’t have to look for me when they come.”

I started moving and trying to clean the blood from the baby’s face with her blanket. At the front of the store, I saw a display of rice bags. I put the baby on top of one of the bags. “Okay, where do I check for a pulse on a baby?” I took care of adults, never pediatric patients, never babies. She was so tiny. I put my hand on her chest and felt nothing. No heartbeat. She still wasn’t breathing.

People were around me, but I couldn’t see or hear anybody. All I was thinking was: “What can I do for this patient right now?” I started CPR with two fingers. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever for me. I couldn’t do mouth-to-mouth because there was so much blood on her face. I still don’t know what caused the bleeding.

It was COVID time, so I had my mask on. I was, like: “You know what? Screw this. She’s a 1-week-old baby. Her lungs are tiny. Maybe I don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. I can just blow in her mouth.” I took off my mask and opened her mouth. I took a deep breath and blew a little bit of air in her mouth. I continued CPR for maybe 5 or 10 seconds.

And then she gasped! She opened her eyes, but they were rolled up. I was still doing CPR, and maybe 2 second after that, I could feel under my hand a very rapid heart rate. I took my hand away and lifted her up.

Just then the EMS got there. I gave them the baby and said: “I did CPR. I don’t know how long it lasted.” The EMS person looked at me, said: “Thank you for what you did. Now we need you to help us with mom.” I said, “okay.”

I turned around, and the mom was still screaming and crying. I asked one of the ladies that worked there, “Can you get me water?” She brought it, and I gave some to the mom, and she started talking to EMS.

People were asking me: “What happened? What happened?” It’s funny, I guess the nurse in me didn’t want to give out information. And I didn’t want to ask for information. I was thinking about privacy. I said, “I don’t know,” and walked away.

The mom’s sister came and hugged me and said thank you. I was still in this out-of-body zone, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So, I left. I went to my car and when I got in it, I started shaking and sweating and crying.

I had been so calm in the moment, not thinking about if the baby was going to survive or not. I didn’t know how long she was without oxygen, if she would have some anoxic brain injury or stroke. I’m a mom, too. I would have been just as terrified as that mom. I just hoped there was a chance that she could take her baby home.

I went back to the urgent care, and my son was, like, “are you okay?” I said: “You will not believe this. I just did CPR on a baby.” He said: “Oh. Okay.” I don’t think he even knew what that meant.

I’ve been an ICU nurse since 2008. I’ve been in very critical moments with patients, life or death situations. I help save people all the time at the hospital. Most of the time, you know what you’re getting. You can prepare. You have everything you need, and everyone knows what to do. You know what the worst will look like. You know the outcome.

But this was something else. You read about things like this. You hear about them. But you never think it’ll happen to you – until it happens.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. So, 2 days later, I posted on Next Door to see if somebody would read it and say, “hey, the baby survived.” I was amazed at how many people responded, but no one knew the family.

The local news got hold of me and asked me to do a story. I told them, “the only way I can do a story is if the baby survived. I’m not going to do a story about a dead baby, and the mom has to live through it again.”

The reporter called me later on that day and said she had talked to the police. They said the family was visiting from out of state. The baby went to the hospital and was discharged home 2 days later. I said, “okay, then I can talk.”

When the news story came out, I started getting texts from people at work the same night. So many people were reaching out. Even people from out of state. But I never heard from the family. No one knew how to reach them.

Since I was very young, I wanted to work in a hospital, to help people. It really brings me joy, seeing somebody go home, knowing, yes, we did this. It’s a great feeling. I love this job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I just wish I had asked the mom’s name. Because I always think about that baby. I always wonder, what did she become? I hope somebody reads this who might know that little girl. It would be so nice to meet her one day.

Ms. Diallo is an ICU nurse and now works as nurse care coordinator at the University of North Carolina’s Children’s Neurology Clinic in Chapel Hill.
 

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

My son needed a physical for his football team, and we couldn’t get an appointment. So, we went to the urgent care next to the H Mart in Cary, N.C. While I was waiting, I thought, let me go get a coffee or an iced tea at the H Mart. They have this French bakery in there.

I went in and ordered my drink, and I was waiting in line. I saw this woman pass me running with a baby. Another woman – I found out later it was her sister – was running after her, and she said: “Call 911!”

“I don’t have my phone,” I said. I left my phone with my son; he was using it.

The lady came running back holding the baby. She was hysterical, screaming: “My baby’s not breathing!”

I said: “Are you okay?” And she just handed me the baby. The baby was gray, and there was blood in her nose and mouth. The woman said: “She’s my baby. She’s 1 week old.”

I was trying to think very quickly. I didn’t see any bubbles in the blood around the baby’s nose or mouth to tell me if she was breathing. She was just limp. The mom was still screaming, but I couldn’t even hear her anymore. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. All I could hear were my thoughts: “I need to put this baby down to start CPR. Someone was calling 911. I should go in the front of the store to save time, so EMS doesn’t have to look for me when they come.”

I started moving and trying to clean the blood from the baby’s face with her blanket. At the front of the store, I saw a display of rice bags. I put the baby on top of one of the bags. “Okay, where do I check for a pulse on a baby?” I took care of adults, never pediatric patients, never babies. She was so tiny. I put my hand on her chest and felt nothing. No heartbeat. She still wasn’t breathing.

People were around me, but I couldn’t see or hear anybody. All I was thinking was: “What can I do for this patient right now?” I started CPR with two fingers. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever for me. I couldn’t do mouth-to-mouth because there was so much blood on her face. I still don’t know what caused the bleeding.

It was COVID time, so I had my mask on. I was, like: “You know what? Screw this. She’s a 1-week-old baby. Her lungs are tiny. Maybe I don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. I can just blow in her mouth.” I took off my mask and opened her mouth. I took a deep breath and blew a little bit of air in her mouth. I continued CPR for maybe 5 or 10 seconds.

And then she gasped! She opened her eyes, but they were rolled up. I was still doing CPR, and maybe 2 second after that, I could feel under my hand a very rapid heart rate. I took my hand away and lifted her up.

Just then the EMS got there. I gave them the baby and said: “I did CPR. I don’t know how long it lasted.” The EMS person looked at me, said: “Thank you for what you did. Now we need you to help us with mom.” I said, “okay.”

I turned around, and the mom was still screaming and crying. I asked one of the ladies that worked there, “Can you get me water?” She brought it, and I gave some to the mom, and she started talking to EMS.

People were asking me: “What happened? What happened?” It’s funny, I guess the nurse in me didn’t want to give out information. And I didn’t want to ask for information. I was thinking about privacy. I said, “I don’t know,” and walked away.

The mom’s sister came and hugged me and said thank you. I was still in this out-of-body zone, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So, I left. I went to my car and when I got in it, I started shaking and sweating and crying.

I had been so calm in the moment, not thinking about if the baby was going to survive or not. I didn’t know how long she was without oxygen, if she would have some anoxic brain injury or stroke. I’m a mom, too. I would have been just as terrified as that mom. I just hoped there was a chance that she could take her baby home.

I went back to the urgent care, and my son was, like, “are you okay?” I said: “You will not believe this. I just did CPR on a baby.” He said: “Oh. Okay.” I don’t think he even knew what that meant.

I’ve been an ICU nurse since 2008. I’ve been in very critical moments with patients, life or death situations. I help save people all the time at the hospital. Most of the time, you know what you’re getting. You can prepare. You have everything you need, and everyone knows what to do. You know what the worst will look like. You know the outcome.

But this was something else. You read about things like this. You hear about them. But you never think it’ll happen to you – until it happens.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. So, 2 days later, I posted on Next Door to see if somebody would read it and say, “hey, the baby survived.” I was amazed at how many people responded, but no one knew the family.

The local news got hold of me and asked me to do a story. I told them, “the only way I can do a story is if the baby survived. I’m not going to do a story about a dead baby, and the mom has to live through it again.”

The reporter called me later on that day and said she had talked to the police. They said the family was visiting from out of state. The baby went to the hospital and was discharged home 2 days later. I said, “okay, then I can talk.”

When the news story came out, I started getting texts from people at work the same night. So many people were reaching out. Even people from out of state. But I never heard from the family. No one knew how to reach them.

Since I was very young, I wanted to work in a hospital, to help people. It really brings me joy, seeing somebody go home, knowing, yes, we did this. It’s a great feeling. I love this job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I just wish I had asked the mom’s name. Because I always think about that baby. I always wonder, what did she become? I hope somebody reads this who might know that little girl. It would be so nice to meet her one day.

Ms. Diallo is an ICU nurse and now works as nurse care coordinator at the University of North Carolina’s Children’s Neurology Clinic in Chapel Hill.
 

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

As a lifeguard during college and then a physician assistant in emergency medicine for almost 3 decades, people often ask how I deal with emergency situations. I tell them the emotions turn off; skills and training take over. That is exactly what happened one day while I was surfing.

There’s a famous surf spot called Old Man’s on San Onofre beach in north San Diego County. It has nice, gentle waves that people say are similar to Waikiki in Hawaii. Since the waves are so forgiving, a lot of older people surf there. I taught my boys and some friends how to surf there. Everyone enjoys the water. It’s just a really fun vibe.

In September of 2008, I was at Old Man’s surfing with friends. After a while, I told them I was going to catch the next wave in. When I rode the wave to the beach, I saw an older guy waving his arms above his head, trying to get the lifeguard’s attention. His friend was lying on the sand at the water’s edge, unconscious. The lifeguards were about 200 yards away in their truck. Since it was off-season, they weren’t in the nearby towers.

I threw my board down on the sand and ran over. The guy was blue in the face and had some secretions around his mouth. He wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. I told his friend to get the lifeguards.

I gave two rescue breaths, and then started CPR. The waves were still lapping against his feet. I could sense people gathering around, so I said, “Okay, we’re going to be hooking him up to electricity, let’s get him out of the water.” I didn’t want him in contact with the water that could potentially transmit that electricity to anyone else.

Many hands reached in and we dragged him up to dry sand. When we pulled down his wetsuit, I saw an old midline sternotomy incision on his chest and I thought: “Oh man, he’s got a cardiac history.” I said, “I need a towel,” and suddenly there was a towel in my hand. I dried him off and continued doing CPR.

The lifeguard truck pulled up and in my peripheral vision I saw two lifeguards running over with their first aid kit. While doing compressions, I yelled over my shoulder: “Bring your AED! Get your oxygen!” They ran back to the truck.

At that point, a young woman came up and said: “I’m a nuclear medicine tech. What can I do?” I asked her to help me keep his airway open. I positioned her at his head, and she did a chin lift.

The two lifeguards came running back. One was very experienced, and he started getting the AED ready and putting the pads on. The other lifeguard was younger. He was nervous and shaking, trying to figure out how to turn on the oxygen tank. I told him: “Buddy, you better figure that out real fast.”

The AED said there was a shockable rhythm so it delivered a shock. I started compressions again. The younger lifeguard finally figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank. Now we had oxygen, a bag valve mask, and an AED. We let our training take over and quickly melded together as an efficient team.

Two minutes later the AED analyzed the rhythm and administered another shock. More compressions. Then another shock and compressions. I had so much adrenaline going through my body that I wasn’t even getting tired.

By then I had been doing compressions for a good 10 minutes. Finally, I asked: “Hey, when are the paramedics going to get here?” And the lifeguard said: “They’re on their way.” But we were all the way down on a very remote section of beach.

We did CPR on him for what seemed like eternity, probably only 15-20 minutes. Sometimes he would get a pulse back and pink up, and we could stop and get a break. But then I would see him become cyanotic. His pulse would become thready, so I would start again.

The paramedics finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. He was still blue in the face, and I honestly thought he would probably not survive. I said a quick prayer for him as they drove off.

For the next week, I wondered what happened to him. The next time I was at the beach, I approached some older guys and said: “Hey, I was doing CPR on a guy here last week. Do you know what happened to him?” They gave me a thumbs up sign and said: “He’s doing great!” I was amazed!

While at the beach, I saw the nuclear med tech who helped with the airway and oxygen. She told me she’d called her hospital after the incident and asked if they had received a full arrest from the beach. They said: “Yes, he was sitting up, awake and talking when he came through the door.”

A few weeks later, the local paper called and wanted to do an interview and get some photos on the beach. We set up a time to meet, and I told the reporter that if he ever found out who the guy was, I would love to meet him. I had two reasons: First, because I had done mouth-to-mouth on him and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have any communicable diseases. Second, and this is a little weirder, I wanted to find out if he had an out-of-body experience. They fascinate me.

The reporter called back a few minutes later and said: “You’ll never believe this – while I was talking to you, my phone beeped with another call. The person left a message, and it was the guy. He wants to meet you.” I was amazed at the coincidence that he would call at exactly the same time.

Later that day, we all met at the beach. I gave him a big hug and told him he looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He now had a pacemaker/defibrillator. I found out he was married and had three teenage boys (who still have a father). He told me on the day of the incident he developed chest pain, weakness, and shortness of breath while surfing, so he came in and sat down at the water’s edge to catch his breath. That was the last thing he remembered. 

When I told him I did mouth-to-mouth on him, he laughed and reassured me that he didn’t have any contagious diseases. Then I asked him about an out-of-body experience, like hovering above his body and watching the CPR. “Did you see us doing that?” I asked. He said: “No, nothing but black. The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, and the paramedic asked me, ‘how does it feel to come back from the dead?’ ” He answered: “I think I have to throw up.”

He was cleared to surf 6 weeks later, and I thought it would be fun to surf with him. But when he started paddling out, he said his defibrillator went off, so he has now retired to golf.

I’ve been a PA in the emergency room for 28 years. I’ve done CPR for so long it’s instinctive for me. It really saves lives, especially with the AED. When people say: “You saved his life,” I say: “No, I didn’t. I just kept him alive and let the AED do its job.”

Ms. Westbrook-May is an emergency medicine physician assistant in Newport Beach, Calif.

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

As a lifeguard during college and then a physician assistant in emergency medicine for almost 3 decades, people often ask how I deal with emergency situations. I tell them the emotions turn off; skills and training take over. That is exactly what happened one day while I was surfing.

There’s a famous surf spot called Old Man’s on San Onofre beach in north San Diego County. It has nice, gentle waves that people say are similar to Waikiki in Hawaii. Since the waves are so forgiving, a lot of older people surf there. I taught my boys and some friends how to surf there. Everyone enjoys the water. It’s just a really fun vibe.

In September of 2008, I was at Old Man’s surfing with friends. After a while, I told them I was going to catch the next wave in. When I rode the wave to the beach, I saw an older guy waving his arms above his head, trying to get the lifeguard’s attention. His friend was lying on the sand at the water’s edge, unconscious. The lifeguards were about 200 yards away in their truck. Since it was off-season, they weren’t in the nearby towers.

I threw my board down on the sand and ran over. The guy was blue in the face and had some secretions around his mouth. He wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. I told his friend to get the lifeguards.

I gave two rescue breaths, and then started CPR. The waves were still lapping against his feet. I could sense people gathering around, so I said, “Okay, we’re going to be hooking him up to electricity, let’s get him out of the water.” I didn’t want him in contact with the water that could potentially transmit that electricity to anyone else.

Many hands reached in and we dragged him up to dry sand. When we pulled down his wetsuit, I saw an old midline sternotomy incision on his chest and I thought: “Oh man, he’s got a cardiac history.” I said, “I need a towel,” and suddenly there was a towel in my hand. I dried him off and continued doing CPR.

The lifeguard truck pulled up and in my peripheral vision I saw two lifeguards running over with their first aid kit. While doing compressions, I yelled over my shoulder: “Bring your AED! Get your oxygen!” They ran back to the truck.

At that point, a young woman came up and said: “I’m a nuclear medicine tech. What can I do?” I asked her to help me keep his airway open. I positioned her at his head, and she did a chin lift.

The two lifeguards came running back. One was very experienced, and he started getting the AED ready and putting the pads on. The other lifeguard was younger. He was nervous and shaking, trying to figure out how to turn on the oxygen tank. I told him: “Buddy, you better figure that out real fast.”

The AED said there was a shockable rhythm so it delivered a shock. I started compressions again. The younger lifeguard finally figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank. Now we had oxygen, a bag valve mask, and an AED. We let our training take over and quickly melded together as an efficient team.

Two minutes later the AED analyzed the rhythm and administered another shock. More compressions. Then another shock and compressions. I had so much adrenaline going through my body that I wasn’t even getting tired.

By then I had been doing compressions for a good 10 minutes. Finally, I asked: “Hey, when are the paramedics going to get here?” And the lifeguard said: “They’re on their way.” But we were all the way down on a very remote section of beach.

We did CPR on him for what seemed like eternity, probably only 15-20 minutes. Sometimes he would get a pulse back and pink up, and we could stop and get a break. But then I would see him become cyanotic. His pulse would become thready, so I would start again.

The paramedics finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. He was still blue in the face, and I honestly thought he would probably not survive. I said a quick prayer for him as they drove off.

For the next week, I wondered what happened to him. The next time I was at the beach, I approached some older guys and said: “Hey, I was doing CPR on a guy here last week. Do you know what happened to him?” They gave me a thumbs up sign and said: “He’s doing great!” I was amazed!

While at the beach, I saw the nuclear med tech who helped with the airway and oxygen. She told me she’d called her hospital after the incident and asked if they had received a full arrest from the beach. They said: “Yes, he was sitting up, awake and talking when he came through the door.”

A few weeks later, the local paper called and wanted to do an interview and get some photos on the beach. We set up a time to meet, and I told the reporter that if he ever found out who the guy was, I would love to meet him. I had two reasons: First, because I had done mouth-to-mouth on him and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have any communicable diseases. Second, and this is a little weirder, I wanted to find out if he had an out-of-body experience. They fascinate me.

The reporter called back a few minutes later and said: “You’ll never believe this – while I was talking to you, my phone beeped with another call. The person left a message, and it was the guy. He wants to meet you.” I was amazed at the coincidence that he would call at exactly the same time.

Later that day, we all met at the beach. I gave him a big hug and told him he looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He now had a pacemaker/defibrillator. I found out he was married and had three teenage boys (who still have a father). He told me on the day of the incident he developed chest pain, weakness, and shortness of breath while surfing, so he came in and sat down at the water’s edge to catch his breath. That was the last thing he remembered. 

When I told him I did mouth-to-mouth on him, he laughed and reassured me that he didn’t have any contagious diseases. Then I asked him about an out-of-body experience, like hovering above his body and watching the CPR. “Did you see us doing that?” I asked. He said: “No, nothing but black. The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, and the paramedic asked me, ‘how does it feel to come back from the dead?’ ” He answered: “I think I have to throw up.”

He was cleared to surf 6 weeks later, and I thought it would be fun to surf with him. But when he started paddling out, he said his defibrillator went off, so he has now retired to golf.

I’ve been a PA in the emergency room for 28 years. I’ve done CPR for so long it’s instinctive for me. It really saves lives, especially with the AED. When people say: “You saved his life,” I say: “No, I didn’t. I just kept him alive and let the AED do its job.”

Ms. Westbrook-May is an emergency medicine physician assistant in Newport Beach, Calif.

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

As a lifeguard during college and then a physician assistant in emergency medicine for almost 3 decades, people often ask how I deal with emergency situations. I tell them the emotions turn off; skills and training take over. That is exactly what happened one day while I was surfing.

There’s a famous surf spot called Old Man’s on San Onofre beach in north San Diego County. It has nice, gentle waves that people say are similar to Waikiki in Hawaii. Since the waves are so forgiving, a lot of older people surf there. I taught my boys and some friends how to surf there. Everyone enjoys the water. It’s just a really fun vibe.

In September of 2008, I was at Old Man’s surfing with friends. After a while, I told them I was going to catch the next wave in. When I rode the wave to the beach, I saw an older guy waving his arms above his head, trying to get the lifeguard’s attention. His friend was lying on the sand at the water’s edge, unconscious. The lifeguards were about 200 yards away in their truck. Since it was off-season, they weren’t in the nearby towers.

I threw my board down on the sand and ran over. The guy was blue in the face and had some secretions around his mouth. He wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. I told his friend to get the lifeguards.

I gave two rescue breaths, and then started CPR. The waves were still lapping against his feet. I could sense people gathering around, so I said, “Okay, we’re going to be hooking him up to electricity, let’s get him out of the water.” I didn’t want him in contact with the water that could potentially transmit that electricity to anyone else.

Many hands reached in and we dragged him up to dry sand. When we pulled down his wetsuit, I saw an old midline sternotomy incision on his chest and I thought: “Oh man, he’s got a cardiac history.” I said, “I need a towel,” and suddenly there was a towel in my hand. I dried him off and continued doing CPR.

The lifeguard truck pulled up and in my peripheral vision I saw two lifeguards running over with their first aid kit. While doing compressions, I yelled over my shoulder: “Bring your AED! Get your oxygen!” They ran back to the truck.

At that point, a young woman came up and said: “I’m a nuclear medicine tech. What can I do?” I asked her to help me keep his airway open. I positioned her at his head, and she did a chin lift.

The two lifeguards came running back. One was very experienced, and he started getting the AED ready and putting the pads on. The other lifeguard was younger. He was nervous and shaking, trying to figure out how to turn on the oxygen tank. I told him: “Buddy, you better figure that out real fast.”

The AED said there was a shockable rhythm so it delivered a shock. I started compressions again. The younger lifeguard finally figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank. Now we had oxygen, a bag valve mask, and an AED. We let our training take over and quickly melded together as an efficient team.

Two minutes later the AED analyzed the rhythm and administered another shock. More compressions. Then another shock and compressions. I had so much adrenaline going through my body that I wasn’t even getting tired.

By then I had been doing compressions for a good 10 minutes. Finally, I asked: “Hey, when are the paramedics going to get here?” And the lifeguard said: “They’re on their way.” But we were all the way down on a very remote section of beach.

We did CPR on him for what seemed like eternity, probably only 15-20 minutes. Sometimes he would get a pulse back and pink up, and we could stop and get a break. But then I would see him become cyanotic. His pulse would become thready, so I would start again.

The paramedics finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. He was still blue in the face, and I honestly thought he would probably not survive. I said a quick prayer for him as they drove off.

For the next week, I wondered what happened to him. The next time I was at the beach, I approached some older guys and said: “Hey, I was doing CPR on a guy here last week. Do you know what happened to him?” They gave me a thumbs up sign and said: “He’s doing great!” I was amazed!

While at the beach, I saw the nuclear med tech who helped with the airway and oxygen. She told me she’d called her hospital after the incident and asked if they had received a full arrest from the beach. They said: “Yes, he was sitting up, awake and talking when he came through the door.”

A few weeks later, the local paper called and wanted to do an interview and get some photos on the beach. We set up a time to meet, and I told the reporter that if he ever found out who the guy was, I would love to meet him. I had two reasons: First, because I had done mouth-to-mouth on him and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have any communicable diseases. Second, and this is a little weirder, I wanted to find out if he had an out-of-body experience. They fascinate me.

The reporter called back a few minutes later and said: “You’ll never believe this – while I was talking to you, my phone beeped with another call. The person left a message, and it was the guy. He wants to meet you.” I was amazed at the coincidence that he would call at exactly the same time.

Later that day, we all met at the beach. I gave him a big hug and told him he looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He now had a pacemaker/defibrillator. I found out he was married and had three teenage boys (who still have a father). He told me on the day of the incident he developed chest pain, weakness, and shortness of breath while surfing, so he came in and sat down at the water’s edge to catch his breath. That was the last thing he remembered. 

When I told him I did mouth-to-mouth on him, he laughed and reassured me that he didn’t have any contagious diseases. Then I asked him about an out-of-body experience, like hovering above his body and watching the CPR. “Did you see us doing that?” I asked. He said: “No, nothing but black. The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, and the paramedic asked me, ‘how does it feel to come back from the dead?’ ” He answered: “I think I have to throw up.”

He was cleared to surf 6 weeks later, and I thought it would be fun to surf with him. But when he started paddling out, he said his defibrillator went off, so he has now retired to golf.

I’ve been a PA in the emergency room for 28 years. I’ve done CPR for so long it’s instinctive for me. It really saves lives, especially with the AED. When people say: “You saved his life,” I say: “No, I didn’t. I just kept him alive and let the AED do its job.”

Ms. Westbrook-May is an emergency medicine physician assistant in Newport Beach, Calif.

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

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

In December 2017, I was a second-year urology resident at Cleveland Clinic. I’d gone to New Delhi to attend my best friend’s wedding. My flight back was New Delhi to Paris to JFK via Air France. I didn’t sleep on the first flight. So, on the second, I wanted to get some rest, because I had to go back to work the next day. I put on a movie and tried to snooze. As the saying goes in residency, you sleep when you can.

About 3 hours later, a flight attendant made an announcement in French, but I didn’t really hear it. Then they announced in English that they needed a physician. I noticed some flight attendants walking frantically around the economy cabin asking, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Turns out there were two – the woman sitting next to me happened to be a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders. I volunteered.

The flight attendant told me a woman was having abdominal pain. I thought it would be something straightforward. Usually, medical emergencies on planes involve chest pain or a panic attack or a vasovagal syncopal episode. Well, I was in for a ride that day.

The woman in pain was traveling from Nigeria. She told me about the abdominal pain. Then she lifted her blanket – she was pregnant. She said she was 37 or 38 weeks in. I said, “Okay, if you’re having this significant abdominal pain, then I need to examine you.” So we decided to move her to the first-class cabin, which was empty (I never did ask why – but it was good we had room to work).

Next step, I went back to my seat and asked the pediatrician if she could assist. My plan was to simply get the passenger through the flight, and as soon as we landed, she would go to the hospital.

There was room to lie down in first class. The pediatrician and I examined her, and she appeared fine. She was traveling with her 4-year-old daughter, and the flight attendants were taking care of her. Everything was okay.

The pilot came back and asked if we would need an emergency landing. I asked him how far it was to JFK – 4 hours. He said the closest place to land would be the Azores Islands, which is Portuguese territory, 2 hours away.

The problem: Even if we made it to the Azores, the hospital there was a very basic facility with no obstetric care available. And by the time the ambulance picked her up and got her there, it would still be 2 or 3 hours total. I said, “No, let’s just observe and continue our course.” Inside my head, I was hoping and praying to God that was the right decision.

Within an hour, everything changed.

The woman’s pain got worse, and she started having contractions. Then her water broke.

Things progressed quickly from there. The contractions progressively got worse and worse. The interval between them got smaller and smaller. The next time we examined her, we could see the baby’s head beginning to crown.

At that point, we had to decide – are we going to deliver? We were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing around us. We were 35,000 feet in the air, surrounded by blue.

The crew wanted us to sign a Good Samaritan agreement. So, we did that. And then I said, “Okay, let’s just go for it.”

We got the plane’s medical kit. They had IV fluids, so I started an IV. I was able to monitor the woman’s blood pressure. They had the usual drugs for doing ACLS [advanced cardiac life support], running the code, and things like that. But they didn’t have a suturing kit or a laceration kit. They didn’t have a scalpel. There was nothing else.

Honestly, there was a lot of panic going through my head. I started thinking about what could go wrong. I’d done an ob.gyn. rotation in medical school and delivered seven babies before it was over. But a plane – even the first-class cabin – is in no way, shape, or form like a delivery room. I was really scared she would hemorrhage out or something.

So, internally, I was having a meltdown. Sij, you have to keep it together right now, because there’s no one else that’s going to do this. Just give it your best shot. And that’s what I did.

I asked the pilot to go to an altitude that would minimize any turbulence, and we were very lucky that the notorious North Atlantic air wasn’t choppy.

More luck: This was the passenger’s second baby, and I was counting on second deliveries being easier. The pediatrician, the flight attendants, and I came together as a team. Two flight attendants had given birth before, so they held the patient’s hand and guided her to push. I was “downstairs” waiting to catch.

She was in some pain. At this point, usually people get an epidural. I kept thinking about what drugs were safe in pregnancy, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if they even had morphine or anything on the plane. We gave her some Tylenol.

It didn’t take long. After about 30 minutes, the baby’s head emerged. I was able to navigate it out, avoiding any shoulder dystocia. There’s a certain technique that you learn in medical school, which thankfully came back to me. I caught it – it was a boy born right there in a first-class seat.

I gave him to the pediatrician, and she did the Apgar score, calculating his breathing and appearance. Then my job was to make sure there were no postpartum complications.

I ended up using a piece of string in the kit to tie around the umbilical cord, and then I cut it with scissors. After that, the woman was able to deliver the placenta. She did have some vaginal bleeding, but that resolved by just holding pressure.

The baby was fine. Mom was doing great. No complications. It was a miracle. I was the right person at the right place at the right time. I just think it was something from God.

The pilot made an announcement, “We’re en route to JFK, and there’s an additional passenger on this plane now.”

When we landed, I had very little time because I had to catch my flight to Cleveland. I didn’t even process what had happened.

A few days later, I got this package from Air France with a very expensive bottle of champagne along with a travel voucher. I heard from the mom by email – she and baby were doing fine.

Eventually, the media relations people at Cleveland Clinic heard about the incident, and it became a story that went viral. That was very weird, because I’m usually someone who’s private. All through my residency, people would introduce me with, “Remember that guy who delivered a baby on a plane? That’s him.”

I’m so thankful for everyone who was on that team. It was very beautiful because it was people from different cultures, backgrounds, and faiths who came together to achieve something so miraculous. The patient was Nigerian. The flight attendants were French. The pediatrician and I were American.

That just shows you the power of teamwork and how humanity can come together. Medicine, surgery – everything, in fact – is a team sport.

Sij Hemal, MD, graduated from urology residency at the Cleveland Clinic and is currently a robotic urologic oncology and minimally invasive surgery fellow at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

A version of this article originally 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.

In December 2017, I was a second-year urology resident at Cleveland Clinic. I’d gone to New Delhi to attend my best friend’s wedding. My flight back was New Delhi to Paris to JFK via Air France. I didn’t sleep on the first flight. So, on the second, I wanted to get some rest, because I had to go back to work the next day. I put on a movie and tried to snooze. As the saying goes in residency, you sleep when you can.

About 3 hours later, a flight attendant made an announcement in French, but I didn’t really hear it. Then they announced in English that they needed a physician. I noticed some flight attendants walking frantically around the economy cabin asking, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Turns out there were two – the woman sitting next to me happened to be a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders. I volunteered.

The flight attendant told me a woman was having abdominal pain. I thought it would be something straightforward. Usually, medical emergencies on planes involve chest pain or a panic attack or a vasovagal syncopal episode. Well, I was in for a ride that day.

The woman in pain was traveling from Nigeria. She told me about the abdominal pain. Then she lifted her blanket – she was pregnant. She said she was 37 or 38 weeks in. I said, “Okay, if you’re having this significant abdominal pain, then I need to examine you.” So we decided to move her to the first-class cabin, which was empty (I never did ask why – but it was good we had room to work).

Next step, I went back to my seat and asked the pediatrician if she could assist. My plan was to simply get the passenger through the flight, and as soon as we landed, she would go to the hospital.

There was room to lie down in first class. The pediatrician and I examined her, and she appeared fine. She was traveling with her 4-year-old daughter, and the flight attendants were taking care of her. Everything was okay.

The pilot came back and asked if we would need an emergency landing. I asked him how far it was to JFK – 4 hours. He said the closest place to land would be the Azores Islands, which is Portuguese territory, 2 hours away.

The problem: Even if we made it to the Azores, the hospital there was a very basic facility with no obstetric care available. And by the time the ambulance picked her up and got her there, it would still be 2 or 3 hours total. I said, “No, let’s just observe and continue our course.” Inside my head, I was hoping and praying to God that was the right decision.

Within an hour, everything changed.

The woman’s pain got worse, and she started having contractions. Then her water broke.

Things progressed quickly from there. The contractions progressively got worse and worse. The interval between them got smaller and smaller. The next time we examined her, we could see the baby’s head beginning to crown.

At that point, we had to decide – are we going to deliver? We were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing around us. We were 35,000 feet in the air, surrounded by blue.

The crew wanted us to sign a Good Samaritan agreement. So, we did that. And then I said, “Okay, let’s just go for it.”

We got the plane’s medical kit. They had IV fluids, so I started an IV. I was able to monitor the woman’s blood pressure. They had the usual drugs for doing ACLS [advanced cardiac life support], running the code, and things like that. But they didn’t have a suturing kit or a laceration kit. They didn’t have a scalpel. There was nothing else.

Honestly, there was a lot of panic going through my head. I started thinking about what could go wrong. I’d done an ob.gyn. rotation in medical school and delivered seven babies before it was over. But a plane – even the first-class cabin – is in no way, shape, or form like a delivery room. I was really scared she would hemorrhage out or something.

So, internally, I was having a meltdown. Sij, you have to keep it together right now, because there’s no one else that’s going to do this. Just give it your best shot. And that’s what I did.

I asked the pilot to go to an altitude that would minimize any turbulence, and we were very lucky that the notorious North Atlantic air wasn’t choppy.

More luck: This was the passenger’s second baby, and I was counting on second deliveries being easier. The pediatrician, the flight attendants, and I came together as a team. Two flight attendants had given birth before, so they held the patient’s hand and guided her to push. I was “downstairs” waiting to catch.

She was in some pain. At this point, usually people get an epidural. I kept thinking about what drugs were safe in pregnancy, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if they even had morphine or anything on the plane. We gave her some Tylenol.

It didn’t take long. After about 30 minutes, the baby’s head emerged. I was able to navigate it out, avoiding any shoulder dystocia. There’s a certain technique that you learn in medical school, which thankfully came back to me. I caught it – it was a boy born right there in a first-class seat.

I gave him to the pediatrician, and she did the Apgar score, calculating his breathing and appearance. Then my job was to make sure there were no postpartum complications.

I ended up using a piece of string in the kit to tie around the umbilical cord, and then I cut it with scissors. After that, the woman was able to deliver the placenta. She did have some vaginal bleeding, but that resolved by just holding pressure.

The baby was fine. Mom was doing great. No complications. It was a miracle. I was the right person at the right place at the right time. I just think it was something from God.

The pilot made an announcement, “We’re en route to JFK, and there’s an additional passenger on this plane now.”

When we landed, I had very little time because I had to catch my flight to Cleveland. I didn’t even process what had happened.

A few days later, I got this package from Air France with a very expensive bottle of champagne along with a travel voucher. I heard from the mom by email – she and baby were doing fine.

Eventually, the media relations people at Cleveland Clinic heard about the incident, and it became a story that went viral. That was very weird, because I’m usually someone who’s private. All through my residency, people would introduce me with, “Remember that guy who delivered a baby on a plane? That’s him.”

I’m so thankful for everyone who was on that team. It was very beautiful because it was people from different cultures, backgrounds, and faiths who came together to achieve something so miraculous. The patient was Nigerian. The flight attendants were French. The pediatrician and I were American.

That just shows you the power of teamwork and how humanity can come together. Medicine, surgery – everything, in fact – is a team sport.

Sij Hemal, MD, graduated from urology residency at the Cleveland Clinic and is currently a robotic urologic oncology and minimally invasive surgery fellow at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

A version of this article originally 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.

In December 2017, I was a second-year urology resident at Cleveland Clinic. I’d gone to New Delhi to attend my best friend’s wedding. My flight back was New Delhi to Paris to JFK via Air France. I didn’t sleep on the first flight. So, on the second, I wanted to get some rest, because I had to go back to work the next day. I put on a movie and tried to snooze. As the saying goes in residency, you sleep when you can.

About 3 hours later, a flight attendant made an announcement in French, but I didn’t really hear it. Then they announced in English that they needed a physician. I noticed some flight attendants walking frantically around the economy cabin asking, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Turns out there were two – the woman sitting next to me happened to be a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders. I volunteered.

The flight attendant told me a woman was having abdominal pain. I thought it would be something straightforward. Usually, medical emergencies on planes involve chest pain or a panic attack or a vasovagal syncopal episode. Well, I was in for a ride that day.

The woman in pain was traveling from Nigeria. She told me about the abdominal pain. Then she lifted her blanket – she was pregnant. She said she was 37 or 38 weeks in. I said, “Okay, if you’re having this significant abdominal pain, then I need to examine you.” So we decided to move her to the first-class cabin, which was empty (I never did ask why – but it was good we had room to work).

Next step, I went back to my seat and asked the pediatrician if she could assist. My plan was to simply get the passenger through the flight, and as soon as we landed, she would go to the hospital.

There was room to lie down in first class. The pediatrician and I examined her, and she appeared fine. She was traveling with her 4-year-old daughter, and the flight attendants were taking care of her. Everything was okay.

The pilot came back and asked if we would need an emergency landing. I asked him how far it was to JFK – 4 hours. He said the closest place to land would be the Azores Islands, which is Portuguese territory, 2 hours away.

The problem: Even if we made it to the Azores, the hospital there was a very basic facility with no obstetric care available. And by the time the ambulance picked her up and got her there, it would still be 2 or 3 hours total. I said, “No, let’s just observe and continue our course.” Inside my head, I was hoping and praying to God that was the right decision.

Within an hour, everything changed.

The woman’s pain got worse, and she started having contractions. Then her water broke.

Things progressed quickly from there. The contractions progressively got worse and worse. The interval between them got smaller and smaller. The next time we examined her, we could see the baby’s head beginning to crown.

At that point, we had to decide – are we going to deliver? We were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing around us. We were 35,000 feet in the air, surrounded by blue.

The crew wanted us to sign a Good Samaritan agreement. So, we did that. And then I said, “Okay, let’s just go for it.”

We got the plane’s medical kit. They had IV fluids, so I started an IV. I was able to monitor the woman’s blood pressure. They had the usual drugs for doing ACLS [advanced cardiac life support], running the code, and things like that. But they didn’t have a suturing kit or a laceration kit. They didn’t have a scalpel. There was nothing else.

Honestly, there was a lot of panic going through my head. I started thinking about what could go wrong. I’d done an ob.gyn. rotation in medical school and delivered seven babies before it was over. But a plane – even the first-class cabin – is in no way, shape, or form like a delivery room. I was really scared she would hemorrhage out or something.

So, internally, I was having a meltdown. Sij, you have to keep it together right now, because there’s no one else that’s going to do this. Just give it your best shot. And that’s what I did.

I asked the pilot to go to an altitude that would minimize any turbulence, and we were very lucky that the notorious North Atlantic air wasn’t choppy.

More luck: This was the passenger’s second baby, and I was counting on second deliveries being easier. The pediatrician, the flight attendants, and I came together as a team. Two flight attendants had given birth before, so they held the patient’s hand and guided her to push. I was “downstairs” waiting to catch.

She was in some pain. At this point, usually people get an epidural. I kept thinking about what drugs were safe in pregnancy, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if they even had morphine or anything on the plane. We gave her some Tylenol.

It didn’t take long. After about 30 minutes, the baby’s head emerged. I was able to navigate it out, avoiding any shoulder dystocia. There’s a certain technique that you learn in medical school, which thankfully came back to me. I caught it – it was a boy born right there in a first-class seat.

I gave him to the pediatrician, and she did the Apgar score, calculating his breathing and appearance. Then my job was to make sure there were no postpartum complications.

I ended up using a piece of string in the kit to tie around the umbilical cord, and then I cut it with scissors. After that, the woman was able to deliver the placenta. She did have some vaginal bleeding, but that resolved by just holding pressure.

The baby was fine. Mom was doing great. No complications. It was a miracle. I was the right person at the right place at the right time. I just think it was something from God.

The pilot made an announcement, “We’re en route to JFK, and there’s an additional passenger on this plane now.”

When we landed, I had very little time because I had to catch my flight to Cleveland. I didn’t even process what had happened.

A few days later, I got this package from Air France with a very expensive bottle of champagne along with a travel voucher. I heard from the mom by email – she and baby were doing fine.

Eventually, the media relations people at Cleveland Clinic heard about the incident, and it became a story that went viral. That was very weird, because I’m usually someone who’s private. All through my residency, people would introduce me with, “Remember that guy who delivered a baby on a plane? That’s him.”

I’m so thankful for everyone who was on that team. It was very beautiful because it was people from different cultures, backgrounds, and faiths who came together to achieve something so miraculous. The patient was Nigerian. The flight attendants were French. The pediatrician and I were American.

That just shows you the power of teamwork and how humanity can come together. Medicine, surgery – everything, in fact – is a team sport.

Sij Hemal, MD, graduated from urology residency at the Cleveland Clinic and is currently a robotic urologic oncology and minimally invasive surgery fellow at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

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

Some time ago I was invited to join a bipartisan congressional task force on valley fever, also known as coccidioidomycosis. A large and diverse crowd attended the task force’s first meeting in Bakersfield, Calif. – a meeting for everyone: the medical profession, the public, it even included veterinarians.

The whole thing was a resounding success. Francis Collins was there, the just-retired director of the NIH. Tom Frieden, then-director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was there, as were several congresspeople and also my college roommate, a retired Navy medical corps captain. I was enjoying it.

Afterward, we had a banquet dinner at a restaurant in downtown Bakersfield. One of the people there was a woman I knew well – her husband was a physician friend. The restaurant served steak and salmon, and this woman made the mistake of ordering the steak.

Not long after the entrees were served, I heard a commotion at the table just behind me. I turned around and saw that woman in distress. A piece of steak had wedged in her trachea and she couldn’t breathe.

Almost immediately, the chef showed up. I don’t know how he got there. The chef at this restaurant was a big guy. I mean, probably 6 feet, 5 inches tall and 275 pounds. He tried the Heimlich maneuver. It didn’t work.

At that point, I jumped up. I thought, “Well, maybe I know how to do this better than him.” Probably not, actually. I tried and couldn’t make it work either. So I knew we were going to have to do something.

Paul Krogstad, my friend and research partner who is a pediatric infectious disease physician, stepped up and tried to put his finger in her throat and dig it out. He couldn’t get it. The patient had lost consciousness.

So, I’m thinking, okay, there’s really only one choice. You have to get an airway surgically.

I said, “We have to put her down on the floor.” And then I said, “Knife!”

I was looking at the steak knives on the table and they weren’t to my liking for doing a procedure. My college roommate – the retired Navy man – whipped out this very good pocketknife.

So, there we were, I had Paul Krogstad holding her head, and CDC Director Tom Frieden taking her pulse, which she still had. I took the knife and did a cricothyroidotomy. I had never done this in my life.

While I was making the incision, somebody gave Paul a ballpoint pen and he broke it into pieces to make a tracheostomy tube. Once I’d made the little incision, I put the tube in. She wasn’t breathing, but she still had a pulse.

I leaned forward and blew into the tube and inflated her lungs. I could see her lungs balloon up. It was a nice feeling, because I knew I was clearly in the right place.

I can’t quite explain it, but while I was doing this, I was enormously calm and totally focused. I knew there was a crowd of people around me, all looking at me, but I wasn’t conscious of that.

It was really just the four of us: Paul and Tom and me and our patient. Those were the only people that I was really cognizant of. Paul and Tom were not panic stricken at all. I remember somebody shouting, “We have to start CPR!” and Frieden said, “No. We don’t.”

Moments later, she woke up, sat up, coughed, and shot the piece of steak across the room.

She was breathing on her own, but we still taped that tube into place. Somebody had already summoned an ambulance; they were there not very long after we completed this procedure. I got in the ambulance with her and we rode over to the emergency room at Mercy Truxtun.

She was stable and doing okay. I sat with her until a thoracic surgeon showed up. He checked out the situation and decided we didn’t need that tube and took it out. I didn’t want to take that out until I had a surgeon there who could do a formal tracheostomy.

They kept her in the hospital for 3 or 4 days. Now, this woman had always had difficulties swallowing, so steak may not have been the best choice. She still had trouble swallowing afterward but recovered.

I’ve known her and her husband a long time, so it was certainly rewarding to be able to provide this service. Years later, though, when her husband died, I spoke at his funeral. When she was speaking to the gathering, she said, “And oh, by the way, Royce, thanks for saving my life.”

That surprised me. I didn’t think we were going to go there.

I’d never tried to practice medicine “at the roadside” before. But that’s part of the career.

Royce Johnson, MD, is the chief of the division of infectious disease among other leadership positions at Kern Medical in Bakersfield, Calif., and the medical director of the Valley Fever Institute.

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

Some time ago I was invited to join a bipartisan congressional task force on valley fever, also known as coccidioidomycosis. A large and diverse crowd attended the task force’s first meeting in Bakersfield, Calif. – a meeting for everyone: the medical profession, the public, it even included veterinarians.

The whole thing was a resounding success. Francis Collins was there, the just-retired director of the NIH. Tom Frieden, then-director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was there, as were several congresspeople and also my college roommate, a retired Navy medical corps captain. I was enjoying it.

Afterward, we had a banquet dinner at a restaurant in downtown Bakersfield. One of the people there was a woman I knew well – her husband was a physician friend. The restaurant served steak and salmon, and this woman made the mistake of ordering the steak.

Not long after the entrees were served, I heard a commotion at the table just behind me. I turned around and saw that woman in distress. A piece of steak had wedged in her trachea and she couldn’t breathe.

Almost immediately, the chef showed up. I don’t know how he got there. The chef at this restaurant was a big guy. I mean, probably 6 feet, 5 inches tall and 275 pounds. He tried the Heimlich maneuver. It didn’t work.

At that point, I jumped up. I thought, “Well, maybe I know how to do this better than him.” Probably not, actually. I tried and couldn’t make it work either. So I knew we were going to have to do something.

Paul Krogstad, my friend and research partner who is a pediatric infectious disease physician, stepped up and tried to put his finger in her throat and dig it out. He couldn’t get it. The patient had lost consciousness.

So, I’m thinking, okay, there’s really only one choice. You have to get an airway surgically.

I said, “We have to put her down on the floor.” And then I said, “Knife!”

I was looking at the steak knives on the table and they weren’t to my liking for doing a procedure. My college roommate – the retired Navy man – whipped out this very good pocketknife.

So, there we were, I had Paul Krogstad holding her head, and CDC Director Tom Frieden taking her pulse, which she still had. I took the knife and did a cricothyroidotomy. I had never done this in my life.

While I was making the incision, somebody gave Paul a ballpoint pen and he broke it into pieces to make a tracheostomy tube. Once I’d made the little incision, I put the tube in. She wasn’t breathing, but she still had a pulse.

I leaned forward and blew into the tube and inflated her lungs. I could see her lungs balloon up. It was a nice feeling, because I knew I was clearly in the right place.

I can’t quite explain it, but while I was doing this, I was enormously calm and totally focused. I knew there was a crowd of people around me, all looking at me, but I wasn’t conscious of that.

It was really just the four of us: Paul and Tom and me and our patient. Those were the only people that I was really cognizant of. Paul and Tom were not panic stricken at all. I remember somebody shouting, “We have to start CPR!” and Frieden said, “No. We don’t.”

Moments later, she woke up, sat up, coughed, and shot the piece of steak across the room.

She was breathing on her own, but we still taped that tube into place. Somebody had already summoned an ambulance; they were there not very long after we completed this procedure. I got in the ambulance with her and we rode over to the emergency room at Mercy Truxtun.

She was stable and doing okay. I sat with her until a thoracic surgeon showed up. He checked out the situation and decided we didn’t need that tube and took it out. I didn’t want to take that out until I had a surgeon there who could do a formal tracheostomy.

They kept her in the hospital for 3 or 4 days. Now, this woman had always had difficulties swallowing, so steak may not have been the best choice. She still had trouble swallowing afterward but recovered.

I’ve known her and her husband a long time, so it was certainly rewarding to be able to provide this service. Years later, though, when her husband died, I spoke at his funeral. When she was speaking to the gathering, she said, “And oh, by the way, Royce, thanks for saving my life.”

That surprised me. I didn’t think we were going to go there.

I’d never tried to practice medicine “at the roadside” before. But that’s part of the career.

Royce Johnson, MD, is the chief of the division of infectious disease among other leadership positions at Kern Medical in Bakersfield, Calif., and the medical director of the Valley Fever Institute.

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

Some time ago I was invited to join a bipartisan congressional task force on valley fever, also known as coccidioidomycosis. A large and diverse crowd attended the task force’s first meeting in Bakersfield, Calif. – a meeting for everyone: the medical profession, the public, it even included veterinarians.

The whole thing was a resounding success. Francis Collins was there, the just-retired director of the NIH. Tom Frieden, then-director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was there, as were several congresspeople and also my college roommate, a retired Navy medical corps captain. I was enjoying it.

Afterward, we had a banquet dinner at a restaurant in downtown Bakersfield. One of the people there was a woman I knew well – her husband was a physician friend. The restaurant served steak and salmon, and this woman made the mistake of ordering the steak.

Not long after the entrees were served, I heard a commotion at the table just behind me. I turned around and saw that woman in distress. A piece of steak had wedged in her trachea and she couldn’t breathe.

Almost immediately, the chef showed up. I don’t know how he got there. The chef at this restaurant was a big guy. I mean, probably 6 feet, 5 inches tall and 275 pounds. He tried the Heimlich maneuver. It didn’t work.

At that point, I jumped up. I thought, “Well, maybe I know how to do this better than him.” Probably not, actually. I tried and couldn’t make it work either. So I knew we were going to have to do something.

Paul Krogstad, my friend and research partner who is a pediatric infectious disease physician, stepped up and tried to put his finger in her throat and dig it out. He couldn’t get it. The patient had lost consciousness.

So, I’m thinking, okay, there’s really only one choice. You have to get an airway surgically.

I said, “We have to put her down on the floor.” And then I said, “Knife!”

I was looking at the steak knives on the table and they weren’t to my liking for doing a procedure. My college roommate – the retired Navy man – whipped out this very good pocketknife.

So, there we were, I had Paul Krogstad holding her head, and CDC Director Tom Frieden taking her pulse, which she still had. I took the knife and did a cricothyroidotomy. I had never done this in my life.

While I was making the incision, somebody gave Paul a ballpoint pen and he broke it into pieces to make a tracheostomy tube. Once I’d made the little incision, I put the tube in. She wasn’t breathing, but she still had a pulse.

I leaned forward and blew into the tube and inflated her lungs. I could see her lungs balloon up. It was a nice feeling, because I knew I was clearly in the right place.

I can’t quite explain it, but while I was doing this, I was enormously calm and totally focused. I knew there was a crowd of people around me, all looking at me, but I wasn’t conscious of that.

It was really just the four of us: Paul and Tom and me and our patient. Those were the only people that I was really cognizant of. Paul and Tom were not panic stricken at all. I remember somebody shouting, “We have to start CPR!” and Frieden said, “No. We don’t.”

Moments later, she woke up, sat up, coughed, and shot the piece of steak across the room.

She was breathing on her own, but we still taped that tube into place. Somebody had already summoned an ambulance; they were there not very long after we completed this procedure. I got in the ambulance with her and we rode over to the emergency room at Mercy Truxtun.

She was stable and doing okay. I sat with her until a thoracic surgeon showed up. He checked out the situation and decided we didn’t need that tube and took it out. I didn’t want to take that out until I had a surgeon there who could do a formal tracheostomy.

They kept her in the hospital for 3 or 4 days. Now, this woman had always had difficulties swallowing, so steak may not have been the best choice. She still had trouble swallowing afterward but recovered.

I’ve known her and her husband a long time, so it was certainly rewarding to be able to provide this service. Years later, though, when her husband died, I spoke at his funeral. When she was speaking to the gathering, she said, “And oh, by the way, Royce, thanks for saving my life.”

That surprised me. I didn’t think we were going to go there.

I’d never tried to practice medicine “at the roadside” before. But that’s part of the career.

Royce Johnson, MD, is the chief of the division of infectious disease among other leadership positions at Kern Medical in Bakersfield, Calif., and the medical director of the Valley Fever Institute.

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

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

I was coming off a 48-hour shift plus a day of doing outpatient sedation at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. It was December and Michigan-cold. The roads were fine – no snow – but I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on the freeway. Then I saw smoke coming from an overpass up ahead.

I drove on the side of the road where I wasn’t really supposed to and got closer. An SUV had crashed into one of the big concrete structures under the bridge. I saw people running around but wasn’t able to spot EMS or any health care workers. From where I was, I could identify four kids who had already been extricated and one adult still in the driver’s seat. I estimated the kids’ ages were around 7, 5, 3, and an infant who was a few months old. I left my car and went to help.

I was able to peg the ages correctly because I’m a pediatric critical care physician. As a specialty, we’re not commonly known. We oversee patient care in intensive care units, except the patients are children. Part of the job is that we’re experts at triaging. We recognize what’s life-threatening and less so.

The kids were with some adults who kept them warm with blankets. I examined each of them. The infant was asleep but arousable and acting like a normal baby. The 3-year-old boy was vomiting and appeared very fatigued. The 5-year-old boy had a forehead laceration and was in and out of consciousness. The 7-year-old girl was screaming because of different injuries.

While all of the children were concerning to me, I identified one in particular: the 5-year-old boy. It was obvious he needed serious medical attention and fast. So, I kept that little guy in mind. The others had sustained significant injuries, but my best guess was they could get to a hospital and be stabilized.

That said, I’m a trauma instructor, and one of the things I always tell trainees is: Trauma is a black box. On the outside, it may seem like a patient doesn’t have a lot of injuries. But underneath, there might be something worse, like a brain injury. Or the chest might have taken a blunt impact affecting the heart. There may be internal bleeding somewhere in the belly. It’s really hard to tease out what exactly is going on without equipment and testing.

I didn’t even have a pulse oximeter or heart rate monitor. I pretty much just went by the appearance of the child: pulse, heart rate, awareness, things like that.

After the kids, I moved to look at the man in the car. The front end had already caught fire. I could see the driver – the kids’ father, I guessed – unconscious and hunched over. I was wondering, Why hasn’t this guy been extricated?

I approached the car on the front passenger side. And then I just had this feeling. I knew I needed to step back. Immediately.

I did. And a few seconds later, the whole car exploded in flames.

I believe God is in control of everything. I tried to get to that man. But the scene was unsafe. Later I learned that several people, including a young nurse at the scene, had tried to get to him as well.

When EMS came, I identified myself. Obviously, these people do very, very important work. But they may be more used to the 60-year-old heart attack, the 25-year-old gunshot wound, the occasional ill child. I thought that four kids – each with possible critical poly-traumatic injuries – posed a challenge to anyone.

I told them, “This is what I do on a daily basis, and this is the kid I’m worried about the most. The other kids are definitely worrisome, but I would prioritize getting this kid to the hospital first. Can I ride with you?” They agreed.

We got that boy and his older sister into the first ambulance (she was in a lot of pain, the result of a femur fracture). The two other kids rode in the second ambulance. The hospital where I had just left was 10 minutes away. I called the other pediatric critical care doctor there, my partner. He thought I was calling for a routine issue – no such luck. I said, “I’m with four kids who are level-1 traumas in two ambulances and I’m heading to the hospital right now, ETA 10 minutes.”

En route, I thought the little boy might lose consciousness at any moment. He needed a breathing tube, and I debated whether it should be done in the ambulance vs. waiting until we got to the emergency room. Based on my judgment and his vital signs, I elected to wait to have it done it in a more controlled environment. Had I felt like he was in immediate need of an airway, I would’ve attempted it. But those are the tough calls that you must make.

My partner had alerted the trauma and emergency medicine teams at the hospital. By the time we arrived, my partner was down in the ER with the trauma team and ER staff. Everyone was ready. Then it was like divide and conquer. He attended to one of the kids. The ER team and I were with the little guy I was really worried about. We had his breathing tube in within minutes. The trauma team attended to the other two.

All the kids were stabilized and then admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. I’m happy to say that all of them did well in the end. Even the little guy I was worried about the most.

I must say this incident gave me perspective on what EMS goes through. The field medicine we do in the United States is still in its infancy in a lot of ways. One of the things I would love to see in the future is a mobile ICU. After a critical illness hits, sometimes you only have seconds, minutes, maybe hours if you’re lucky. The earlier you can get patients the treatment they need, the better the outcomes.

I like taking care of critically ill children and their families. It fits my personality. And it’s a wonderful cause. But you have to be ready for tragic cases like this one. Yes, the children came out alive, but the accident claimed a life in a horrible way. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Critical care takes an emotional, psychological, and physical toll. It’s a roller coaster: Some kids do well; some kids don’t do well. All I can do is hold myself accountable. I keep my emotions in check, whether the outcome is positive or negative. And I do my best.
 

Mohamed Hani Farhat, MD, is a pediatric critical care physician at the University of Michigan C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor and Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich. Are you a physician with a dramatic medical story outside the clinic? Medscape would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary of your story to access@webmd.net . A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

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

I was coming off a 48-hour shift plus a day of doing outpatient sedation at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. It was December and Michigan-cold. The roads were fine – no snow – but I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on the freeway. Then I saw smoke coming from an overpass up ahead.

I drove on the side of the road where I wasn’t really supposed to and got closer. An SUV had crashed into one of the big concrete structures under the bridge. I saw people running around but wasn’t able to spot EMS or any health care workers. From where I was, I could identify four kids who had already been extricated and one adult still in the driver’s seat. I estimated the kids’ ages were around 7, 5, 3, and an infant who was a few months old. I left my car and went to help.

I was able to peg the ages correctly because I’m a pediatric critical care physician. As a specialty, we’re not commonly known. We oversee patient care in intensive care units, except the patients are children. Part of the job is that we’re experts at triaging. We recognize what’s life-threatening and less so.

The kids were with some adults who kept them warm with blankets. I examined each of them. The infant was asleep but arousable and acting like a normal baby. The 3-year-old boy was vomiting and appeared very fatigued. The 5-year-old boy had a forehead laceration and was in and out of consciousness. The 7-year-old girl was screaming because of different injuries.

While all of the children were concerning to me, I identified one in particular: the 5-year-old boy. It was obvious he needed serious medical attention and fast. So, I kept that little guy in mind. The others had sustained significant injuries, but my best guess was they could get to a hospital and be stabilized.

That said, I’m a trauma instructor, and one of the things I always tell trainees is: Trauma is a black box. On the outside, it may seem like a patient doesn’t have a lot of injuries. But underneath, there might be something worse, like a brain injury. Or the chest might have taken a blunt impact affecting the heart. There may be internal bleeding somewhere in the belly. It’s really hard to tease out what exactly is going on without equipment and testing.

I didn’t even have a pulse oximeter or heart rate monitor. I pretty much just went by the appearance of the child: pulse, heart rate, awareness, things like that.

After the kids, I moved to look at the man in the car. The front end had already caught fire. I could see the driver – the kids’ father, I guessed – unconscious and hunched over. I was wondering, Why hasn’t this guy been extricated?

I approached the car on the front passenger side. And then I just had this feeling. I knew I needed to step back. Immediately.

I did. And a few seconds later, the whole car exploded in flames.

I believe God is in control of everything. I tried to get to that man. But the scene was unsafe. Later I learned that several people, including a young nurse at the scene, had tried to get to him as well.

When EMS came, I identified myself. Obviously, these people do very, very important work. But they may be more used to the 60-year-old heart attack, the 25-year-old gunshot wound, the occasional ill child. I thought that four kids – each with possible critical poly-traumatic injuries – posed a challenge to anyone.

I told them, “This is what I do on a daily basis, and this is the kid I’m worried about the most. The other kids are definitely worrisome, but I would prioritize getting this kid to the hospital first. Can I ride with you?” They agreed.

We got that boy and his older sister into the first ambulance (she was in a lot of pain, the result of a femur fracture). The two other kids rode in the second ambulance. The hospital where I had just left was 10 minutes away. I called the other pediatric critical care doctor there, my partner. He thought I was calling for a routine issue – no such luck. I said, “I’m with four kids who are level-1 traumas in two ambulances and I’m heading to the hospital right now, ETA 10 minutes.”

En route, I thought the little boy might lose consciousness at any moment. He needed a breathing tube, and I debated whether it should be done in the ambulance vs. waiting until we got to the emergency room. Based on my judgment and his vital signs, I elected to wait to have it done it in a more controlled environment. Had I felt like he was in immediate need of an airway, I would’ve attempted it. But those are the tough calls that you must make.

My partner had alerted the trauma and emergency medicine teams at the hospital. By the time we arrived, my partner was down in the ER with the trauma team and ER staff. Everyone was ready. Then it was like divide and conquer. He attended to one of the kids. The ER team and I were with the little guy I was really worried about. We had his breathing tube in within minutes. The trauma team attended to the other two.

All the kids were stabilized and then admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. I’m happy to say that all of them did well in the end. Even the little guy I was worried about the most.

I must say this incident gave me perspective on what EMS goes through. The field medicine we do in the United States is still in its infancy in a lot of ways. One of the things I would love to see in the future is a mobile ICU. After a critical illness hits, sometimes you only have seconds, minutes, maybe hours if you’re lucky. The earlier you can get patients the treatment they need, the better the outcomes.

I like taking care of critically ill children and their families. It fits my personality. And it’s a wonderful cause. But you have to be ready for tragic cases like this one. Yes, the children came out alive, but the accident claimed a life in a horrible way. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Critical care takes an emotional, psychological, and physical toll. It’s a roller coaster: Some kids do well; some kids don’t do well. All I can do is hold myself accountable. I keep my emotions in check, whether the outcome is positive or negative. And I do my best.
 

Mohamed Hani Farhat, MD, is a pediatric critical care physician at the University of Michigan C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor and Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich. Are you a physician with a dramatic medical story outside the clinic? Medscape would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary of your story to access@webmd.net . A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

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

I was coming off a 48-hour shift plus a day of doing outpatient sedation at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. It was December and Michigan-cold. The roads were fine – no snow – but I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on the freeway. Then I saw smoke coming from an overpass up ahead.

I drove on the side of the road where I wasn’t really supposed to and got closer. An SUV had crashed into one of the big concrete structures under the bridge. I saw people running around but wasn’t able to spot EMS or any health care workers. From where I was, I could identify four kids who had already been extricated and one adult still in the driver’s seat. I estimated the kids’ ages were around 7, 5, 3, and an infant who was a few months old. I left my car and went to help.

I was able to peg the ages correctly because I’m a pediatric critical care physician. As a specialty, we’re not commonly known. We oversee patient care in intensive care units, except the patients are children. Part of the job is that we’re experts at triaging. We recognize what’s life-threatening and less so.

The kids were with some adults who kept them warm with blankets. I examined each of them. The infant was asleep but arousable and acting like a normal baby. The 3-year-old boy was vomiting and appeared very fatigued. The 5-year-old boy had a forehead laceration and was in and out of consciousness. The 7-year-old girl was screaming because of different injuries.

While all of the children were concerning to me, I identified one in particular: the 5-year-old boy. It was obvious he needed serious medical attention and fast. So, I kept that little guy in mind. The others had sustained significant injuries, but my best guess was they could get to a hospital and be stabilized.

That said, I’m a trauma instructor, and one of the things I always tell trainees is: Trauma is a black box. On the outside, it may seem like a patient doesn’t have a lot of injuries. But underneath, there might be something worse, like a brain injury. Or the chest might have taken a blunt impact affecting the heart. There may be internal bleeding somewhere in the belly. It’s really hard to tease out what exactly is going on without equipment and testing.

I didn’t even have a pulse oximeter or heart rate monitor. I pretty much just went by the appearance of the child: pulse, heart rate, awareness, things like that.

After the kids, I moved to look at the man in the car. The front end had already caught fire. I could see the driver – the kids’ father, I guessed – unconscious and hunched over. I was wondering, Why hasn’t this guy been extricated?

I approached the car on the front passenger side. And then I just had this feeling. I knew I needed to step back. Immediately.

I did. And a few seconds later, the whole car exploded in flames.

I believe God is in control of everything. I tried to get to that man. But the scene was unsafe. Later I learned that several people, including a young nurse at the scene, had tried to get to him as well.

When EMS came, I identified myself. Obviously, these people do very, very important work. But they may be more used to the 60-year-old heart attack, the 25-year-old gunshot wound, the occasional ill child. I thought that four kids – each with possible critical poly-traumatic injuries – posed a challenge to anyone.

I told them, “This is what I do on a daily basis, and this is the kid I’m worried about the most. The other kids are definitely worrisome, but I would prioritize getting this kid to the hospital first. Can I ride with you?” They agreed.

We got that boy and his older sister into the first ambulance (she was in a lot of pain, the result of a femur fracture). The two other kids rode in the second ambulance. The hospital where I had just left was 10 minutes away. I called the other pediatric critical care doctor there, my partner. He thought I was calling for a routine issue – no such luck. I said, “I’m with four kids who are level-1 traumas in two ambulances and I’m heading to the hospital right now, ETA 10 minutes.”

En route, I thought the little boy might lose consciousness at any moment. He needed a breathing tube, and I debated whether it should be done in the ambulance vs. waiting until we got to the emergency room. Based on my judgment and his vital signs, I elected to wait to have it done it in a more controlled environment. Had I felt like he was in immediate need of an airway, I would’ve attempted it. But those are the tough calls that you must make.

My partner had alerted the trauma and emergency medicine teams at the hospital. By the time we arrived, my partner was down in the ER with the trauma team and ER staff. Everyone was ready. Then it was like divide and conquer. He attended to one of the kids. The ER team and I were with the little guy I was really worried about. We had his breathing tube in within minutes. The trauma team attended to the other two.

All the kids were stabilized and then admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. I’m happy to say that all of them did well in the end. Even the little guy I was worried about the most.

I must say this incident gave me perspective on what EMS goes through. The field medicine we do in the United States is still in its infancy in a lot of ways. One of the things I would love to see in the future is a mobile ICU. After a critical illness hits, sometimes you only have seconds, minutes, maybe hours if you’re lucky. The earlier you can get patients the treatment they need, the better the outcomes.

I like taking care of critically ill children and their families. It fits my personality. And it’s a wonderful cause. But you have to be ready for tragic cases like this one. Yes, the children came out alive, but the accident claimed a life in a horrible way. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Critical care takes an emotional, psychological, and physical toll. It’s a roller coaster: Some kids do well; some kids don’t do well. All I can do is hold myself accountable. I keep my emotions in check, whether the outcome is positive or negative. And I do my best.
 

Mohamed Hani Farhat, MD, is a pediatric critical care physician at the University of Michigan C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor and Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich. Are you a physician with a dramatic medical story outside the clinic? Medscape would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary of your story to access@webmd.net . A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

North central Washington state is a lot of nothing other than fields. Every year, the Federal Aviation Administration closes the airspace in a remote part of the area for a model rocket competition, the National Association of Rocketry Annual Meet. It’s a 2-day event and a pretty big deal. People come from all over the country to be there.

When you were a kid, you probably saw those rockets that are 3 feet tall. You launch them up in the air, they have a little parachute that comes out and they come back down to the ground. Well, picture that on ultimate steroids. There are anywhere from 3-foot to almost 20-foot-long rockets at this thing. People show up with horse trailers full of rockets and components. I mean, it’s an obsession.

Some of these rockets are super sophisticated. They have different stages where the first stage burns out and the second takes over. They go up thousands of feet to the edge of the stratosphere. Most of them have GoPro cameras, so you get to see when the rocket reaches the top of its trajectory and the last engine burns out. As it starts to descend, a parachute deploys and it can drift back anywhere from pretty close to where you launched it to a couple miles away. Then you use your little GPS to find it.

I have a nephew who worked for Boeing, and he and his son had a 6-foot entry in this competition. He invited me to come out and see it go off. Why not? I drove out there and parked my Jeep and was walking over to the competition when I noticed something off. A bigger commotion than there should have been.

Here’s what happened 2 minutes before I got there:

A 5-foot-long rocket, 2½ inches in diameter, had reached the top of its several thousand–foot trajectory and was ready to come back to Earth. But its parachute didn’t deploy. It turned itself point-down and literally shot back to earth like a rocket.

It had gone up pretty darn straight and came down just as straight – right into a circle of people sitting in lawn chairs.

It hit a middle-aged man. But you can’t imagine how. First of all, who knows how fast it was going. The point glanced off his forehead and ... how to describe the rest. The man was pretty heavy. So the rocket impaled him through the abdomen and stuck right into the ground. As in, the point entered the top of his belly just below chest level and came out the bottom of his belly. The rocket pinned him to the ground through his belly.

Well, this was not how I planned on spending my day. But my spectator time was over. There were a lot of people running around in circles where he was pinned, not really knowing what to do.

When I said I was an emergency physician, instantly 15 heads looked right at me for direction like, Oh my gosh, please take over! A lot of people were asking: “What can I do? What can I do?” I said: “Well, we don’t need to do CPR. What we really need to do is get this rocket out of the ground. We need to keep him still while we dig out the rocket and get him flat.”

People gently dug around the nose of the rocket. It was in about 6 or 8 inches, enough that we didn’t want to just yank on it (I still marvel at how fast it must have been traveling to both impale the man the way it did and also jam into the ground like that). We wanted to loosen it up and ease it out of the ground.

We managed to dig the nose out and get the guy on his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t particularly comfortable. He looked pretty ashen, like he was in pretty good trouble.

The festival had an EMS kit with some bandages in it, but not a whole lot else. There’s the old joke in emergency medicine: What can you do with duct tape, a Swiss army knife, and a paper clip? It’s like, what has anybody got that might work here?

What we really needed to do was keep both the rocket and the man from moving. We cut off his shirt and got his pants down so that I could better see where it entered and exited. Then we used a couple of clean T-shirts to stabilize the rocket so it didn’t move while he lay flat. It didn’t bleed all that much. And his belly wasn’t massively expanding like he was bleeding internally. I mean, he looked crappy. But so would I!

We were about an hour away from the closest EMS and only a couple people even had cell service out there. But we managed to get hold of EMS. It was also one of those 92-degree days with no shade for 50 miles in any direction.

There was a volunteer firefighter there to man the fire rig. He helped carry the guy into an air-conditioned trailer without moving him very much.

Basically, we stabilized him by keeping him super still and as comfortable as we could until EMS arrived. I rode with him about an hour and a half to the closest trauma center in Central Washington. He was conscious, which was lousy for him but reassuring for me. “You’re still talking to me,” I said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

One of the take-home points from a medical point of view is never try to remove something sticking out of someone when you’re out in the field. If it’s pushing against something vital, you could do a lot of damage, and if it’s up against a blood vessel, that vessel’s going to bleed uncontrollably.

We got to the trauma center and they took him to the OR. By the grace of friendships, somebody got his wife to the hospital. She was calmer than I think I would have been if my spouse had been hit by a rocket.

The full diagnostic story: The rocket bouncing off his forehead gave him a small skull fracture and slight concussion. That was no big deal. But picture this: The rocket only went through his belly fat. It didn’t hit any of his abdominal organs! I still think this is absolutely amazing. If he had been leaning forward in his lawn chair even a few inches, the rocket would’ve gone through his head and that would’ve been all they wrote.

He stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. I never saw him again, but I received follow-up from the surgeon. And I read the paper the next day. Let me tell you, in Central Washington, this is pretty big news.

It wasn’t the way I’d planned my morning. But you just can’t predict that kind of thing. I don’t know, maybe spiritually or karma wise, I was meant to show up about 90 seconds after he’d been hit. The only emergency physician at the whole event, just by chance. My work blesses me with a certain skill set. I know when to really worry, how to go about keeping somebody safe until you can get them to the ED. It’s something I thank my stars for every single day.

As I said to the guy on the way to the hospital: “Well, it’s not your lucky day, but it sure as heck could have been a whole lot unluckier.”

Stephen Anderson, MD, is an emergency medicine physician in Auburn, Washington and is affiliated with MultiCare Auburn Medical Center.

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

North central Washington state is a lot of nothing other than fields. Every year, the Federal Aviation Administration closes the airspace in a remote part of the area for a model rocket competition, the National Association of Rocketry Annual Meet. It’s a 2-day event and a pretty big deal. People come from all over the country to be there.

When you were a kid, you probably saw those rockets that are 3 feet tall. You launch them up in the air, they have a little parachute that comes out and they come back down to the ground. Well, picture that on ultimate steroids. There are anywhere from 3-foot to almost 20-foot-long rockets at this thing. People show up with horse trailers full of rockets and components. I mean, it’s an obsession.

Some of these rockets are super sophisticated. They have different stages where the first stage burns out and the second takes over. They go up thousands of feet to the edge of the stratosphere. Most of them have GoPro cameras, so you get to see when the rocket reaches the top of its trajectory and the last engine burns out. As it starts to descend, a parachute deploys and it can drift back anywhere from pretty close to where you launched it to a couple miles away. Then you use your little GPS to find it.

I have a nephew who worked for Boeing, and he and his son had a 6-foot entry in this competition. He invited me to come out and see it go off. Why not? I drove out there and parked my Jeep and was walking over to the competition when I noticed something off. A bigger commotion than there should have been.

Here’s what happened 2 minutes before I got there:

A 5-foot-long rocket, 2½ inches in diameter, had reached the top of its several thousand–foot trajectory and was ready to come back to Earth. But its parachute didn’t deploy. It turned itself point-down and literally shot back to earth like a rocket.

It had gone up pretty darn straight and came down just as straight – right into a circle of people sitting in lawn chairs.

It hit a middle-aged man. But you can’t imagine how. First of all, who knows how fast it was going. The point glanced off his forehead and ... how to describe the rest. The man was pretty heavy. So the rocket impaled him through the abdomen and stuck right into the ground. As in, the point entered the top of his belly just below chest level and came out the bottom of his belly. The rocket pinned him to the ground through his belly.

Well, this was not how I planned on spending my day. But my spectator time was over. There were a lot of people running around in circles where he was pinned, not really knowing what to do.

When I said I was an emergency physician, instantly 15 heads looked right at me for direction like, Oh my gosh, please take over! A lot of people were asking: “What can I do? What can I do?” I said: “Well, we don’t need to do CPR. What we really need to do is get this rocket out of the ground. We need to keep him still while we dig out the rocket and get him flat.”

People gently dug around the nose of the rocket. It was in about 6 or 8 inches, enough that we didn’t want to just yank on it (I still marvel at how fast it must have been traveling to both impale the man the way it did and also jam into the ground like that). We wanted to loosen it up and ease it out of the ground.

We managed to dig the nose out and get the guy on his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t particularly comfortable. He looked pretty ashen, like he was in pretty good trouble.

The festival had an EMS kit with some bandages in it, but not a whole lot else. There’s the old joke in emergency medicine: What can you do with duct tape, a Swiss army knife, and a paper clip? It’s like, what has anybody got that might work here?

What we really needed to do was keep both the rocket and the man from moving. We cut off his shirt and got his pants down so that I could better see where it entered and exited. Then we used a couple of clean T-shirts to stabilize the rocket so it didn’t move while he lay flat. It didn’t bleed all that much. And his belly wasn’t massively expanding like he was bleeding internally. I mean, he looked crappy. But so would I!

We were about an hour away from the closest EMS and only a couple people even had cell service out there. But we managed to get hold of EMS. It was also one of those 92-degree days with no shade for 50 miles in any direction.

There was a volunteer firefighter there to man the fire rig. He helped carry the guy into an air-conditioned trailer without moving him very much.

Basically, we stabilized him by keeping him super still and as comfortable as we could until EMS arrived. I rode with him about an hour and a half to the closest trauma center in Central Washington. He was conscious, which was lousy for him but reassuring for me. “You’re still talking to me,” I said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

One of the take-home points from a medical point of view is never try to remove something sticking out of someone when you’re out in the field. If it’s pushing against something vital, you could do a lot of damage, and if it’s up against a blood vessel, that vessel’s going to bleed uncontrollably.

We got to the trauma center and they took him to the OR. By the grace of friendships, somebody got his wife to the hospital. She was calmer than I think I would have been if my spouse had been hit by a rocket.

The full diagnostic story: The rocket bouncing off his forehead gave him a small skull fracture and slight concussion. That was no big deal. But picture this: The rocket only went through his belly fat. It didn’t hit any of his abdominal organs! I still think this is absolutely amazing. If he had been leaning forward in his lawn chair even a few inches, the rocket would’ve gone through his head and that would’ve been all they wrote.

He stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. I never saw him again, but I received follow-up from the surgeon. And I read the paper the next day. Let me tell you, in Central Washington, this is pretty big news.

It wasn’t the way I’d planned my morning. But you just can’t predict that kind of thing. I don’t know, maybe spiritually or karma wise, I was meant to show up about 90 seconds after he’d been hit. The only emergency physician at the whole event, just by chance. My work blesses me with a certain skill set. I know when to really worry, how to go about keeping somebody safe until you can get them to the ED. It’s something I thank my stars for every single day.

As I said to the guy on the way to the hospital: “Well, it’s not your lucky day, but it sure as heck could have been a whole lot unluckier.”

Stephen Anderson, MD, is an emergency medicine physician in Auburn, Washington and is affiliated with MultiCare Auburn Medical Center.

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

North central Washington state is a lot of nothing other than fields. Every year, the Federal Aviation Administration closes the airspace in a remote part of the area for a model rocket competition, the National Association of Rocketry Annual Meet. It’s a 2-day event and a pretty big deal. People come from all over the country to be there.

When you were a kid, you probably saw those rockets that are 3 feet tall. You launch them up in the air, they have a little parachute that comes out and they come back down to the ground. Well, picture that on ultimate steroids. There are anywhere from 3-foot to almost 20-foot-long rockets at this thing. People show up with horse trailers full of rockets and components. I mean, it’s an obsession.

Some of these rockets are super sophisticated. They have different stages where the first stage burns out and the second takes over. They go up thousands of feet to the edge of the stratosphere. Most of them have GoPro cameras, so you get to see when the rocket reaches the top of its trajectory and the last engine burns out. As it starts to descend, a parachute deploys and it can drift back anywhere from pretty close to where you launched it to a couple miles away. Then you use your little GPS to find it.

I have a nephew who worked for Boeing, and he and his son had a 6-foot entry in this competition. He invited me to come out and see it go off. Why not? I drove out there and parked my Jeep and was walking over to the competition when I noticed something off. A bigger commotion than there should have been.

Here’s what happened 2 minutes before I got there:

A 5-foot-long rocket, 2½ inches in diameter, had reached the top of its several thousand–foot trajectory and was ready to come back to Earth. But its parachute didn’t deploy. It turned itself point-down and literally shot back to earth like a rocket.

It had gone up pretty darn straight and came down just as straight – right into a circle of people sitting in lawn chairs.

It hit a middle-aged man. But you can’t imagine how. First of all, who knows how fast it was going. The point glanced off his forehead and ... how to describe the rest. The man was pretty heavy. So the rocket impaled him through the abdomen and stuck right into the ground. As in, the point entered the top of his belly just below chest level and came out the bottom of his belly. The rocket pinned him to the ground through his belly.

Well, this was not how I planned on spending my day. But my spectator time was over. There were a lot of people running around in circles where he was pinned, not really knowing what to do.

When I said I was an emergency physician, instantly 15 heads looked right at me for direction like, Oh my gosh, please take over! A lot of people were asking: “What can I do? What can I do?” I said: “Well, we don’t need to do CPR. What we really need to do is get this rocket out of the ground. We need to keep him still while we dig out the rocket and get him flat.”

People gently dug around the nose of the rocket. It was in about 6 or 8 inches, enough that we didn’t want to just yank on it (I still marvel at how fast it must have been traveling to both impale the man the way it did and also jam into the ground like that). We wanted to loosen it up and ease it out of the ground.

We managed to dig the nose out and get the guy on his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t particularly comfortable. He looked pretty ashen, like he was in pretty good trouble.

The festival had an EMS kit with some bandages in it, but not a whole lot else. There’s the old joke in emergency medicine: What can you do with duct tape, a Swiss army knife, and a paper clip? It’s like, what has anybody got that might work here?

What we really needed to do was keep both the rocket and the man from moving. We cut off his shirt and got his pants down so that I could better see where it entered and exited. Then we used a couple of clean T-shirts to stabilize the rocket so it didn’t move while he lay flat. It didn’t bleed all that much. And his belly wasn’t massively expanding like he was bleeding internally. I mean, he looked crappy. But so would I!

We were about an hour away from the closest EMS and only a couple people even had cell service out there. But we managed to get hold of EMS. It was also one of those 92-degree days with no shade for 50 miles in any direction.

There was a volunteer firefighter there to man the fire rig. He helped carry the guy into an air-conditioned trailer without moving him very much.

Basically, we stabilized him by keeping him super still and as comfortable as we could until EMS arrived. I rode with him about an hour and a half to the closest trauma center in Central Washington. He was conscious, which was lousy for him but reassuring for me. “You’re still talking to me,” I said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

One of the take-home points from a medical point of view is never try to remove something sticking out of someone when you’re out in the field. If it’s pushing against something vital, you could do a lot of damage, and if it’s up against a blood vessel, that vessel’s going to bleed uncontrollably.

We got to the trauma center and they took him to the OR. By the grace of friendships, somebody got his wife to the hospital. She was calmer than I think I would have been if my spouse had been hit by a rocket.

The full diagnostic story: The rocket bouncing off his forehead gave him a small skull fracture and slight concussion. That was no big deal. But picture this: The rocket only went through his belly fat. It didn’t hit any of his abdominal organs! I still think this is absolutely amazing. If he had been leaning forward in his lawn chair even a few inches, the rocket would’ve gone through his head and that would’ve been all they wrote.

He stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. I never saw him again, but I received follow-up from the surgeon. And I read the paper the next day. Let me tell you, in Central Washington, this is pretty big news.

It wasn’t the way I’d planned my morning. But you just can’t predict that kind of thing. I don’t know, maybe spiritually or karma wise, I was meant to show up about 90 seconds after he’d been hit. The only emergency physician at the whole event, just by chance. My work blesses me with a certain skill set. I know when to really worry, how to go about keeping somebody safe until you can get them to the ED. It’s something I thank my stars for every single day.

As I said to the guy on the way to the hospital: “Well, it’s not your lucky day, but it sure as heck could have been a whole lot unluckier.”

Stephen Anderson, MD, is an emergency medicine physician in Auburn, Washington and is affiliated with MultiCare Auburn Medical Center.

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

It started as a mountain biking excursion with two friends. When we drove into the trailhead parking lot, we saw several emergency vehicles. Then a helicopter passed overhead. As we got on our bikes, a police officer told us there’d been an accident out on the trail and to be careful because emergency personnel were going to be bringing in the patient. So we started the ride cautiously, ready to yield to emergency medical services.

Half a mile down the trail, we encountered another police officer. He asked if we would be willing to go back to get an oxygen tank from the ambulance and carry it out to the scene. The three of us turned around, went back to the parking lot and were able to snag a tank of oxygen. We put it in a backpack and biked out again.

We found the scene about a mile down the trail. An adult male was lying on his back in the dirt after a crash. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving except for occasional breaths. Six emergency medical personnel huddled around him, one assisting breaths with a bag mask. I didn’t introduce myself initially. I just listened to hear what was happening.

They were debating the dose of medication to give him in order to intubate. I knew the answer to that question, so I introduced myself. They were happy to have somebody else to assist.

They already had an IV in place and quite a lot of supplies. They administered the meds and the paramedic attempted to intubate through the mouth. Within a few seconds, she pulled the intubating blade out and said, “I’m not going to be able to get this. His tongue is too big.”

I took the blade myself and kneeled at the head of the victim. I made three attempts at intubating, and each time couldn’t view the landmarks. I wasn’t sure if his tongue was too large or if there was some traumatic injury. To make it more difficult, a lot of secretions clogged the airway. The paramedics had a portable suction, which was somewhat functional, but I still couldn’t visualize the landmarks.

I started asking about alternative methods of establishing an airway. They had an i-gel, which is a supraglottic device that goes into the back of the mouth. So, we placed it. But when we attached the bag, air still wasn’t getting into the lungs.

We removed it and put the bag mask back on. Now I was worried. We were having difficulty keeping his oxygen above 90%. I examined the chest and abdomen again. I was wondering if perhaps he was having some gastric distention, which can result from prolonged bagging, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

Bagging became progressively more difficult, and the oxygen slowly trended down through the 80s. Then the 70s. Heart rate dropped below 60 beats per minute. The trajectory was obvious.

That’s when I asked if they had the tools for a surgical airway.

No one thought the question was crazy. In fact, they pulled out a scalpel from an equipment bag.

But now I had to actually do it. I knelt next to the patient, trying to palpate the front of the neck to identify the correct location to cut. I had difficulty finding the appropriate landmarks there as well. Frustrating.

I glanced at the monitor. O₂ was now in the 60s. Later the paramedic told me the heart rate was down to 30.

One of the medics looked me in the eye and said, “We’ve got to do something. The time is now.” That helped me snap out of it and act. I made my large vertical incision on the front of the victim’s neck, which of course resulted in quite a bit of bleeding.

My two friends, who were watching, later told me this was the moment the intensity of the scene really increased (it was already pretty intense for me, thanks).

Next, I made the horizontal stab incision. Then I probed with my finger, but it seems the incision hadn’t reached the trachea. I had to make the stab much deeper than I would’ve thought.

And then air bubbled out through the blood. A paramedic was ready with the ET tube in hand and she put it through the incision. We attached the bag. We had air movement into the lungs, and within minutes the oxygen came up.

Not long after, the flight paramedics from the helicopter showed up, having jogged a mile through the woods. They seemed rather surprised to find a patient with a cricothyrotomy. We filled them in on the situation. Now we had to get the patient out of the woods (literally and figuratively).

The emergency responders had a really great transport device: A litter with one big wheel underneath in the middle so we could roll the patient down the mountain bike trail over rocks relatively safely. One person’s job was to hold the tube as we went since we didn’t have suture to hold it in place.

We got back to the parking lot and loaded him into the ambulance, which drove another mile to the helicopter, which then had to take him a hundred miles to the hospital.

To be honest, I thought the prognosis was poor. I suspected he had an intercranial bleed slowly squeezing his brain (that later turned out to not be the case). Even though we had established an airway, it took us so long to get him to the ambulance.

The director of the local EMS called me that evening and said the patient had made it to the hospital. I had never been a part of anything with this intensity. I definitely lost sleep over it. Partly just from the uncertainty of not knowing what the outcome would be. But also second-guessing if I had done everything that I could have.

The story doesn’t quite end there, however.

A week later, a friend of the patient called me. He had recovered well and was going to be discharged from the hospital. He’d chosen to share the story with the media, and the local TV station was going to interview him. They had asked if I would agree to be interviewed.

After the local news story ran, it was kind of a media blitz. In came numerous media requests. But honestly, the portrayal of the story made me feel really weird. It was overly dramatized and not entirely accurate. It really didn’t sit well with me.

Friends all over the country saw the story, and here’s what they got from the coverage:

I was biking behind the patient when he crashed.

I had my own tools. Even the patient himself was told I used my own blade to make the incision.

The true story is what I just told you: A half-dozen emergency medical personnel were already there when I arrived. It was a combination of all of us – together – in the right place at the right time.

A month later, the patient and his family drove to the city where I live to take me out to lunch. It was emotional. There were plenty of tears. His wife and daughter were expressing a lot of gratitude and had some gifts for me. I was able to get his version of the story and learned some details. He had facial trauma in the past with some reconstruction. I realized that perhaps those anatomical changes affected my ability to do the intubation.

I hope to never again have to do this outside of the hospital. But I suppose I’m more prepared than ever now. I’ve reviewed my cricothyrotomy technique many times since then.

I was trained as a family doctor and did clinic and hospital medicine for several years. It was only in 2020 that I transitioned to doing emergency medicine work in a rural hospital. So, 2 years earlier, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to do what I did that day. To me, it was almost symbolic of the transition of my practice to emergency medicine.

I’m still in touch with the patient. We’ve talked about biking together. That hasn’t happened yet, but it may very well happen someday.

Jesse Coenen, MD, is an emergency medicine physician at Hayward Area Memorial Hospital in Hayward, Wisc.

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

It started as a mountain biking excursion with two friends. When we drove into the trailhead parking lot, we saw several emergency vehicles. Then a helicopter passed overhead. As we got on our bikes, a police officer told us there’d been an accident out on the trail and to be careful because emergency personnel were going to be bringing in the patient. So we started the ride cautiously, ready to yield to emergency medical services.

Half a mile down the trail, we encountered another police officer. He asked if we would be willing to go back to get an oxygen tank from the ambulance and carry it out to the scene. The three of us turned around, went back to the parking lot and were able to snag a tank of oxygen. We put it in a backpack and biked out again.

We found the scene about a mile down the trail. An adult male was lying on his back in the dirt after a crash. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving except for occasional breaths. Six emergency medical personnel huddled around him, one assisting breaths with a bag mask. I didn’t introduce myself initially. I just listened to hear what was happening.

They were debating the dose of medication to give him in order to intubate. I knew the answer to that question, so I introduced myself. They were happy to have somebody else to assist.

They already had an IV in place and quite a lot of supplies. They administered the meds and the paramedic attempted to intubate through the mouth. Within a few seconds, she pulled the intubating blade out and said, “I’m not going to be able to get this. His tongue is too big.”

I took the blade myself and kneeled at the head of the victim. I made three attempts at intubating, and each time couldn’t view the landmarks. I wasn’t sure if his tongue was too large or if there was some traumatic injury. To make it more difficult, a lot of secretions clogged the airway. The paramedics had a portable suction, which was somewhat functional, but I still couldn’t visualize the landmarks.

I started asking about alternative methods of establishing an airway. They had an i-gel, which is a supraglottic device that goes into the back of the mouth. So, we placed it. But when we attached the bag, air still wasn’t getting into the lungs.

We removed it and put the bag mask back on. Now I was worried. We were having difficulty keeping his oxygen above 90%. I examined the chest and abdomen again. I was wondering if perhaps he was having some gastric distention, which can result from prolonged bagging, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

Bagging became progressively more difficult, and the oxygen slowly trended down through the 80s. Then the 70s. Heart rate dropped below 60 beats per minute. The trajectory was obvious.

That’s when I asked if they had the tools for a surgical airway.

No one thought the question was crazy. In fact, they pulled out a scalpel from an equipment bag.

But now I had to actually do it. I knelt next to the patient, trying to palpate the front of the neck to identify the correct location to cut. I had difficulty finding the appropriate landmarks there as well. Frustrating.

I glanced at the monitor. O₂ was now in the 60s. Later the paramedic told me the heart rate was down to 30.

One of the medics looked me in the eye and said, “We’ve got to do something. The time is now.” That helped me snap out of it and act. I made my large vertical incision on the front of the victim’s neck, which of course resulted in quite a bit of bleeding.

My two friends, who were watching, later told me this was the moment the intensity of the scene really increased (it was already pretty intense for me, thanks).

Next, I made the horizontal stab incision. Then I probed with my finger, but it seems the incision hadn’t reached the trachea. I had to make the stab much deeper than I would’ve thought.

And then air bubbled out through the blood. A paramedic was ready with the ET tube in hand and she put it through the incision. We attached the bag. We had air movement into the lungs, and within minutes the oxygen came up.

Not long after, the flight paramedics from the helicopter showed up, having jogged a mile through the woods. They seemed rather surprised to find a patient with a cricothyrotomy. We filled them in on the situation. Now we had to get the patient out of the woods (literally and figuratively).

The emergency responders had a really great transport device: A litter with one big wheel underneath in the middle so we could roll the patient down the mountain bike trail over rocks relatively safely. One person’s job was to hold the tube as we went since we didn’t have suture to hold it in place.

We got back to the parking lot and loaded him into the ambulance, which drove another mile to the helicopter, which then had to take him a hundred miles to the hospital.

To be honest, I thought the prognosis was poor. I suspected he had an intercranial bleed slowly squeezing his brain (that later turned out to not be the case). Even though we had established an airway, it took us so long to get him to the ambulance.

The director of the local EMS called me that evening and said the patient had made it to the hospital. I had never been a part of anything with this intensity. I definitely lost sleep over it. Partly just from the uncertainty of not knowing what the outcome would be. But also second-guessing if I had done everything that I could have.

The story doesn’t quite end there, however.

A week later, a friend of the patient called me. He had recovered well and was going to be discharged from the hospital. He’d chosen to share the story with the media, and the local TV station was going to interview him. They had asked if I would agree to be interviewed.

After the local news story ran, it was kind of a media blitz. In came numerous media requests. But honestly, the portrayal of the story made me feel really weird. It was overly dramatized and not entirely accurate. It really didn’t sit well with me.

Friends all over the country saw the story, and here’s what they got from the coverage:

I was biking behind the patient when he crashed.

I had my own tools. Even the patient himself was told I used my own blade to make the incision.

The true story is what I just told you: A half-dozen emergency medical personnel were already there when I arrived. It was a combination of all of us – together – in the right place at the right time.

A month later, the patient and his family drove to the city where I live to take me out to lunch. It was emotional. There were plenty of tears. His wife and daughter were expressing a lot of gratitude and had some gifts for me. I was able to get his version of the story and learned some details. He had facial trauma in the past with some reconstruction. I realized that perhaps those anatomical changes affected my ability to do the intubation.

I hope to never again have to do this outside of the hospital. But I suppose I’m more prepared than ever now. I’ve reviewed my cricothyrotomy technique many times since then.

I was trained as a family doctor and did clinic and hospital medicine for several years. It was only in 2020 that I transitioned to doing emergency medicine work in a rural hospital. So, 2 years earlier, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to do what I did that day. To me, it was almost symbolic of the transition of my practice to emergency medicine.

I’m still in touch with the patient. We’ve talked about biking together. That hasn’t happened yet, but it may very well happen someday.

Jesse Coenen, MD, is an emergency medicine physician at Hayward Area Memorial Hospital in Hayward, Wisc.

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

It started as a mountain biking excursion with two friends. When we drove into the trailhead parking lot, we saw several emergency vehicles. Then a helicopter passed overhead. As we got on our bikes, a police officer told us there’d been an accident out on the trail and to be careful because emergency personnel were going to be bringing in the patient. So we started the ride cautiously, ready to yield to emergency medical services.

Half a mile down the trail, we encountered another police officer. He asked if we would be willing to go back to get an oxygen tank from the ambulance and carry it out to the scene. The three of us turned around, went back to the parking lot and were able to snag a tank of oxygen. We put it in a backpack and biked out again.

We found the scene about a mile down the trail. An adult male was lying on his back in the dirt after a crash. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving except for occasional breaths. Six emergency medical personnel huddled around him, one assisting breaths with a bag mask. I didn’t introduce myself initially. I just listened to hear what was happening.

They were debating the dose of medication to give him in order to intubate. I knew the answer to that question, so I introduced myself. They were happy to have somebody else to assist.

They already had an IV in place and quite a lot of supplies. They administered the meds and the paramedic attempted to intubate through the mouth. Within a few seconds, she pulled the intubating blade out and said, “I’m not going to be able to get this. His tongue is too big.”

I took the blade myself and kneeled at the head of the victim. I made three attempts at intubating, and each time couldn’t view the landmarks. I wasn’t sure if his tongue was too large or if there was some traumatic injury. To make it more difficult, a lot of secretions clogged the airway. The paramedics had a portable suction, which was somewhat functional, but I still couldn’t visualize the landmarks.

I started asking about alternative methods of establishing an airway. They had an i-gel, which is a supraglottic device that goes into the back of the mouth. So, we placed it. But when we attached the bag, air still wasn’t getting into the lungs.

We removed it and put the bag mask back on. Now I was worried. We were having difficulty keeping his oxygen above 90%. I examined the chest and abdomen again. I was wondering if perhaps he was having some gastric distention, which can result from prolonged bagging, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

Bagging became progressively more difficult, and the oxygen slowly trended down through the 80s. Then the 70s. Heart rate dropped below 60 beats per minute. The trajectory was obvious.

That’s when I asked if they had the tools for a surgical airway.

No one thought the question was crazy. In fact, they pulled out a scalpel from an equipment bag.

But now I had to actually do it. I knelt next to the patient, trying to palpate the front of the neck to identify the correct location to cut. I had difficulty finding the appropriate landmarks there as well. Frustrating.

I glanced at the monitor. O₂ was now in the 60s. Later the paramedic told me the heart rate was down to 30.

One of the medics looked me in the eye and said, “We’ve got to do something. The time is now.” That helped me snap out of it and act. I made my large vertical incision on the front of the victim’s neck, which of course resulted in quite a bit of bleeding.

My two friends, who were watching, later told me this was the moment the intensity of the scene really increased (it was already pretty intense for me, thanks).

Next, I made the horizontal stab incision. Then I probed with my finger, but it seems the incision hadn’t reached the trachea. I had to make the stab much deeper than I would’ve thought.

And then air bubbled out through the blood. A paramedic was ready with the ET tube in hand and she put it through the incision. We attached the bag. We had air movement into the lungs, and within minutes the oxygen came up.

Not long after, the flight paramedics from the helicopter showed up, having jogged a mile through the woods. They seemed rather surprised to find a patient with a cricothyrotomy. We filled them in on the situation. Now we had to get the patient out of the woods (literally and figuratively).

The emergency responders had a really great transport device: A litter with one big wheel underneath in the middle so we could roll the patient down the mountain bike trail over rocks relatively safely. One person’s job was to hold the tube as we went since we didn’t have suture to hold it in place.

We got back to the parking lot and loaded him into the ambulance, which drove another mile to the helicopter, which then had to take him a hundred miles to the hospital.

To be honest, I thought the prognosis was poor. I suspected he had an intercranial bleed slowly squeezing his brain (that later turned out to not be the case). Even though we had established an airway, it took us so long to get him to the ambulance.

The director of the local EMS called me that evening and said the patient had made it to the hospital. I had never been a part of anything with this intensity. I definitely lost sleep over it. Partly just from the uncertainty of not knowing what the outcome would be. But also second-guessing if I had done everything that I could have.

The story doesn’t quite end there, however.

A week later, a friend of the patient called me. He had recovered well and was going to be discharged from the hospital. He’d chosen to share the story with the media, and the local TV station was going to interview him. They had asked if I would agree to be interviewed.

After the local news story ran, it was kind of a media blitz. In came numerous media requests. But honestly, the portrayal of the story made me feel really weird. It was overly dramatized and not entirely accurate. It really didn’t sit well with me.

Friends all over the country saw the story, and here’s what they got from the coverage:

I was biking behind the patient when he crashed.

I had my own tools. Even the patient himself was told I used my own blade to make the incision.

The true story is what I just told you: A half-dozen emergency medical personnel were already there when I arrived. It was a combination of all of us – together – in the right place at the right time.

A month later, the patient and his family drove to the city where I live to take me out to lunch. It was emotional. There were plenty of tears. His wife and daughter were expressing a lot of gratitude and had some gifts for me. I was able to get his version of the story and learned some details. He had facial trauma in the past with some reconstruction. I realized that perhaps those anatomical changes affected my ability to do the intubation.

I hope to never again have to do this outside of the hospital. But I suppose I’m more prepared than ever now. I’ve reviewed my cricothyrotomy technique many times since then.

I was trained as a family doctor and did clinic and hospital medicine for several years. It was only in 2020 that I transitioned to doing emergency medicine work in a rural hospital. So, 2 years earlier, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to do what I did that day. To me, it was almost symbolic of the transition of my practice to emergency medicine.

I’m still in touch with the patient. We’ve talked about biking together. That hasn’t happened yet, but it may very well happen someday.

Jesse Coenen, MD, is an emergency medicine physician at Hayward Area Memorial Hospital in Hayward, Wisc.

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

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

I live on the Maumee River in Ohio, about 50 yards from the water. I had an early quit time and came home to meet my wife for lunch. Afterward, I went up to my barn across the main road to tinker around. It was a nice day out, so my wife had opened some windows. Suddenly, she heard screaming from the river. It did not sound like fun.

She ran down to the river’s edge and saw a dad and three boys struggling in the water. She phoned me screaming: “They’re drowning! They’re drowning!” I jumped in my truck and drove up our driveway through the yard right down to the river.

My wife was on the phone with 911 at that point, and I could see them about 75-100 yards out. The dad had two of the boys clinging around his neck. They were going under the water and coming up and going under again. The other boy was just floating nearby, face down, motionless.

I threw my shoes and scrubs off and started to walk towards the water. My wife screamed at me, “You’re not going in there!” I said, “I’m not going to stand here and watch this. It’s not going to happen.”

I’m not a kid anymore, but I was a high school swimmer, and to this day I work out all the time. I felt like I had to try something. So, I went in the water despite my wife yelling and I swam towards them.

What happens when you get in that deep water is that you panic. You can’t hear anyone because of the rapids, and your instinct is to swim back towards where you went in, which is against the current. Unless you’re a very strong swimmer, you’re just wasting your time, swimming in place.

But these guys weren’t trying to go anywhere. Dad was just trying to stay up and keep the boys alive. He was in about 10 feet of water. What they didn’t see or just didn’t know: About 20 yards upstream from that deep water is a little island.

When I got to them, I yelled at the dad to move towards the island, “Go backwards! Go back!” I flipped the boy over who wasn’t moving. He was the oldest of the three, around 10 or 11 years old. When I turned him over, he was blue and wasn’t breathing. I put my fingers on his neck and didn’t feel a pulse.

So, I’m treading water, holding him. I put an arm behind his back and started doing chest compressions on him. I probably did a dozen to 15 compressions – nothing. I thought, I’ve got to get some air in this kid. So, I gave him two deep breaths and then started doing compressions again. I know ACLS and CPR training would say we don’t do that anymore. But I couldn’t just sit there and give up. Shortly after that, he coughed out a large amount of water and started breathing.

The dad and the other two boys had made it to the island. So, I started moving towards it with the boy. It was a few minutes before he regained consciousness. Of course, he was unaware of what had happened. He started to scream, because here’s this strange man holding him. But he was breathing. That’s all I cared about.

When we got to the island, I saw that my neighbor downstream had launched his canoe. He’s a retired gentleman who lives next to me, a very physically fit man. He started rolling as hard as he could towards us, against the stream. I kind of gave him a thumbs up, like, “we’re safe now. We’re standing.” We loaded the kids and the dad in the canoe and made it back against the stream to the parking lot where they went in.

All this took probably 10 or 15 minutes, and by then the paramedics were there. Life Flight had been dispatched up by my barn where there’s room to land. So, they drove up there in the ambulance. The boy I revived was flown to the hospital. The others went in the ambulance.

I know all the ED docs, so I talked to somebody later who, with permission from the family, said they were all doing fine. They were getting x-rays on the boy’s lungs. And then I heard the dad and two boys were released that night. The other boy I worked on was observed overnight and discharged the following morning.

Four or 5 days later, I heard from their pediatrician, who also had permission to share. He sent me a very nice note through Epic that he had seen the boys. Besides some mental trauma, they were all healthy and doing fine.

The family lives in the area and the kids go to school 5 miles from my house. So, the following weekend they came over. It was Father’s Day, which was kind of cool. They brought me some flowers and candy and a card the boys had drawn to thank me.

I learned that the dad had brought the boys to the fishing site. They were horsing around in knee deep water. One of the boys walked off a little way and didn’t realize there was a drop off. He went in, and of course the dad went after him, and the other two followed.

I said to the parents: “Look, things like this happen for a reason. People like your son are saved and go on in this world because they’ve got special things to do. I can’t wait to see what kind of man he becomes.”

Two or 3 months later, it was football season, and I got at a message from the dad saying their son was playing football on Saturday at the school. He wondered if I could drop by. So, I kind of snuck over and watched, but I didn’t go say hi. There’s trauma there, and I didn’t want them to have to relive that.

I’m very fortunate that I exercise every day and I know how to do CPR and swim. And thank God the boy was floating when I got to him, or I never would’ve found him. The Maumee River is known as the “muddy Maumee.” You can’t see anything under the water.

Depending on the time of year, the river can be almost dry or overflowing into the parking lot with the current rushing hard. If it had been like that, I wouldn’t have considered going in. And they wouldn’t they have been there in the first place. They’d have been a mile downstream.

I took a risk. I could have gone out there and had the dad and two other kids jump on top of me. Then we all would have been in trouble. But like I told my wife, I couldn’t stand there and watch it. I’m just not that person.

I think it was also about being a dad myself and having grandkids now. Doctor or no doctor, I felt like I was in reasonably good shape and I had to go in there to help. This dad was trying his butt off, but three little kids is too many. You can’t do that by yourself. They were not going to make it.

I go to the hospital and I save lives as part of my job, and I don’t even come home and talk about it. But this is a whole different thing. Being able to save someone’s life when put in this situation is very gratifying. It’s a tremendous feeling. There’s a reason that young man is here today, and I’ll be watching for great things from him.

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

Daniel Cassavar, MD, is a cardiologist with ProMedica in Perrysburg, Ohio.

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

I live on the Maumee River in Ohio, about 50 yards from the water. I had an early quit time and came home to meet my wife for lunch. Afterward, I went up to my barn across the main road to tinker around. It was a nice day out, so my wife had opened some windows. Suddenly, she heard screaming from the river. It did not sound like fun.

She ran down to the river’s edge and saw a dad and three boys struggling in the water. She phoned me screaming: “They’re drowning! They’re drowning!” I jumped in my truck and drove up our driveway through the yard right down to the river.

My wife was on the phone with 911 at that point, and I could see them about 75-100 yards out. The dad had two of the boys clinging around his neck. They were going under the water and coming up and going under again. The other boy was just floating nearby, face down, motionless.

I threw my shoes and scrubs off and started to walk towards the water. My wife screamed at me, “You’re not going in there!” I said, “I’m not going to stand here and watch this. It’s not going to happen.”

I’m not a kid anymore, but I was a high school swimmer, and to this day I work out all the time. I felt like I had to try something. So, I went in the water despite my wife yelling and I swam towards them.

What happens when you get in that deep water is that you panic. You can’t hear anyone because of the rapids, and your instinct is to swim back towards where you went in, which is against the current. Unless you’re a very strong swimmer, you’re just wasting your time, swimming in place.

But these guys weren’t trying to go anywhere. Dad was just trying to stay up and keep the boys alive. He was in about 10 feet of water. What they didn’t see or just didn’t know: About 20 yards upstream from that deep water is a little island.

When I got to them, I yelled at the dad to move towards the island, “Go backwards! Go back!” I flipped the boy over who wasn’t moving. He was the oldest of the three, around 10 or 11 years old. When I turned him over, he was blue and wasn’t breathing. I put my fingers on his neck and didn’t feel a pulse.

So, I’m treading water, holding him. I put an arm behind his back and started doing chest compressions on him. I probably did a dozen to 15 compressions – nothing. I thought, I’ve got to get some air in this kid. So, I gave him two deep breaths and then started doing compressions again. I know ACLS and CPR training would say we don’t do that anymore. But I couldn’t just sit there and give up. Shortly after that, he coughed out a large amount of water and started breathing.

The dad and the other two boys had made it to the island. So, I started moving towards it with the boy. It was a few minutes before he regained consciousness. Of course, he was unaware of what had happened. He started to scream, because here’s this strange man holding him. But he was breathing. That’s all I cared about.

When we got to the island, I saw that my neighbor downstream had launched his canoe. He’s a retired gentleman who lives next to me, a very physically fit man. He started rolling as hard as he could towards us, against the stream. I kind of gave him a thumbs up, like, “we’re safe now. We’re standing.” We loaded the kids and the dad in the canoe and made it back against the stream to the parking lot where they went in.

All this took probably 10 or 15 minutes, and by then the paramedics were there. Life Flight had been dispatched up by my barn where there’s room to land. So, they drove up there in the ambulance. The boy I revived was flown to the hospital. The others went in the ambulance.

I know all the ED docs, so I talked to somebody later who, with permission from the family, said they were all doing fine. They were getting x-rays on the boy’s lungs. And then I heard the dad and two boys were released that night. The other boy I worked on was observed overnight and discharged the following morning.

Four or 5 days later, I heard from their pediatrician, who also had permission to share. He sent me a very nice note through Epic that he had seen the boys. Besides some mental trauma, they were all healthy and doing fine.

The family lives in the area and the kids go to school 5 miles from my house. So, the following weekend they came over. It was Father’s Day, which was kind of cool. They brought me some flowers and candy and a card the boys had drawn to thank me.

I learned that the dad had brought the boys to the fishing site. They were horsing around in knee deep water. One of the boys walked off a little way and didn’t realize there was a drop off. He went in, and of course the dad went after him, and the other two followed.

I said to the parents: “Look, things like this happen for a reason. People like your son are saved and go on in this world because they’ve got special things to do. I can’t wait to see what kind of man he becomes.”

Two or 3 months later, it was football season, and I got at a message from the dad saying their son was playing football on Saturday at the school. He wondered if I could drop by. So, I kind of snuck over and watched, but I didn’t go say hi. There’s trauma there, and I didn’t want them to have to relive that.

I’m very fortunate that I exercise every day and I know how to do CPR and swim. And thank God the boy was floating when I got to him, or I never would’ve found him. The Maumee River is known as the “muddy Maumee.” You can’t see anything under the water.

Depending on the time of year, the river can be almost dry or overflowing into the parking lot with the current rushing hard. If it had been like that, I wouldn’t have considered going in. And they wouldn’t they have been there in the first place. They’d have been a mile downstream.

I took a risk. I could have gone out there and had the dad and two other kids jump on top of me. Then we all would have been in trouble. But like I told my wife, I couldn’t stand there and watch it. I’m just not that person.

I think it was also about being a dad myself and having grandkids now. Doctor or no doctor, I felt like I was in reasonably good shape and I had to go in there to help. This dad was trying his butt off, but three little kids is too many. You can’t do that by yourself. They were not going to make it.

I go to the hospital and I save lives as part of my job, and I don’t even come home and talk about it. But this is a whole different thing. Being able to save someone’s life when put in this situation is very gratifying. It’s a tremendous feeling. There’s a reason that young man is here today, and I’ll be watching for great things from him.

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

Daniel Cassavar, MD, is a cardiologist with ProMedica in Perrysburg, Ohio.

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

I live on the Maumee River in Ohio, about 50 yards from the water. I had an early quit time and came home to meet my wife for lunch. Afterward, I went up to my barn across the main road to tinker around. It was a nice day out, so my wife had opened some windows. Suddenly, she heard screaming from the river. It did not sound like fun.

She ran down to the river’s edge and saw a dad and three boys struggling in the water. She phoned me screaming: “They’re drowning! They’re drowning!” I jumped in my truck and drove up our driveway through the yard right down to the river.

My wife was on the phone with 911 at that point, and I could see them about 75-100 yards out. The dad had two of the boys clinging around his neck. They were going under the water and coming up and going under again. The other boy was just floating nearby, face down, motionless.

I threw my shoes and scrubs off and started to walk towards the water. My wife screamed at me, “You’re not going in there!” I said, “I’m not going to stand here and watch this. It’s not going to happen.”

I’m not a kid anymore, but I was a high school swimmer, and to this day I work out all the time. I felt like I had to try something. So, I went in the water despite my wife yelling and I swam towards them.

What happens when you get in that deep water is that you panic. You can’t hear anyone because of the rapids, and your instinct is to swim back towards where you went in, which is against the current. Unless you’re a very strong swimmer, you’re just wasting your time, swimming in place.

But these guys weren’t trying to go anywhere. Dad was just trying to stay up and keep the boys alive. He was in about 10 feet of water. What they didn’t see or just didn’t know: About 20 yards upstream from that deep water is a little island.

When I got to them, I yelled at the dad to move towards the island, “Go backwards! Go back!” I flipped the boy over who wasn’t moving. He was the oldest of the three, around 10 or 11 years old. When I turned him over, he was blue and wasn’t breathing. I put my fingers on his neck and didn’t feel a pulse.

So, I’m treading water, holding him. I put an arm behind his back and started doing chest compressions on him. I probably did a dozen to 15 compressions – nothing. I thought, I’ve got to get some air in this kid. So, I gave him two deep breaths and then started doing compressions again. I know ACLS and CPR training would say we don’t do that anymore. But I couldn’t just sit there and give up. Shortly after that, he coughed out a large amount of water and started breathing.

The dad and the other two boys had made it to the island. So, I started moving towards it with the boy. It was a few minutes before he regained consciousness. Of course, he was unaware of what had happened. He started to scream, because here’s this strange man holding him. But he was breathing. That’s all I cared about.

When we got to the island, I saw that my neighbor downstream had launched his canoe. He’s a retired gentleman who lives next to me, a very physically fit man. He started rolling as hard as he could towards us, against the stream. I kind of gave him a thumbs up, like, “we’re safe now. We’re standing.” We loaded the kids and the dad in the canoe and made it back against the stream to the parking lot where they went in.

All this took probably 10 or 15 minutes, and by then the paramedics were there. Life Flight had been dispatched up by my barn where there’s room to land. So, they drove up there in the ambulance. The boy I revived was flown to the hospital. The others went in the ambulance.

I know all the ED docs, so I talked to somebody later who, with permission from the family, said they were all doing fine. They were getting x-rays on the boy’s lungs. And then I heard the dad and two boys were released that night. The other boy I worked on was observed overnight and discharged the following morning.

Four or 5 days later, I heard from their pediatrician, who also had permission to share. He sent me a very nice note through Epic that he had seen the boys. Besides some mental trauma, they were all healthy and doing fine.

The family lives in the area and the kids go to school 5 miles from my house. So, the following weekend they came over. It was Father’s Day, which was kind of cool. They brought me some flowers and candy and a card the boys had drawn to thank me.

I learned that the dad had brought the boys to the fishing site. They were horsing around in knee deep water. One of the boys walked off a little way and didn’t realize there was a drop off. He went in, and of course the dad went after him, and the other two followed.

I said to the parents: “Look, things like this happen for a reason. People like your son are saved and go on in this world because they’ve got special things to do. I can’t wait to see what kind of man he becomes.”

Two or 3 months later, it was football season, and I got at a message from the dad saying their son was playing football on Saturday at the school. He wondered if I could drop by. So, I kind of snuck over and watched, but I didn’t go say hi. There’s trauma there, and I didn’t want them to have to relive that.

I’m very fortunate that I exercise every day and I know how to do CPR and swim. And thank God the boy was floating when I got to him, or I never would’ve found him. The Maumee River is known as the “muddy Maumee.” You can’t see anything under the water.

Depending on the time of year, the river can be almost dry or overflowing into the parking lot with the current rushing hard. If it had been like that, I wouldn’t have considered going in. And they wouldn’t they have been there in the first place. They’d have been a mile downstream.

I took a risk. I could have gone out there and had the dad and two other kids jump on top of me. Then we all would have been in trouble. But like I told my wife, I couldn’t stand there and watch it. I’m just not that person.

I think it was also about being a dad myself and having grandkids now. Doctor or no doctor, I felt like I was in reasonably good shape and I had to go in there to help. This dad was trying his butt off, but three little kids is too many. You can’t do that by yourself. They were not going to make it.

I go to the hospital and I save lives as part of my job, and I don’t even come home and talk about it. But this is a whole different thing. Being able to save someone’s life when put in this situation is very gratifying. It’s a tremendous feeling. There’s a reason that young man is here today, and I’ll be watching for great things from him.

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

Daniel Cassavar, MD, is a cardiologist with ProMedica in Perrysburg, Ohio.