People were huddled together, crying, holding each other. Most were wearing Western concert–going stuff, which for a lot of them wasn’t very much clothing. The hotel eventually brought some blankets.
I was covered in blood. My shirt, shorts, and sandals were soaked. It was running down my legs. I couldn’t find anything to eat or drink. At one point, I sat down at a slot machine, put a hundred dollars in, and started playing slots. I didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t take me very long to lose it all.
Finally, I started looking for a way to get out. I checked all the exits, but there were security and police there. Then I ran into a guy who said he had found a fire exit. When we opened the fire door, there was a big security guard there, and he said: “You can’t leave.”
We said: “Try to stop us. We’re out of here.”
Another thing I’ll always remember – after I broke out of the Tropicana, I was low crawling through the bushes along the Strip toward my hotel. I got a block away and stood up to cross the street. I pushed the crosswalk button and waited. There were no cars, no people. I’ve just broken all the rules, violated police orders, and now I’m standing there waiting for a blinking light to allow me to cross the street!
I made it back to my hotel room around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. My wife was hysterical because I hadn’t been answering my cell phone. I came in, and she gave me a big hug, and I got in the shower. Our plane was leaving in a few hours, so we laid down, but didn’t sleep.
As we were getting ready to leave, my wife’s phone rang, and it was my number. A guy at the same hotel had found my phone on the field and called the “in case of emergency” number. So, I got my phone back.
It wasn’t easy to deal with the aftermath. It really affected everybody’s life. To this day, I’m particular about where we sit at concerts. My wife isn’t comfortable if she can’t see an exit. I now have a med bag in my car with tourniquets, pressure dressings, airway masks for CPR.
I’ll never forget that feeling of absolute frustration. That lady without an airway – I could’ve put a trach in her very quickly and made a difference. Were they able to keep her airway? Did she live?
The father and son – did the father make it? I have no idea what happened to any of them. Later, I went through and looked at the pictures of all the people who had died, but I couldn’t recognize anybody.
The hardest part was being there with my wife. I’ve been in places where people are shooting at you, in vehicles that are getting bombed. I’ve always believed that when it’s your time, it’s your time. If I get shot, well, okay, that happens. But if she got shot or my friends ... that would be really tough.
A year later, I gave a talk about it at a conference. I thought I had worked through everything. But all of those feelings, all of that helplessness, that anger, everything came roaring back to the surface again. They asked me how I deal with it, and I said: “Well ... poorly.” I’m the guy who sticks it in a box in the back of his brain, tucks it in and buries it with a bunch of other boxes, and hopes it never comes out again. But every once in a while, it does.
There were all kinds of people out on that field, some with medical training, some without, all determined to help, trying to get those injured people where they needed to be. In retrospect, it does make you feel good. Somebody was shooting at us, but people were still willing to stand up and risk their lives to help others.
We still talk with our friends about what happened that night. Over the years, it’s become less and less. But there’s still a text sent out every year on that day: “Today is the anniversary. Glad we’re all alive. Thanks for being our friends.”
Dr. Sebesta is a bariatric surgeon with MultiCare Health System in Tacoma, Wash.
A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.