After
about three bounces, the boy bounced out the window andin
an instant, he was gone ten floors down.
It
was another fabulous day in Paradise. One of those days that happens
almost every day. This weather draws millions of visitors a year to
our cluster of islands located over two thousand miles from any other
land mass and is boringly wonderful, day after day after day…
It
was once again a
borning eight-two degrees, and the Tradewinds were constant at their
usual four to six miles-per-hour. I came to call them “Windfingers”
because of the way they felt. It was as if someone was constantly
caressing my skin with the very tips of their fingers.
I
had just graduated
from the Hawaii State Paramedic Program and was on duty with my
senior Paramedic partner in the Waikiki unit.
I
was here because
this is where I took my discharge from the USN, as opposed to
returning to the city in which I enlisted, which is how it is usually
done.
Then,
after about
two years of struggle with lower-paying jobs, I made it into the
Paramedic program and graduated. I was now just starting my new
life. The pressures of school were over, and it was wonderful to
have a job that paid enough to enjoy being a permanent resident in
this Hawaiian paradise.
Along
with the
absolute joy of living in this incredible place, it was also the
place I worked. When we were on duty and without any calls, my
partner and I could park the ambulance anywhere in our response zone,
and our response zone was Waikiki, in the Hawaiian Islands. Wow.
I
was still a new
Paramedic and didn’t know what was to come. But I did know
that if I was to be a Paramedic, I was glad it was here. Every day,
there was a feeling we were the envy of our peers, those other
Paramedics who were trapped in a mundane world.
At
the same time, in
these early days, I was beginning to feel all was not as it seemed.
There actually were tragedies and horrors in Paradise.
When
we were not on
a dispatch, part of our job was to kick back at some of the world’s
most famous beaches and be paid for doing it. One of the places we
often parked was Prince Kuhio Beach, one of the world’s most
famous beaches. It was on Kalakaua Ave. in the heart of Waikiki in
Honolulu.
There
was a huge
Banyan tree right next to a surfboard rental business, and it cast
its shadow over an extended area. We would drive over the sidewalk
and park the ambulance under the tree so we were out of the hot sun.
Then, we would just sit there, mesmerized by the beach, the
Windfingers, the blue ocean and the glorious, wonderful,
unobstructed, unending horizon.
The
Tradewind
Windfingers freshened the air and spread the fragrance of the
Plumeria blossom flower leis that were being worn by the tourists
around us.
After
a few minutes
for ourselves, we would open all the doors of the ambulance, pull out
the gurney and let people explore and ask questions. It was also a
good opportunity to offer a free blood pressure check for anyone who
wanted it.
These
were the
magical times that were part of being a Paramedic in Paradise, and
there were many. Then there was the horror. Who would have thought
there was horror in Paradise?
The
call came in as
a “Jumper.” It was located at a five-star resort about
ten blocks away. We were in the right place at the right time for a
quick response. That’s rare. Unfortunately, this time it
didn’t matter.
Everyone
realized we
had to leave immediately and quickly stepped back as we began to put
things away. We slid the gurney back in and closed the patient
compartment's rear double doors of our “box” type
ambulance. Then we jumped into the front driver’s compartment
and turned on the lights and sirens. It took us less than four
minutes to reach the emergency.
As
we arrived, we
slowed and pulled up to the curb in front of the resort to find a
small boy who was absolutely squashed and lying very still on the
sidewalk. His head and both sides of his body were split wide open. He
had “popped” like a water balloon.
His
internal body
fluids and blood had formed red pools on the hot concrete sidewalk.
They were still expanding when we arrived and were collecting on both
sides of his body and around his head. The beautiful, omnipresent
tropical sun had warmed the concrete enough that it heated the fluids
so their smell was carried on those gentle Tradewinds.
It
was a very
disturbing moment.
His
brain tissue was
exposed and visible through tears in the skin and very large,
wide-open fractures on both sides of his skull. To cause this much
damage, he must have landed with a perfect “belly flop”
onto his face, chest, and abdomen. Now, he was just lying there,
very still and very dead. As soon as he hit the ground, this boy
died and didn’t need us. But others did.
About
ten years
earlier, one year before his birth, this boy’s parents married
and decided to delay their honeymoon until a time when they would be
financially secure. After years of denial and sacrifice and living a
life of “delayed gratification,” it was finally time for
their Honeymoon in Paradise. Meanwhile, they had two kids: a
nine-year-old boy, now lying dead on a sidewalk in Paradise, and an
eight-year-old girl.
Upon
arrival for
their honeymoon vacation, they were greeted with the traditional
gifts of Hawaiian Leis that are a part of almost every tour package.
Because they now had their leis, they decided to purchase Aloha
shirts in one of the airport’s shops to go with them. Immediately, they
removed their mainland shirt and changed into their
Hawaiian ones with their leis. After years of planning and
preparations, they had arrived in Paradise and now were dressed for
the occasion.
Wearing
their shirts
and leis, they boarded the tourist shuttle to the hotel, checked in,
and followed the bellboy directly to the front door of their
ocean-view suite of rooms on the tenth floor.
Then,
the bellboy
opened the door and revealed the full high-rise panorama of the sea
and horizon of “Blue Hawaii.” Large, wall-to-wall open
windows on the far side of the room provided the view and allowed the
Tradewinds to fill their deluxe suite with island freshness. There
were no sealed windows or window screens at this time in Honolulu.
The
kids, of course,
let out screams of joy and had been the first to rush in. They
dropped their bags in the hallway, ran to the bed across the room at
the window, and jumped onto it.
Immediately,
they
started bouncing on it while continuing their laughing and joking as
content and happy kids do. After about three bounces, the boy bounced
out the window and in an instant, he was gone ten floors down.
As
I described, the
boy was there as we pulled up to the curb, and a crowd had gathered
in deep, heavy silence. Even the passing traffic seemed slowed and
silenced. I went to the boy to examine him, but there was no need. He
was, indeed, gone and therefore didn’t need me. But there
was another who did.
I
turned to the
mother, who was sitting on a planter with a coconut palm growing in
it. She was still wearing her brand new Aloha shirt and flower lei.
She
was completely
shut down and not crying. Her eyes were dull, blank, and staring,
and she was making a disturbingly soft, moaning sound coming from
somewhere deep inside her. It was a sound I had never heard before.
Bestial. Foreign. Ancient. It was the sound of the end of days.
It
was so very sad. So deeply sad.
People
from the
crowd had tried to console her, but their efforts went unheeded as
she continued to withdraw to somewhere inside herself. Her
long-awaited Honeymoon in Paradise had vanished as she and the rest
of the family went immediately upon arrival from tourists to
patients.
We
transported the
mother, daughter, and father together in silence to the hospital for
support and counseling. Before we left, we covered mom’s
beautiful nine-year-old baby boy, still wearing his new Aloha shirt
and flower lei, with a white sheet from the ambulance. He had to be
left in place for the coroner.
Before
he walked to
the ambulance, Dad approached his now-dead son, squatted down, took
off his lei and placed it on the white sheet. Then he softly placed
the palm of his hand on the back of his right shoulder and paused
there with his son. After a few moments, and I don’t know how
he did it, he somehow stood and walked away from his son to the
ambulance and stepped in.
It
was all just too
sad. Just too sad.
We
didn’t
return to the beauty of Prince Kuhio Beach and the Tradewinds. The
mood just wasn’t there. Instead, after completing our
transport, we decided to return to our station. As we were leaving
the ER, I turned to look at my partner and asked, “How are we
supposed to handle this stuff?”
He
was driving, and
without hesitation, he turned his head to the right, looked me
directly in the eyes, and said, “We just eat our lunch and get
ready for the next one. That’s all there is to it.” The
drive passed in silence. There were no words, no words at all.
I
didn’t cry
then. I had wanted to, but like on so many other calls, I didn’t. I
don’t know why. In all my years as a Paramedic, I never
cried.
I’m
crying now
as I write this over forty years later. Too little. Too late.
I
can still smell
the blood and brain matter on that hot sidewalk in Paradise.
