Things you don't forget in EMS (Baby brother)

Baby Brother

We got called for a baby not breathing. And like I think I’ve said before, calls like that make you think. You wonder how old the mom is, when the baby last ate, how many kids she has, and whether this is going to be something serious or just panic. I wasn’t with my regular partner that day, but I was with someone I knew well and trusted. Before we even got there, I told them, “I’m going inside to get the baby. You jump in the back and start getting everything ready.” I knew they’d know exactly what to lay out and where to find it.

When we pulled up, the scene didn’t feel right. Nobody was outside yelling for us or waving us in. 

I headed straight for the door. It wasn’t until I stepped inside that I realized there were no lights on in the trailer. The place was dark and quiet, and that hit me like a warning flag I didn’t see coming.

As I turned the corner into the living room, I saw a little girl kneeling on the floor next to a baby. The adults in the room were sitting in chairs, barely reacting, barely moving. It was quiet, still. The little girl said, “That’s my baby brother,” and she repeated it at least three times. Her voice is something I can still hear if I’m ever in that area.

I scooped the baby up right away and headed for the door. The child was cold to the touch, and as I carried them into the daylight, I smelt the sour stench of vomit. When the light hit the baby’s skin, I saw the grey color. No breathing. No movement. My heart sank. I handed the baby to my partner and climbed into the back.

I put the baby on the cardiac monitor, and it showed me exactly what I already knew. There was nothing there, and there was nothing I could do. I called for law enforcement.

What I didn’t know at the time was that once that baby was in my truck, the truck became a crime scene. We stayed on that scene for a long time. Longer than I ever would’ve expected. Eventually, we were told the coroner wasn’t coming — we were to take the child to the hospital morgue ourselves.

I’d never been in that situation. So I called the hospital and explained what was going on. They walked me through the steps. When we pulled up to the ER, I went inside to find the nurse handling our paperwork. As I was walking through, I saw a nurse I knew was pregnant, and the last thing I wanted was for her to see the shape of a dead baby's body on my stretcher. I grabbed some pillows, blankets, and extra sheets and headed back to the truck. I set the stretcher up to look like it held a full-sized adult under a single sheet.

Once the paperwork was done, we rolled in. That same pregnant nurse was right there at the desk, asking what we had. I kind of stretched the truth without blinking and said, “A dead body.” She nodded and said, “Oh, okay,” and went right on with her work. Sometimes a slight lie is mercy.

We rolled down to the morgue. The staff there knew what we were bringing, but when they saw the size of the covered shape, they were confused. I explained why it looked the way it did, and they understood.

They showed us where to place the child. I’d never been in a morgue before. I’d seen them on TV, in movies, but nothing prepares you for the real thing. When you open that steel door — the one you’re about to put someone into — the smell hits you right in the face. Death has a smell, and it’s one you don’t forget. It clings to you even after you’ve washed your hands, changed your clothes, driven home.

That grey color doesn't fade, that sour smell doesn't fade, that little girl's voice doesn't fade, the stench of death doesn't fade, and the anger about those people just sitting there...