Things you don't forget in EMS(GSW's)

Doner

I used to have EMT students assigned to me all the time. One particular day, mid-shift, I got another one. I did a quick partner swap and picked up a student who had ridden with me before. Not long after we all got in the truck, a call went out for a shooting.

When we arrived, PD was already in the residence's backyard. From where I stood, I could see the patient lying face down on the ground. We grabbed the stretcher, and one of the officers looked at me in a way that said everything without saying a word: they’re dead.

We walked right past the patient’s mother. She was sitting on the stairs, talking to an officer, crying loudly, and trying to answer questions through it. No one moved her. No one stopped her. There wasn’t time. I got to the patient and rolled them over. They gasped.

Most of the time, I’m good at keeping my mouth shut when odd thoughts pop into my head. Not this time. The second I realized what was happening, I said it out loud.

“DONER!”

The patient had shot themselves in the head. The injury was catastrophic. But they had a pulse—weak, but present. Maybe, even if this person didn't want to live, other people could be saved. 

We lifted them onto the stretcher and sprinted for the truck. As we passed the mother, I asked her about medical problems, medications, and allergies. It was pointless. She couldn’t answer. I don’t blame her.

Once in the back of the unit, I placed a breathing tube, and we hauled ass to the hospital. My only thought was getting them there fast enough that maybe something good could come from this—organ donation, helping someone else, if they hadn’t wanted help for themselves before pulling the trigger.

When we rolled into the ER, the pulse was strong. Blood pressure was solid. Oxygen saturation was as good as it was going to get. My crew worked like clockwork. Calm. Efficient. Locked in.

I was proud of them. I was proud of what I was part of. It was someone else’s worst day. But it wasn’t mine.

Scary Scene

The next shooting call is one of the most uncomfortable scenes I’ve ever been on.

We were dispatched to a local trailer park for a person who had been shot. The location wasn’t far from our station, the hospital, or the nearest law enforcement agency. Everyone was close. That didn’t make it feel safer.

While en route, dispatch advised that the shooter’s location was unknown. The caller saw someone shooting, but didn’t know where they went after it stopped.

When we arrived, law enforcement was everywhere. Vehicles, officers, lights—controlled chaos. They cleared us to approach the patient, and as we moved in, the officers formed up around us, facing outward in four different directions with their weapons drawn.

That’s a level of fear that’s hard to explain. You don’t realize how exposed you feel until armed officers are protecting you just so you can reach a patient, knowing the shooter could be just feet away.

We loaded the patient quickly and left. A law enforcement officer drove us to the hospital. No lights and sirens drama—just focused, deliberate movement to get everyone off that scene alive.

We made it to the hospital safe and sound.

That call didn’t stick with me because of the injuries or the outcome. It stuck because of how close danger felt—and how thin the line was between doing your job and becoming part of the crime scene.

Cut Everything Off Me

When I was working downtown, we got dispatched to a hotel for a shooting. The hotel sat right on the main road into town and was within walking distance of several nightclubs. Dispatch advised there was one victim, a male. As we pulled up, a larger person came out of the hotel’s front entrance. From a distance, they appeared female. We asked if she was the one who’d been shot. A very manly voice answered, “Yes.” Alright then. 

We got the patient loaded and confirmed he had, in fact, been shot. He was dressed in a short skirt, a frilly top, full makeup, a wig, and long painted nails. Whatever your personal opinions might be, none of that mattered. Someone was bleeding, and that’s the only thing that counts. We handled what we needed to on scene and started running toward the hospital. Another EMT drove so my partner and I could focus on patient care. About halfway there, the patient looked at us and said, “Cut everything off me. My family can’t see me like this.”

My partner and I looked at each other and shrugged. If that’s what the patient wants, that’s what we do.

So we cut everything off.

While we were working, the patient began biting off the fake nails and spitting them onto the ambulance floor. Between breaths, he said, “If I don’t make it, I’m afraid my family is going to find out I dress like this.”

We did what we always do. We reassured him. Told him we’ve seen worse injuries. Told him to focus on breathing. None of that mattered to him. The only thing he cared about was making sure everything was gone.