Medford mail tribune., April 16, 1961, Image 40

Tragedy on My Doorstep
By WALLACE HOWARD as told to John M. Ross
I live with tragedy every day the kind that
strikes with suddenness and. severity. Victims
of automobile accidents, heart attacks', mishaps in
the home, or critical illness are part of my life. I'm
an ambulance driver.' - . ;
It is not pleasant work, but it's a job that has to
be done by someone. If it's done properly swiftly
and efficiently human suffering can be shortened;
lives can be saved. ".'
In order to do this kind of work daily, the ambu
lance driver, or anyone obliged to respond when
tragedy strikes, must build up an immunity to sor
row. If he doesn't, he's apt to become an ambulance
case himself some day headed straight for the
psycho ward.
When I first took over the ambulance wheel
some five years ago, I felt my heart being torn al
most daily. It was difficult to leave my job at the
garage when my tour was finished difficult to
erase the sight of the mother crying over her little
- girl's broken body in the street, or to shut off the
sounds of the wounded some begging for life,
others pleading for a me.ciful death.
But as time passed, the work became more fa
miliar, and only the severity of the tragedy would
mark one from another. At home, after work, I
reached the point where I could sum up my day
by telling Mary, my wife:
"Had a bad one today." '
. And then I'd capsule the details and go on to
talk about something else. Only occasionally would
a particularly tragic case stay with me.
But in the spring of 1959, my objectivity was
suddenly shattered when Mary and our four
children were injured in a head-on automobile -crash
in nearby Torrance, Calif. Mary was thrown
through the windshield, and her face was severely
slashed. Our Donnie, 6, and Cynthia, 4, were badly
cut and bruised. The others had only minor in
juries. I was thankful they came out of it alive,
but thereafter, whenever I responded to an acci
dent involving a mother and children, I almost al
ways identified them with my own family.
Last November, just as Mary was about to begin
plastic surgery to remove the remaining facial
scars resulting from the accident, I received an-'
other jolt. It was around noon on a Sunday, and
I was on duty at the office of an ambulance serv
ice assigned to respond to all police emergency
calls in Long Beach, Calif., and the surrounding
area. Three ambulances are always on duty. My
car was "on deck," as we say ready to roll when
the next call came.
"Traffic accident at Temple and 17th Street," the
operator's voice boomed loudly over the switch
board. "A boy has been hit by a car."
My attendant, Ernest Pearson, and I scurried for
the car. Within seconds the ambulance was in high
gear. We do not carry doctors or nurses in our am
bulances, but both the driver and the attendant
have completed advanced first-aid training and are
capable of on-the-scene treatment prior to rush
ing a victim to a hospital.
As we raced through traffic with the siren going
full blast, I began to realize that the accident was
only a block from my home a short block.
An ambulance driver tells how he learned
to steel himself against carnage and illness until
one day the victim was not a stranger
' "I hope it's not one of my kids," I said to Ernie
Pearson. : .
Ernie didn't answer right away, but after a pause
he said: "Boy, that's a cheerful thought."
I made a turn and saw a crowd of people gath
ered in the street. A strange feeling suddenly
gripped me. I wheeled the ambulance close to the
small, covered body in the street and slammed on
my brakes. What I saw almost paralyzed me. That
blond hair on the youngster why, I'd know it any
where. It was my boy Donnie.
Unbuckltno my safety belt, I scrambled out of
the cab. Donnie was conscious but bleeding
and crying, and Mary and our other children hov
ered about on the verge of hysteria. Quickly, Ernie
and I examined him for broken bones. I had done
this with others hundreds of times, calmly, effi
ciently. But now my hands trembled nervously.
Blood oozed from the back of Donnie's head.
The bleeding was slow, thank God, for the obvious
diagnosis was serious enough. Head injuries al
ways are dangerous. We had to move fast. Care
fully, we placed Donnie on the stretcher, 'and
Ernie climbed in back with him. I helped Mary into
the cab of the ambulance and then began the short
run to the Long Beach Community Hospital a
little less than a mile away.
I had the urge to jam the accelerator into the
floor board, but I brought myself under control and
ILIUSTIATION BY JOHN FERN IE
drove fast without being reckless. Alongside me,
Mary sobbed bitterly. At the hospital, the doctors
. diagnosed Donnie's head injuries as a basal skull
fracture. They thought he would live but couldn't
be sure. Our vigil began. .
While we waited, Mary filled in the details of
the accident It was typical of so many cases I
; cover. The children had been playing in a play
ground near our home. At noon, they started home
for lunch. Donnie lagged behind. The other chil
- dren waited at the curb to cross the street. Donnie
suddenly came on the run, dashed past the others
into the street as he shouted playfully:
"IU beat you home!"
He ran right into the path of an oncoming car.
The driver hit the brakes, but he couldn't stop in
time. Luckily, the middle of the hood struck Don
nie. If he had been hit by either of the two torpedo
like ornaments on the front of the car, the injury
could have been fatal.
Donnie's recovery - was slow, and he required
careful observation both at the hospital and at
home. The doctors assure us that he'll have no
aftereffects from the injury, and Donnie promises
that he'll always wait at every curb before cross
ing. But I wonder if I'll ever be able to keep my
heart from thumping a little faster or the wheels
of my ambulance from turning a bit faster each
time the call comes: ' .
"Traffic accident ... a child has been hit."
4
Family Weekly. April 16, 1961