“First Responder”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-07)


“Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.”
- John Lennon

It was early on a Friday evening.
A post-work caravan filled the street. My truck was one of many in a line of vehicles that stretched out to the concrete horizon. Traffic streamed busily toward Route 6, as I tuned in sports coverage on WTAM-1100. All personal tasks were done, for the moment. I had just accomplished a quick round of household banking, and a brief visit to the grocery store. With luck, I intended to make an eastward trek in search of photo opportunities at the Ashtabula County Fair. With festivities in Lake and Geauga soon to follow, it would make for an extended season of photogenic delights. A sense of relief took hold while details of Cleveland Indians play echoed from my in-dash receiver. I slumped in the seat, lazily. It felt good to be out of the office.
While driving through Hambden, I tried calling my wife. Predictably, there was no answer. I reckoned that she was making her own post-employment journey through pockets of cellular vacancy. Meanwhile, Mark Schwab growled about losing to the Yankees. I considered the Hambden Country Inn, and Poppa C’s Sunoco, in passing. Both were filled with local residents cheering their Friday liberation. Nothing hinted that soon enough, wild forces of chaos would challenge this typical day.
I left a message for Liz. “Hey honey, hope you’re good! I made contact today with a fellow who does PR work for a couple of novelty vendors. He was interested in discussing a writing project. I’ll meet you at the fair…”
In Thompson Township, I had to pause at the intersection of Routes 166 and 528. It was a daily ritual. Look across the way, then left, then right. Check again, and again, and again. One at a time, my fellow travelers crossed the road. I pulled up to the stop sign and gripped the steering wheel. My turn was next!
Suddenly, I witnessed a YouTube moment, in true-life proportions.
A dark, four-door Honda turned into the path of an approaching Dodge pickup filled with young boys. Their convergence was unavoidable. Inertia sent the truck airborne after impact, in a circus-arc that had it spinning sideways. Glass and metal showered the surrounding landscape. The Honda suffered a crushed hood, fender, and driver’s door. It came to rest in the field. With similar ferocity, the red Dodge landed on its operator side, facing in the direction from which it had come.
A split-second of confusion elapsed as everyone instantly experienced a common shock of reality.
An ugly smell of mechanical woe filled the air. Like scorched rubber or burned away plastic insulation. The Honda’s horn was stuck on, at full volume. I pulled off the road, and ran to assess the scene. Several other drivers did the same. One of the crowd reminded me of a bygone friend named Don. He was quick to offer help.
While gathering composure, I called 911 to report the incident.
Before we could get to the trio of young boys, they had already crawled outside of their cargo vehicle. Each seemed battered and bloody, but surprisingly well off for having survived a somersault at highway speed.
The wrecked Honda had trapped its driver in a metal cocoon. His legs were pinned under the dashboard. While one of the crowd disabled his vehicle’s blaring horn, ‘Don’ tried to open the passenger side door. We encouraged the driver to lie still until help arrived. He was in shock, and dazed. The seconds seemed to tick away with a plodding lack of concern. I wished for a way to ‘fast-forward’ the progression of time.
A constable from Thompson was first on the scene. He checked the accident site, radioed for assistance, and began to direct traffic. Soon, rescue units from Montville and Hambden arrived. Then, an officer from the State Highway Patrol. A life-flight helicopter came soon afterward. We had a full compliment of first responders.
‘Don’ observed that his daughter’s life had been saved by such professional intervention, after her own roadgoing mishap. He was emotional when reflecting on their talent and dedication as public servants.
I felt glad that his own fearful moment had ended happily.
Field care for the boys was accomplished without great difficulty. But the Honda would not surrender its pilot willingly. We could barely see him under the expanded airbag, and crushed dashboard. Skillfully, both rescue groups brought out ‘Jaws of Life’ devices. With careful prodding, they removed the automobile roof. This provided better access to the injured motorist. Yet he was still gripped by the dashboard.
While waiting, I filled out a report for the highway patrolman. Only two of us out of the group had actually witnessed the calamity. While writing, I noted that ‘Don’ had stepped closer to the car. He made the sign of the cross, and then clasped his hands in prayer.
For the first time, I felt a measure of comfort.
The ‘Jaws’ worked their magic again, at last forcing the Honda to release its operator. Metal and plastic cracked and shuddered. The gray-haired driver moaned with exhaustion. Instantly, he was on a gurney and being carried to an ambulance.
His agony filled me with sadness. Yet I felt thankful that in spite of the open-road ordeal, he remained alive. I felt gratitude that he could return to his family.
We were told to clear the scene, and everyone scattered immediately. I said a prayer of my own. Traffic was stalled toward St. Patrick’s Church, and past Sidley’s in the other direction. I was relieved to get back in my truck.
My pickup spun through mud on the roadside, as we headed east once again. Driving along Route 166, I kept seeing the accident over and over in my imagination. It was like a skipping record that wouldn’t stop playing. The red Dodge careened like a mad gymnast, flipping and flipping and flipping endlessly… I tried to shake off the repeating vision. But it remained clear and persistent.
I wished for a cup of coffee to clear my head.
After arriving at the fair, and meeting Liz at her booth, I retold the story of my unexpected adventure. But a slight sense of guilt colored my thoughts. “I’m a newspaper guy by profession...”
“A journalist!” she said, offering correction.
“Okay, a journalist,” I agreed. “Yet when the accident occurred today, my first inclination wasn’t to run for a camera. Or my notebook. I wanted to… help.”
“Yes…?” she responded.
“So, was that wrong in some strange way?” I asked. “Should I have been more hard-nosed about getting a story?”
My wife smiled with comprehension. “Rodney, you always say that what you do provides a public service. You give information to readers, and maybe a bit of entertainment as well.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s right.”
“So today, you thought about helping others directly,” she said. “You placed that need where it belongs – first.”
“Cool,” I replied. “So, it’s okay not to be a journalistic hound for once?”
“I know you’ll still get a story out of this,” she said. “Or a column?”
My face went red with embarrassment. “You’re right. I was just thinking of a way to use this in the newspaper…”
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll buy you a sandwich at Cunningham’s.”
I brightened at the thought of Italian sausage with peppers and onions. Swirling neon flashed across our path as we left the commercial building for a walk down the midway.
It was time to celebrate being alive.

FROM THE GEAUGA COUNTY MAPLE LEAF NEWSPAPER, CHARDON, OHIO