The Day that Broke Me….And the Delay of Care for Us

As most days go, it started normal as hell.

Truck checks were done early. We went through everything like we always do—monitor powered on, airway bag stocked, meds checked, suction working. Nothing out of place. The kind of check where you don’t even think twice about it because it’s just routine at this point.

Back at the station, we were knocking out the usual house chores. Cleaning, straightening up, making the place look like we actually give a shit. Breakfast got made and eaten somewhere in between all that. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t chaotic—just one of those steady mornings.

We had already run a couple calls earlier in the shift. Nothing crazy, nothing that sticks. The kind of calls you forget before the report is even finished.

I was spending most of the morning working with a new employee, going through orientation stuff. Walking them through how our department operates, expectations, where things are on the truck, how we run calls. Just normal teaching, normal conversation.

It was one of those days that felt predictable.

And I remember it so clearly now, which is fucked up, because at the time it felt like nothing.

Then the tones dropped.

Dispatch came over for an infant not breathing.

There’s something about those words that hits different. It doesn’t matter how many calls you’ve run—those words cut straight through everything.

A few seconds went by, and dispatch came back on with an update. The caller wasn’t sure if the baby was breathing.

That small change doesn’t make it better. If anything, it makes it worse. It means chaos on the other end. It means nobody knows what the hell is actually going on.

We were already moving.

I remember getting into the passenger seat while my partner took the driver’s seat. The new employee was in the back. Everything after that felt fast, but also weirdly slowed down at the same time.

As we pulled out, I remember my partner saying, “Please be breathing.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet and real.

Lights came on. Sirens started. Air horn when we needed it. We were pushing as fast as we safely could. Every intersection felt like it took too long, even though we were moving.

The drive felt short. Like we made a couple turns and we were there.

As soon as we stopped, I was out of the truck.

And yeah—I didn’t walk.

I ran.

I know what we’re taught. I know what we preach. “Walk with purpose.”

That day, I didn’t give a shit about that.

I sprinted to the door.

When I got inside, I saw the baby on the floor. No identifying details, no setup—just a small body lying there, and you could already feel that something was very wrong.

I dropped down immediately and started checking for a pulse. Brachial first, then carotid, then femoral. I went through them fast but thorough, hoping I missed something the first time.

I didn’t.

There was no pulse.

I looked for breathing—nothing. No chest rise, no effort, no sound.

Just silence.

That kind of silence is deafening.

There’s no moment to sit with it, though. Training kicks in whether you want it to or not.

I picked the baby up and started compressions immediately. I remember how small the chest felt under my hands. How wrong it felt to have to do that to someone that small.

I carried the baby back to the truck while working, focusing on rate, depth, trying to stay locked into what I could control.

And yeah, I know some people are still stuck on the fact that I ran.

But what you don’t see in that moment is the history behind it.

This was my second pediatric arrest that year.

And I was fucking terrified.

We got into the back of the medic and everything started happening at once.

My partner got the monitor hooked up. The new medic started working the airway. I transitioned tasks, moving to get IV access once compressions were taken over. We rotated like we were supposed to, communicated like we were trained to.

It probably looked smooth from the outside.

It didn’t feel smooth.

There were complications. There always are. Things don’t go perfectly, especially not on calls like this. But we worked through them, step by step, doing everything we could think of and everything we were trained to do.

An officer arrived almost immediately after we got loaded and jumped into the driver’s seat. We didn’t waste time. Within what felt like seconds—but was probably a couple minutes—we were moving.

En route to the hospital.

The back of that truck felt like its own world. Time didn’t make sense. Everything narrowed down to tasks—compressions, airway, meds, reassess, repeat.

We did everything right.

Every intervention lined up with what it should have been. The medications were correct. The compressions were consistent. The airway was managed.

Everything we are trained to do—we did.

And it still didn’t matter.

The baby died.

I remember the exact moment it hit me—not clinically, not in terms of the call, but emotionally.

I was pissed.

Not just upset or sad—angry. Angry at the situation, angry at how unfair it was, angry that sometimes doing everything right still ends the worst way possible.

I remember hearing the family.

That sound sticks with you. It doesn’t fade, it doesn’t blur—it stays sharp.

When we got to the hospital and transferred care, everything after that felt like a blur. The controlled chaos of the room, people moving, voices overlapping.

Then it was over.

And I remember walking out of that room feeling completely and utterly broken.

Not tired. Not stressed.

Broken.

Like something inside me cracked and didn’t go back into place.

I remember telling my coworkers, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done. Fuck this.”

And I meant it in that moment.

But what I really meant wasn’t the job as a whole.

It wasn’t the hours or the missed holidays or the constant running.

It was calls like this.

The ones that rip something out of you and leave you standing there trying to figure out how you’re supposed to keep going like nothing happened.

We went back in service, because that’s what we do. There’s always another call waiting.

People checked on me. CISM was activated. On paper, everything was handled the way it should have been.

But it wasn’t enough.

I was broken, and I knew it.

Normally, I can handle the dark humor. It’s part of the culture, part of how we cope.

But after that call, I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t joke about it. I couldn’t laugh it off. I couldn’t even be around it.

So I shut down.

I finished that shift, but mentally I was already gone. I went home thinking I was done with EMS completely.

But I wasn’t.

I came back.

A few days later, we had a debriefing. There were more people in the room who weren’t even on the call than there were people who actually experienced it.

It felt disconnected. Like it was more of a process than something meant to actually help.

Then, like always, the check-ins slowly stopped.

Not out of malice—just because life moves on and people assume you’re okay if you’re still showing up.

A few weeks later, it all caught up to me.

Sleep became a problem first. Every time I closed my eyes, the call replayed in full detail. Not just visuals—I could hear everything, smell everything, feel everything.

It was like living it over and over again.

I became irritable, short-tempered, constantly on edge.

I started dreading work. I would wait until the absolute last second to leave for my shift, sitting there trying to convince myself to get in the truck.

I hated myself. I hated the call. I carried this constant anger that I couldn’t shake.

Being a peer supporter, I recognized exactly what was happening. I knew the signs of burnout, of trauma, of everything we warn others about.

And I knew if I didn’t do something, it was going to get worse.

So I reached out for help.

And that’s where things got frustrating.

There were delays. Missed follow-ups. Long waits for appointments. Every step felt harder than it should have been.

And for most people, that might not seem like a big deal.

But in this line of work, if someone is reaching out, they’re already in a bad place. We don’t ask for help early—we ask when we’re already struggling.

And when help doesn’t come quickly, it’s easy to shut down and stop trying.

I almost did.

At one point I said, “I’m good.”

I wasn’t.

I was frustrated. I was tired of trying to get help that didn’t seem to be there.

Eventually, I found someone who actually responded. Someone who made time, who treated it like it mattered, who didn’t make me wait until I was worse.

That changed everything.

I got into counseling, and for the first time since that call, I felt like I wasn’t just carrying it alone.

So if there’s anything to take from this, it’s this:

Don’t give up on getting help, even when it feels like the system is failing you. Advocate for yourself, even when it’s hard. Find the right person, because the right help actually makes a difference.

And if you’re sitting in that place right now, dealing with your own version of a call like this—

You’re not alone.

You matter. You’re important. You’re wanted.

And those demons we can’t see don’t get to win.

Resources:

If you’re struggling, reach out:

• Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: 988

• COPLINE: 1-800-COPLINE

• Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741