Abstract
Cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always.
—Hippocrates
M
A few months ago, while driving home with my own son, we both noticed a car knocked onto the side of the road. It was emitting fumes, and we soon saw another car in the middle of the road. While there were a few people around, there was no ambulance or fire truck. I drove a bit farther and finally told my son that I had to check and to wait for me.
I parked my car and immediately ran to the site to see if help was needed. I saw what appeared to be the driver of the car in the middle of the street, sitting on the side of the road, talking on the phone in a foreign language. He seemed to be okay. I saw a few people trying to break the windows of the other car, which looked badly damaged. I was told that there were people inside the car but no one was sure as to how many. The smell of the fumes was very strong. I told them I was a physician, and that I would need help to get inside the car and assess until further help arrived.
A couple of people were able to break the rear window and lift me inside. I slid myself inside the car; at first the smell was almost too strong. It was difficult to breathe. I asked others to try to open more windows, to get some air inside. I then noticed the driver: his head was bent into the white inflated airbag, he had blood in his right ear. He was unresponsive with a faint pulse, and was gasping–dying. On the passenger side was a young man: his body was tall, slumped to the side of the driver. He was warm and unresponsive, did not have a pulse and was not breathing.
In the back, behind the passenger seat, a woman with light brown hair was bent over. She was unresponsive. I could not see her face; I placed my hand on her chest and did not notice any movement. I checked for a pulse and found none. At that moment, I heard a voice to my left behind the driver seat and looked. There was a young girl sitting with seat belt on, her head was down and long hair covered her face.
I immediately touched her and asked if she was okay: she only moved her head. She was cold and clammy, but thankfully was breathing well and had a pulse. I stroked her hair, whispering prayers in her ear and encouraging her to stay strong. I assured her that help was on the way; there was nothing else I could do. I stayed by her until I heard the ambulance and paramedics arrive.
The firefighters tried to open the driver's door. I was sure the driver was already dead, but also relieved to see the girl out on the stretcher, moving her four limbs.
I said a little prayer and went home. My son told me he was hiding behind the trees watching the entire time. He had been scared that he would never see me again. I quietly told him that life is very fragile.
The following day I learned that this family was a part of our local high school, and that my daughter knew the young man at the passenger seat. Tommy had been her classmate, a brilliant senior with a full ride scholarship to top university and a promising future.
Our community held a vigil in school. The little girl's uncle was there: an alumni himself, he spoke eloquently about the tragedy. Helena was admitted to a trauma unit in a nearby hospital. I wasn't sure if I should share with the uncle that I was inside the car when his brother took his last breaths. While I decided not speak at the moment, I kept thinking of Helena and her new family.
As a palliative care physician I spend much time in this mysterious bridge, one that links life and death. I counseled countless patients on their deathbed, I have dealt with the failure and the celebration of life. But, still, it was hard for me to experience the abruptness and the fragility of it all.
Regardless, seeing Helena walk on stage with her uncle was such a beautiful surprise, as was seeing my own daughter and her friends celebrating the end of school and starting a new chapter. Perhaps the comfort in such mystery is faith in the astounding resilience of us all.