Jose

Sunday I received a call of a 911 hang up with a woman screaming in the background. When I arrived, I quickly realized that none of the five or so people in the trailer spoke English. It's strange how, even when you don't know what someone is saying, you can feel terror in their voice. I could hear a woman screaming in the back of the trailer. It was a gut wrenching wail of a scream, one of those that will stay with you for a while. I began pushing my way through the crowd until I get to the back bedroom. I saw a small boy, I would later learn he was three years old, lying on the bed as his father was making a poor attempt at CPR. I don't blame him. If you've never done it, CPR can be terrifying.

As the adrenaline slowed the world, I ran towards the bed. For some reason, I remember quite vividly a black and red jacket on the lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. I gathered the boy in my arms and quickly lay him down on the floor so that I could have a solid surface for CPR. I checked his pulse. There was none, so I yelled at my partner to call for medics on an unresponsive child. I began CPR, an endeavor that likely lasted only four minutes yet managed to feel like an eternity while we waited for medics. Pumping over and over and over again, I felt the sweat dampen my brow. The sweat formed into droplets and began to fall.  I watched them dripping on his chest.  I looked up at the young officer with me, and I could see on his face he knew just as well as me how it would end. There was nothing else to do, so I just kept pumping.

I could see the telltale marbling that indicated strangulation appearing on the boys face. The color left his skin; his eyes were open, staring off in the distance at something I couldn't see.  I began to tire to the point that I was becoming ineffective, so I passed off CPR to my partner.   He was a young but capable officer who I learned that day is good under pressure.  He stepped right in and performed admirably.  I was proud of him.

After what seemed like an eternity, the firefighters arrived. The paramedic took one look at the child, gathered him in his arms, and said succinctly  "I need a ride." Out the door we ran, the firefighter diving in the back of the nearest patrol car.  The car rocketed off into the night, racing toward a nearby hospital.  I could hear the sirens fading in the distance as I rushed back to the home to secure the scene.  Such is the life of a police officer.  We have no time to process tragedy, no time to absorb the weight of it all.  Without a word about it, there remains work to be done.  It can be a heavy burden, one not many can bear.

Hours later, I would learn that they were able to restart his heart at the hospital.  I've since heard that it was too late, the lack of oxygen to the brain had taken its toll.  They planned to take him off life support, but I won't have the strength to ask.  I'd rather believe in miracles.  I'd rather believe he was somewhere playing baseball with his older brother.

The detective over the investigation later told me he died two days later, just two weeks before Christmas.  I didn't know him, but he was a beautiful, innocent child.  His death was ruled accidental, which somehow makes it worse.  I suppose its because there is no one to blame, no one to pursue, and no one to punish.  Jose was the second child in as many months I had unsuccessfully tried to save with CPR.  Maybe I can save the next one.