The helipad atop the hospital seems dizzyingly high as I strap on my blue helmet in preparation for the Life Flight refueling run. My partner checks the seat belts, and I mentally review the safety guidelines for an emergency egress situation. I climb up into the German-made medevac helicopter and quickly test the radio switch. Pulling a restraining harness over my shoulder, I become cloaked in hazy memories of a day very similar to this one. The blades begin to turn, and I am transported back to another time when tragedy became a teacher.
I had been running late that disastrous Friday, November 4, 1994. In my rush to be dressed in full uniform by 6:30, I had neglected to turn on the evening news. I cringed when the doorbell rang precisely on schedule-- my fellow students were always on time. Alan, my partner, and Justin, who was the president of our emergency medical service organization, stood solemnly on the porch when I opened the door. I began to apologize for my tardiness, but stopped suddenly when I saw the dark expressions on their faces. Looking into their eyes, I knew something was terribly wrong; apprehension was tangible and the silence between us became oppressive.
"You don't know, do you?" Justin asked, as I closed the front door behind me.
"Know what?" Oh, I felt so oblivious. Alan protectively took me in his arms, as if to prevent the blow from shattering my heart.
"Life Flight crashed today. Trent is at Shands Hospital. Jimmy and Rick are dead."
My whole body tightened suddenly with shock, and as reality slowly sank in, I plummeted into sorrow and tears. The highly trained military pilot of the red and white BO-105 halo had committed a careless and fatal error by flying at a dangerously low altitude. The helicopter, our "guppy," had become entrapped by power lines and was destroyed immediately upon impact with the ground. Two of our numbers were dead in the line of duty, and a third had been maimed for life.
A few days later the funeral procession, composed of more than thirty ambulances and fire trucks, weaved through town in silent homage. As the sea of flashing lights converged on the cemetery, we prepared our hearts and minds for the ultimate tribute of honor: the final call. Preceded by the alphabetic signal for Life Flight, Rick's identification numbers would be aired over the emergency medical service radio frequency for the last time. This was a medical version of a twenty-one-gun salute. Tension mounted as radios clicked on, and the dispatcher declared traffic. The final call.
"Lima Foxtrot 250," the dispatcher began. I stood at attention, my gaze adhering to the magnolia tree across the lawn. Tears washed over us as we waited for someone, anyone, to answer the call. Suffocating in the silence, I begged desperately for the truth to disappear. We knew this effort was hopeless, yet as we upheld tradition, tradition upheld us.
"Lima Foxtrot 250." There was no answer! No answer! My mind went numb and I barely heard the last line. "Out of service forever more."
Wailing suddenly pierced the sky as words penetrated souls. A rhythmic beating filled the air and five helicopters appeared on the horizon. In memoriam, they flew in formation over the site, as we who stood by the grave below clung tightly to each other.
The steady beating of wings returns my mind to the present. Adrenaline surges through me as we lift off; it is truly exhilarating to soar through the air. The emotion of flight may be strong, but I will never forget the dangers around me. Whatever sense of invincibility I had was destroyed in a fireball of fuel and power lines. Yet now I know that tragedy is shaped into triumph if we grow, learn, and perhaps most importantly, continue on our chosen path with added strength. To succeed, my trust in my pilot must be strong, my level of concentration must be severe, and my love for my patient must be intense. For no greater love exists than when a man lays down his life for another.
