By Mike Eccard RN/NREMT-P
My name is Mike Eccard. I am a flight Nurse/Paramedic who has worked in EMS since 1994. I flew from 2004 until 2008 when I began work as a CCU Nurse. In April of this year, I again rejoined my passion of flying. My wife, Heather, is also a CCU Nurse and longtime Paramedic with previous flight experience as well.
The pre-flight call
“Hey babe, I’m headed to Okeene. I love you.” “Love you too, fly safe.” I made the call to Heather on our way out to the aircraft. Over the years, she had received similar ones prior to every daytime flight. At night, I sent her texts.
On July 22, 2010, my and my family’s life was turned upside down. I am the sole survivor of the three crewmember ship that crashed just outside of Kingfisher, Oklahoma. My friend, flight nurse, and partner Ryan Duke and Al Harrison, our pilot, lost their lives doing what each considered their passion.
I assure you that I do recall the accident (this word does not do it justice). I’m plagued by these tormenting memories every day and every night. However, the details of the crash are still under investigation so they will not be addressed at this time. I look forward to the day when those elements can be included to further help our culture.
After a series of events, we crashed in a field. On our way down, I thought, “This is it, Mike; going to die.” Just prior to the event, I was doing some “in-flight preparation” and had just unbuckled. This is how I was ejected through the windscreen an estimated 45 yards based on the initial impact point of the helicopter. After realizing that I was still alive, and praising God, I immediately scanned the wreckage for my partner and pilot. Because the A-star had come to rest approximately 15 yards from where I “landed,” I had a very clear view. Ryan and Al were dead.
Survival
Instinct and prior training began to flood my mind: wait until the blades stop before egress and go towards the nose. No blades, I’m already out, and I can’t even determine where the nose is; check. As I said prior, I was already certain my comrades were gone. I did a brief self-assessment and decided I would be able to take my helmet off without further injury. Besides, at this point, I was completely overwhelmed by claustrophobia. I had never really experienced this prior to that moment.
Post-crash call
Gotta call for help! I unzipped my right breast pocket and found my cell phone to be intact; I called 911. Unfortunately, there was no taping of this call. The 911 dispatcher answered the phone: “Kingfisher county 911.” One question answered. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was. At least now I knew the county. In between struggling breaths I said, “My name is Mike Eccard. I work on EagleMed 7 out of Oklahoma City. We were a flight of one, crew of three, and I am the sole survivor.”
The latter part of this statement created an extreme sense of helplessness and overwhelming grief that was spiked with some sort of gut-wrenching emotion that I later would come to know as survivor’s guilt. I advised the dispatcher of our mission destination, but I had no idea where we currently were.
I instructed her to contact our communication center, which is out of Wichita, because they would have a GPS tracking of our flight. I relayed that I was “hurt bad” and to have the emergency workers “look for smoke because there was a fire.” Oh God, did I just say fire? It hit me; a fire had started and was growing fast. I should be OK, right?
I noted the wind direction, which was gusting directly at me. I only knew this because the smoke was blowing directly in my face. Holy crap, what’s that? Is that the … You see, I didn’t move from that location just because I was having difficulty breathing from the tension pneumothorax building in my chest and the new addition of smoke in my face, but the fuel tank had also been ejected from the aircraft and was directly between me and the fire.
Once again, I thought I was going to die. What will my family do? My son, my baby daughter; God, I love them. NO!!! I just survived a helicopter crash, and I am not going to just lay here and die from that tub of devil’s urine! (Crude, I know, but that’s what came to mind).
Post-crash survival
I attempted to stand and immediately fell to the ground. Something was wrong with my back. Also, every extremity was broken in various ways; all except my right leg. While lying on my back, I bent scoot (what my son now calls my right leg) and began to push while using the back of the occipital portion of my head to pull towards some sort of safety. Knee-foot: bend/push; Neck-head flexion/extension/lift/lower.
 Photo courtesy of Mike Eccard As I began my recovery, I was able to meet Jay, Eddie and Mary, the crew who flew me from the accident scene.
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There is still a bare spot on the back of my head from my mission to get away from the fuel tank. What if I’m not going straight? Every few strides, I would stop and look toward what used to be EagleMed 7 just to make sure I wasn’t circling. Please God, don’t let this be real.
Each time I briefly stopped to survey my route; I was again exposed to the most terrifying and heartbreaking site I had ever witnessed. During this trek, I heard a noise that was indescribable. It wasn’t a bang; more like a huge whoosh, or the sound of a pop bottle rocket flying. Then I felt an overwhelming super heat. The fire had reached our fuel tank (which had been at 100 percent capacity on takeoff). Hey, I made it is all I remember thinking.
According to my phone, there was 14 minutes between my 911 call and the call I made once I arrived at the fence. The only reason I bring this up is that I called for help at my landing point; I dialed a number from the fence. In that time, I had made it 52 yards scooting on my back with my head and right leg. Shocking what a person can do when they are saturated with adrenaline.
I sat up as much as possible and placed one arm on the barbs. I figured I would eventually become unconscious, and I wanted them to find me. Remember, I’m now more than 50 yards away from the crash site. The Oklahoma City base flight suits, at the time, were black and teal green. So, I thought maybe I could create some sort of contrast at the fence line if they were to scan the area.
Under the circumstances, I felt that my mind was fairly clear. I was in survival mode. The customary survival trainings, compacted by all the safety briefings I had received were no longer mundane, routine, or just procedural teachings. The memories of these classes inundated my mind and influenced my decisions. The lifesaving tactics taught should never be overlooked or downplayed. These recollections were my First Responders.
Now, I did what any good husband would do. I called my wife. Apparently I spoke with our dispatch as well, but I have little recollection of this. I do remember them stating that help was on the way. If I could go back, the phone call to Heather wouldn’t have been made. Not at that time; not from that place.
Breathing is worse. Crap, I may die from this now. I got to tell her I love her one last time. I have to tell her I’m sorry for this. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. We were invincible. We were going to grow old together. She missed my call because she was driving. As she dug out her phone from her purse, she thought, “Guess he must have gotten canceled.”
Unfortunately, this was not the case. She called back. “Heather… Heather… we crashed! I’m hurt, baby. I love you. I’m so sorry. I don’t know where I am. I love you. Please know that.” That’s what I remember saying. Heather tells it a little different. She recalls that I was completely out of breath and all she could make out was her name and the word “crash.” She knew.
 Photo courtesy of Mike Eccard I felt like I was stuck in a marble!
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While struggling to talk to my wife, I knew my breathing was not looking good. I was just about to start reaching for my pocket knife. Please, Lord; don’t let me have to try to decompress my own chest. Then, like an answered prayer, the Kingfisher Fire Department appeared like angels sent from heaven. If you knew what these fellas looked like, you would know I must have truly been in a bind…sorry guys!
They found me! Sweet Jesus, I may actually live after all. I handed the phone to the Paramedic. Wayland knows Heather, and gave her a brief synopsis of what he knew at the time. Guilt for calling Heather and making her worry immediately set in. This is an emotion that I find myself struggling with to this day.
Big stick
I was loaded in the back of the KFD ambulance. Man, I HATE being the patient! Wayland, Ryan, JR, and Randy were working their tails off. Bilateral large bore IVs were promptly and flawlessly initiated. I remember thinking Big stick followed by, Why do we say that? I had mentioned, on more than one occasion, that we needed to “get going.” I’m sick here fellas; what’s taking so dang long? Were they ignoring me? Then I heard it; the unmistakable, very unique sound of a helicopter.
What? Are you *$#&^@+ kidding me? It must be a news chopper. Nope, it’s landing. OH MY GOD! “Come on now boys, you’re not putting me on that, are you?” Wayland and Randy simultaneously began to explain the laundry list of reasons. It seemed like noble rationale …maybe on paper.
“Fellas, don’t you know those things are dangerous?” I said. That got a laugh out of everyone, including myself. But I wasn’t joking. It was more of a nervous, “I’m about to blow chunks just to spite you all” kind of laugh. Roughly around that time, I got the opportunity to meet the flight crew of EagleMed 8. Jay (pilot), Eddie (Flight Paramedic) and Mary (Flight Nurse) were genuinely, as the cliché says, like angels from above.
With Eddie forever watching over, I was needle decompressed by Wayland, after receiving much-needed and loudly-requested medications. In hindsight, I think the guys just wanted to shut me up. Just FYI - pre-medicate if at all possible for this procedure. It hurts! It was, however, a textbook needle thoracostomy.
A colossal rush of air came; I can breathe now! (Note: Just for the record, I want to say that I was a terrible patient. I barked out orders and at one point completely freaked out…exactly what drives you bonkers with any patient. These guys all handled it beautifully)
Time to go
I was loaded aboard. My memory of the flight is relatively muddled; better living through pharmacology. Eddie was the “candy man,” Mary was a goddess and ever so gentle, and Jay completed my mission of getting home safe. There are no words that can completely encompass how I feel for them. Not only were they compassionate and gentle, they were professional and calm. I needed that.
Back safe
Arriving safely to OUMC helipad, I was met by a congregation of family, friends, co-workers, looky-loos, media, and ER staff. The Emergency visit wasn’t very well retained by my memory. That’s OK; I was ready to start forgetting every time I began to remember. I do recall some of the activity. The vision of my adorable wife being allowed into the room to stand by my side is equally inspiring and calming, as it is tear-jerking and guilt-ridden. Her tender eyes were sympathetic, as only a wife’s (especially one that has flown) can be.
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The trauma team allowed her to stay. This is most likely since she was exceptional at the chore of sustaining a peaceful environment for my mind during a particularly grueling string of procedures. She did have the backing of some amazing medications, but they only potentiated her affect and not the other way around.
Being stronger than ever, Heather held my hand while the surgeons placed an emergent, breath-taking but life-sustaining chest tube and reduced a couple nasty fractures. I fear if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t have had that much strength. I pray that speculation is never tested.
I have zero memory of the week that followed. I’m told I was transported to the trauma ICU on a non-rebreather mask that maintained oxygen saturations in the upper 80s to low 90S. First thing in the morning, I underwent emergency surgery for my unstable fractured back, pins were placed in my left wrist and thumb, and my left foot was surgically reduced, plated, and screwed. According to Heather and the great doctors from trauma services, I was re-intubated in PACU secondary to severe bilateral pulmonary contusions. I “rode the ventilator” for six days.
Ride the Marble, baby
The sixth day: 0505 is what the clock said. Where am I? Why in the hell am I tied down? I can’t talk. God, I hurt! Why am I intubated? Oh my god, I’m intubated! The crash …the crash. Again, I was devoured by claustrophobia that was nurturing a rapidly growing fear...then terror. I’m outta here. I commenced to thrashing about as best as I could. This hurts; new plan. The ventilator was within eye shot. I’m on CPAP mode. Easy enough, all I have to do is make this thing alarm and they will come running! Whoever and wherever “they” were. I’ll hold my breath. That seemed like a pretty good approach. Can’t; need air. I have no reserve.
Now, I am petrified! I find myself hyperventilating and gagging. I’m suffocating here. Please help me. Plan B – pressure alarms. I’ll cough like I’m trying to turn myself wrong side out. This was an impressively regretful decision. Why does my side feel like I’m getting stabbed? The pain was so excruciating, I nearly passed out. One, or a combination, of the many blows I took on July 22 resulted in all my ribs and clavicle being broken on the right side.
On top of all this, I was wearing some kind of circumferential, hard, plastic brace that extended from the top of my chest to my lower abdomen. Heather had the choice of several colors and designs. What did she choose? A crazy tie-dyed swirl pattern! Dude, I’m stuck in a marble!!!
Finally, after biting the endotracheal tube, the alarms squawked. Seemingly all at once, my room was filled with nurses, respiratory therapists, and the queen of composure: Heather. I was taken off the ventilator within a couple of hours. This was a very long couple of hours.
Could a fella get some Lasix?
The next day was reasonably hectic. I was relieved of a variety of invading types of newly installed plumbing. The hose in my chest was taken out. The Dobhoff feeding tube was taken out, with my assistance. Finally, the straight-from-hell foley catheter was discontinued. By this time, I was so edematous that I had gained more than 30 pounds of excess fluid. As I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time, I told my wife, “I look like the fat guy that ate Mike.” The body disturbance issues that follow this sort of discovery just seem to rub the proverbial salt in the wound.
Today: 12/20/2010
I’m on the road to recovery. It is a long and frustrating road, but I am grateful to be on it. I am out of the wheelchair and hobbling with a cane. I battle pain issues, but praise God to be feeling anything. I push through each day with the loving help of my wife, kids, family, and friends. The industry as a whole has embraced us and we are forever thankful. The big question is, “Mike, will you ever fly again?” This is a bridge that I haven’t crossed yet. I will say that I cannot imagine the passion for air medicine could ever be snuffed out.
Aftercare
Each day and every time I actually go to sleep, I struggle with flashbacks and night terrors. The concern of what is to come physically, emotionally, and financially is ever present. Therapy, medications, and faith that my mind and body will heal offer some comfort.
But what would help me most is peace of mind. I must obtain reassurance that my crewmembers didn’t die without reason - without something good coming from this. Hope that what my family and I continue to go through each day and night is for nothing.
Guarantee that assets are not in danger and all parties involved in a crash are properly compensated and that life insurance policies grow with inflation. Never forget, it is us, the crew, that is ultimately connected with the public relations during each mission in this field. Taking care of us will spawn genuine opportunities that a T-shirt can’t touch.
I want to make clear that I am not here to criticize my company. I only want to help bring to light what myself and my family deal with on a day-to-day basis as survivors. My story is here to help my brothers and sisters of this amazing industry. EagleMed is in the middle of a learning curve. The current leadership seems to be taking this challenge head on. Thank you, Larry, for your continued support and honest concern.
Even though medicine is a “practice,” there were some fundamental policies in place based on previous experiences. For example, I was a patient who had gone through a particularly horrid and frightful trauma. The trauma team consulted psychiatry without delay.
I was receiving psycholytic medications via the feeding tube to achieve a therapeutic level while I was still unconscious. This holds true with generally all the treatments, consults, and therapy I received. I can’t say this enough; there was a plan. It was a plan that was ultimately tailored to my needs (both physical and mental), but a blueprint was in place for me and my family’s needs.
A scenario I have often given is that of a nurse and medic that have been launched to a scene: chest pain. This poor guy is “having the big one.” The caretakers look the man in the eyes with all the best intentions in the world, one says, “Hey buddy, what would you like me to do for you?” This gentleman, who is clearly in need of care, both short and long term, says, “Mister, I’ve never been in this kind of a predicament before. I guess just take me to the hospital.”
Would you as a manager, medical director, supervisor, co-worker, or yourself as a patient be satisfied with this type of care - even though the intent was noble? The fact is when good folks of this business respond to a patient, we have a protocol in place. We have policy. We have a “life-line” that can be called anytime for help.
We have proper education and experience to properly handle this type of situation. Certainly, we adapt when necessary, and care is always customized to the patient and their family. This is the industry’s standard of care. This industry needs a standard of after-care for our survivors and their families. This industry needs a plan.
The Survivor’s Network for Air & Surface Medical Transport is working diligently to get these types of guidelines recognized, initiated, and be made survivor-specific. Please support this gift our superb profession has been given. Even befriending them on Facebook can prove to be an immeasurable act.
Since the crash, I have begun to work with the amazing people from the Air Medical Memorial. This project is one of the most heartfelt, selfless, honoring endeavors I have ever witnessed. Just outside of Denver is a piece of land that will be transformed into a spectacular memorial that pays tribute to our fallen brothers and sisters in the air medical industry.
I would ask that you follow your heart and support the Air Medical Memorial in whatever capacity you are led to do. At the very least, visit us on Facebook and help spread the word. You can also see what we are all about by visiting our website www.airmedicalmemorial.com.
A big thanks to Everyone at OUMC trauma services, Kingfisher FD, EagleMed, EMSA, and everyone else from this incredible industry who have shown their support. I will also never be able to repay Jonathan, Teresa, Mary Ann, Steven, and all the members of the Survivors Network and Air Medical Memorial…. But I will pay it forward.
Mike Eccard, meccard@airmedicalmemorial.com