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Ground Zero: A Paramedic’s Perspective

Sandra Bradley shares an excerpt of her 9/11 memoirs

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AP Photo/Stephen Chernin
Emergency personnel dig through rubble in the aftermath of the attacks.

By Sandra (Sam) Bradley, EMT-P

I still have the program from Christian’s funeral. The cover picture shows his last name, Regenhard, written on his helmet in black marker across gray duct tape. He was 28 years old and had graduated from the Fire Academy only six weeks before 9/11. He died on September 11, 2001. I wish I had known him.

I came from California, along with the other members of my federal Disaster Medical Assistance Team, and stood in the street in uniform along with firefighters from Las Vegas, Seattle, and Vancouver. I had taken part in quite a number of firefighter funerals in my 22 years as a paramedic, but never experienced anything like this. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, circa 1879, loomed large in front of us, sitting majestically in the middle of midtown Manhattan.

It was awe-inspiring. It was also incongruous with the Fifth Avenue shops in near proximity, like Versace and Cartier. The church was open; the stores were closed. Who knew when fashion would regain any level of importance in New York City? Who knew when New York would once again be New York?

Solemn firefighters
The sad whine of the bagpipes and the steady rhythm of the snare drum started the procession. We stood at attention as a fire engine, draped in black cloth, moved slowly up Fifth Avenue toward the church. It was followed by dozens of solemn firefighters in Class A uniform, and black limousines that carried the grieving family.

When the team had decided to go to at least one memorial, we had a large schedule of them to choose from. We picked this one because it was early enough in the morning for us to attend, giving us enough time before our afternoon shift at Ground Zero. We all felt strongly that we wanted to do this as a team. The numbers of memorials were overwhelming, and we had never met any of these firefighters, but our feeling was that if we could honor one, we could honor them all.

There were three thousand people at Christian’s memorial. I was proud to be one of them. The ceremony combined Catholic Liturgy and ceremonies of honor by the Fire Department of New York City and the U.S. Marines. By the time the flags were lowered and we walked away, we felt we had known him.

In the next few days, after a phone call to his mother, we were invited to a private showing of Christian’s artwork in Brooklyn. We met his family and learned more about this talented young man and his connections to San Francisco through his art and his family stories. We decided to make him an honorary team member. We gave his mother a team T-shirt and a patch. She gave us some things of Christian’'s.

On September 11, 2001, I was coming on duty for my 24-hour shift as an ambulance company paramedic supervisor. I hadn’t listened to the radio in the car that morning. The tense, bewildered expression on the departing supervisor’s face as he stared in the window of my SUV was my first clue that this wasn’t going to be a normal shift.

Dave took me into the classroom of our California office where we normally conduct safety and EMT classes. The room has a large television and is a common gathering place for the employees. I watched with a roomful of stunned emergency medical technicians and paramedics as the first tower fell. It was surreal. I knew then that it was going to be a long and bizarre 24 hours. We had to figure out how all this was going to affect us and wondered if there would be more terrorist acts to come.

Fatal collision
Shortly thereafter, there was a fatal traffic collision in the far east part of our county. The fire department called for a medical helicopter. Moments later I received the call from the helicopter service, advising us they had just been grounded. It was the first ripple effect we felt all the way on the West Coast.

The next evening, I went to teach my emergency medical technician class at the local community college. We were only about one month into the semester. Student ages ran from 18 to 25 years, with a smattering of older folks. They all wore the same stunned expression that day. I wondered what the impact would be on them, these predominantly young people with aspirations of becoming firefighters. In our world of emergency medical services people, firefighters and cops were all part of a large extended family. If one was killed in the line of duty, the loss was felt by all of us as keenly as if they were blood relations. Three hundred and forty-three were lost in one day in New York City. We were only beginning to feel the true impact of that as numbness and disbelief turned to reality and fear. The students stared at me like deer in headlights as I stood at the front of the room. They expected me to explain it to them. They wanted me to make it all right. I let them talk and wondered how many of them would continue on their current career path and how many would seek a safer vocation.

A 16-member contingent of doctors, nurses, mid-level practitioners, EMTs, paramedics, and a pharmacist were chosen from our team in California to work in concert with two similar teams from other states. Our mission was to provide care to the firefighters, heavy equipment workers, police, and other recovery workers inside the secure perimeter of Ground Zero.

Our Liberty treatment site offered us a view of the “pile,” and we watched as the ironworkers painstakingly tore down what was left of the metal structures bit by bit. Our Church Street treatment site backed up against a church cemetery. If you were to look out the back doors, you would be greeted with the disconcerting sight of headstones covered in dirt and ash. Looking up into the trees, you would see swatches of colored cloth hanging from the branches, clothing that had been worn by the people who perished there.

The site workers came to us with lacerations and burns. The firefighters needed us but feared that we would take them away from the work they were obsessed with: finding their lost brethren. When they did come, they were hardly able to breathe. We’d give them a treatment and send them off again, praying for their physical and mental health. We knew it was too late for many.

Reprinted from “To The Rescue: Stories from Healthcare Workers at the Scenes of Disasters,” Kaplan Publishing. For more details on the book, visit ToTheRescueStories.com.

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