ten: the exact moment i wanted to become a doctor
Herman Blume: What's the secret, Max?
Max Fischer: The secret?
Herman Blume: Yeah, you seem to have it pretty figured out.
Max Fischer: The secret, I don't know... I guess you've just gotta
find something you love to do and then... do it for the rest of your
life. For me, it's going to Rushmore.—Rushmore movie, Wes Anderson (1998)
It was a classic Seattle summer, suprisingly hot and sunny. Just weeks before the start of sophomore year and I was a half-hearted pre-med still struggling to adjust to the generalities of college life. The only thing I looked forward to was moving into an apt across the street from campus (and behind the Fiji house) with my friend Chris.
Chris’ parents were out of town one week and his younger brother decided to throw a party in their deserted house in the ‘burbs north of the city. I was recruited by Chris, along with another friend, Tina, in order to help chaperone the event… the younger brother’s teenage crowd was of the middle-class gangsta wannabe persuasion. They were about big talk, cute white girls, petty theft, alcohol, minor dustups, and marijuana. So, they were mostly harmless. But they had just enough age-appropriate insecurity to be potentially dangerous.
I do believe the beverage of choice of the evening was MD 20/20 (i.e., Mad Dog), however, I stuck to my wine coolers (LOL). The kids turned out to be mostly happy drunks which made the job easier and so, after several hours of messing about with no serious signs of trouble, us chaperones retired to the backyard to shoot the shit. We had a good enough view of the dance party through the windows not to be too worried although the music was a little loud for this neighborhood, for this hour. Suddenly, a kid rushed towards Tina and I from the side of the house…Cole is upstairs and isn’t breathing!
We froze, looked at each other, and swore. FUCK!
We got to the room and Cole was slumped on the bed, his friend hyperventilating next to us. It was an odd sight… this crying boy with a half-empty forty of ‘Old E’ still in his hand. Immediately, our high school CPR training kicked in and we began shaking Cole and yelling at him to see if we could get a response. He was breathing afterall, although very shallow. We sighed in relief. He was not conscious which bought us some time to think. Should we take him to the hospital and potentially get everyone in trouble for underage drinking and smoking weed? Should we just hang out and keep an eye on Cole until he wakes up? Should we call an “adult”?
Cole decided for us.
“HE STOPPED BREATHING!” Tina screamed. I ran over and placed my ear above his face and watched for his chest to rise.
No no no no no no no! Come on! Breathe! I yelled as I shook him, probably too vigorously. I fumbled looking for a pulse, unsuccessfully.
Tina and I froze, looked at each other, and swore. FUCK!
We immediately began CPR. We barked to the growing crowd of crying teens at the foot of the bed to call 911. I jumped on the mattress and loomed over Cole all the while trying to remember whether I should have tried moving him to the floor before I started chest compressions, but I didn’t hesitate. Under my palms, I could feel the cartilage of his ribs crackling, but the bed seemed as if it were absorbing all of my efforts.
PHOTO: BruceBlaus / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)
Several of the teens behind me began screaming at the horrible sight of their friend being violently resuscitated. Ignoring them, I looked to my right as Tina started the rescue breathing. Cole’s chest wasn’t rising. Getting angry, I shook my head, gave my compressions and, with a tone that was probably not helpful, yelled at Tina to position Cole’s head properly. I reached over and shoved his chin back while holding his forehead down to try to open up his airway, again, with probably too much vigor. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel a wave of guilt as I realized I was glad I wasn’t the one having to administer the breaths.
We got in a clumsy rhythm and, thankfully, within probably just 2 minutes the paramedics arrived and took over. They were followed by the police.
In separate cars, we submitted our respective versions of the evening to the officers. Far from the scolding we expected, they calmly listened as we candidly retold the events leading up to our frantic CPR attempt. They must have decided the experience was lesson enough because they let us all go without another word. Soon we were camped out at the emergency room holding vigil. After several hours of restless semi-consciousness in uncomfortable wood and orange fabric chairs, a nurse finally came out just as the sun was rising and gave us an update: Cole was awake and doing fine.
PHOTO: Front page of the newspaper I founded (a rare photo of me 2 years before I started shaving my head).
This was one of those truly paradigm-shifting moments (which would obviously occur several more times later in life…). I started volunteering at the UW medical center and Harborview Emergency Trauma Center, joined the pre-med club and eventually became the Founding Editor-in-Chief of its quarterly newspaper, became an officer of two other student groups, started doing laboratory research full-time, and changed my major from one that I thought would look good for med school (microbiology) to one that I truly enjoyed (psychology). Within two quarters I received my first—and not my last—straight 4.0 report card.
Before that evening, I was merely going through the pre-med motions getting mediocre grades, not completely sure I was on the right path. Taking action during that emergency situation was the switch that flipped.
For the first time I thought to myself not only I can do this… but I WILL do this.
[Names have been altered to protect the innocent.]