Foot Long

With warmer weather comes grilling season, aka BBQ time for others less traditional. Enjoying cold drinks and good food while reclined on patio furniture in your backyard, does it get any better? Why is it then that each year when I think of that first retreat to the patio am I drawn back to an EMS run for a collision? No, a car did not careen through a fence into a back yard taking mayhem to a new level. Yes, there was trauma involved, but the outcome was positive through a series of fortunate circumstances.

The drama begins with a car striking a motorcycle in front of a restaurant. It is a franchise outlet, well-known for its fresh food cooked to perfection on a grill year-round and topped right before your eyes with your choice of condiments. It is the only location where I have enjoyed a professionally grilled hotdog. Their burgers ain’t bad either, though I know medics who would sin for an order of their french fries as a treat returning to an ambulance station.

Decades ago, responding to this emergency, the dispatcher gave several updates as if a person were clinging to a cellular phone from a ringside seat. FYI there were no cell phones in this era. Who knew the caller was peering through a busy restaurant with a wide front window narrating the scene out front while delicately dressing a burger with all the fixings. The whole scenario could have been a scene from a television episode.

By the time we arrived, there was a real show in progress, with one witness looking a little faint as she stood looking down at the victim. My view was blocked as my coworker and I wheeled our equipment up to the patient. Taking in the big picture at our scene, a young fellow wearing a white cooks apron was on a dead run toward us. Slinging a stainless steel bucket overflowing with ice cubes, he was losing the contents on the way while talking in a loud voice. Who knew the fellow was addressing the responders.

It was a good thing I had not placed a short bet on the message. It came across as “take a foot @*&$ with you.” In the heat of the moment, I thought he said long. The brief conversation that followed from the now-winded samaritan included excerpts like “cold, good shape and hurry.” Part of me wanted to believe that he was sending a sample of a grilled footlong hotdog to the hospital for the rescuers, a nice touch and generous at that. I hoped there were fries in the bucket for my partner.

Coming around the front of the car, The victim, now visible, was understandably in great pain. Caught between the bumper and the motorcycle at impact was his leg. The force sheared off the foot, nowhere to be seen. Down on one knee, I could not find the shoe. It had not travelled under the vehicle, lodging in the undercarriage. Our chef was babbling at my side in a split second, yelling. The bucket hit the warm pavement with a metallic clunk, ejecting more cubes and revealing the contents.

We cared for the victim, asking the now silent fellow to move the shiny pail back while we went about our business. There was no time to congratulate the helper as we loaded our patient into the waiting ambulance, ringed by curious citizens and police. There were low oohs and aahs when the first aider handed me the bucket to accompany our casualty. Wanting to reward the man for his assistance, I should never have asked the question: what happened?

In a rapid-fire response, quicker than you could ask: “do you want fries with that” the good samaritan described how he witnessed the collision from his station dressing burgers, then ran out to test his recent education in basic first aid. Realizing that a severed extremity would best be preserved in the cold, he returned to the store with the limb. The first aider removed the boot and placed the warm foot in ice cubes typically formed to chill fountain drinks now excluded from my once favourite fast-food brand.

I had neither the time nor the nerve to ask why he abandoned the patient and did not assign the task of chilling the foot to another bystander. I was, however, curious to know what his employer might say if the next customer in line was a food handling inspector from the local health unit. Caught up in the moment, and before regulations skyrocketed, he probably got a pat on the back from the supervisor that sent him to first aid school.

I realized later the fellow was announcing his patient report as he approached us; “take the foot along with you.” When I checked several days after the incident with a doctor who had first-hand knowledge of our victim’s condition, there was good news. The reattached foot was doing well though the smirking practitioner admitted the motorcyclist would never be a candidate for the Canadian Football League.

Ps. I still love a good BBQ, though I chuckle every time I pass the place!

(If you're interested in reading more stories from my time in EMS, click here to buy my book, Running Reds!)