It’s been a bit since I’ve posted. I have some funny, exciting, and fun stories, but after just getting home from a shift, I feel the need to write about something that often isn’t talked about in the career of police work; dealing with death.
(I apologize for any typos, I’m exhausted and headed to sleep after this.)
See, I’ve never dealt with death. I’ve never seen a dead body, never watched someone die, but this new career has brought me to the very front line of death, what it looks like, the grief it causes, and the undignified nature of it.
Last week while on a shift, I had my first “Death” call. When it came out and I got dispatched, I was nervous. Like I said, I have never seen a dead body besides in pictures, videos, and movies. My heart started to beat a little faster. What would it look like? How would I react? How would it smell?
Dispatch advised it was a cardiac arrest, with a time-lapse of around two hours. I knew that meant it was a pretty “simple” death. Not too smelly, not decomposed, not too stiff, but I was still nervous. We arrived on scene, and I entered the apartment complex, greeted by a middle 40’s man, who identified himself as the deceased woman’s son. He led us to the room where she had passed, and my heart skipped a beat.
She lay there in a recliner, eyes closed, and seemed to be asleep. The TV played in front of her, giving off the high pitched ringing noise that old TV’s give off. Then I noticed the movement. I became confused and bewildered. I knew she was dead.
But she looked to be moving!
In my eyes, it was almost like her skin was crawling, and I could see her chest still slightly rising and falling. But I knew this wasn’t the case. She was most definitely dead. It was eerie.
I began gathering the info I needed, making phone calls, and arranging a funeral home to come to retrieve her body. A few more family members showed up, crying, frantic, mourning. The funeral home lady showed up, and advised that the other two members of the crew were on vacation and, as this lady was larger, she needed help moving her. EEK. I begrudgingly obliged.
I slapped on my gloves, grabbed one pant leg with one hand, and the woman’s arm with the other. I was shocked, it felt like a normal person, just stiff and very cold. But, I was relieved. It wasn’t all that bad, and I no longer felt afraid of being around or touching dead people; it’s just a cold person. Then the smell hit. Feces. 100% feces. The funeral home woman noticed the look on my face and remarked “That’s normal, the body purges itself after death”.
Immediately after that, we got a second death call. This one would end up being an overdose in a grocery store bathroom. This one went smoother than the first. I arrived, saw the body, thought to myself “Yup. He dead”, and went forward with the rest of the process. Then tonight’s shift happened.
Around 3am, we received a call of an attempted suicide by overdose. We raced to the house that was calling. Dispatch advised us that the male had said he took a large dose of pills. Dispatch asked the man to open the door, to which he said he was unable, and then he stopped responding to dispatch’s questions, and had most likely passed out.
We arrived at the house at the same time medical services did. We banged on the windows and doors, and got no answer. Finally, our last resort was to kick in the door, so we did. Right near the door lay the caller. An older man, white, bleeding from his head, and seeming to be dead.
“Oh shit.” I said out loud. I was convinced he was dead, then he moved. This time, it wasn’t tricks, and he was most definitely still alive, only barely. EMT rushed in the door, and got to work. It was determined he was in an unstable condition so he was rushed to the hospital, and we followed close behind. Upon arrival, the doctors advised us he may not make it, so we had to stick around to see if he did. This was to determine if our report would be attempted suicide, or a death report.
We sat there watching the doctors work, seeing his heart beat go up and down. Then we heard the call. “Motor vehicle accident trauma alert, ETA 5 minutes.” sound over the hospital speakers. Uh-oh.
Sure enough five minutes later, in rolled a gurney. Upon it laid a teenage girl, pale and unresponsive. I was interested, I had never seen something like that before, so I asked my field training officer if he would allow me to go watch through the window of the trauma room as they worked on this girl. That was a mistake.
I made my way to the trauma room and was greeted by a scene of nurses and doctors, cutting off this young girls shirt, and beginning CPR. The doctor pumped, and pumped, and pumped, IV’s were placed, readings were taken. This went on for what seemed like an eternity.
Then all the pumping, hubbub, and readings stopped. The doctors and nurses went silent, and a look of defeat fell over their faces. I began to scream in my head “Why aren’t you still pumping? She’s still not moving. Why is she not moving yet?.”
Then the security guard I had met before came up to me and looked through the window too. “She’s dead. They just put it out over the radio.” My heart sunk. I looked at her, and saw my sister, just around the same age. Why? How?
That’s when I realized just how unfair life and death is. I came to the hospital with a man who wanted to kill himself. And here I was, staring at a young girl who’s life had just been snuffed out. I grew angry at the man for his disregard for life, and the fragility and value of it.
As soon as we left the hospital, I texted my little sister a note to remind her that I loved her, and that I missed her. I saw her for a second in that girl, and I never ever want to get the call for myself; I mourn for that young girl and her family.
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