Although I have changed the names and some minor details,
this has been another one of my true life experiences.
It shows how one man's life can be destroyed
by situations well outside his control.
Before I embark on that story, some comments about volunteer counselling.
Largely inspired by the experiences from my childhood years on I had developed an interest in the workings of the human mind and the emergence of the personality. Even before I had attended more intensive studies and became qualified in the area, while otherwise working full time in Television, as a sideline career I had engaged in counselling starting in the early 1970s. More than reading fiction, it provides a limitless source of real-life events.
Martin and I had forged a friendship rarely to be found between strangers. Remarkable in this encounter (that stretched itself over three months) we had never met face to face. I live in Australia. He lived in the South of the USA. So the 'consultations' were done exclusively by email and telephone. We exchanged ideas and I sent him comforting and healing messages. Then it suddenly stopped. Had thirty years of mental agony, then a second attack on his wounded mind become too much for him? He had lost his mind?
Here is the story.
By Peter Schmedding
Ambulance paramedical officer Martin was called to an emergency. Ten year old Bruno had been accidentally shot by his older brother. The bullet had penetrated his neck, severing the child's main artery.
Disregarding speed limits, with blaring sirens the driver of the ambulance raced through the countryside to get the boy to the hospital. Martin held the boy on his lap trying to stop the blood from squirting out of his body. The blood soaked into Matin's trousers and on to he seat of the car. Again and again the boy whimpered: "Please, Martin, don't let me die" "No, Bruno, I will not let you die". "Promise?" "I promise. I will not let you die, Bruno. Soon we will be at the hospital and you will be alright and live". "Are you sure, Martin?" "Yes, Bruno, I'll take care of you. You will not die".
As the travel seemed like eternity the boy got weaker. His voice, begging to stay alive became softer and with half-closed eyes he found it difficult to breathe. Again and again Martin promised the boy he will be safe."We should be at the hospital real soon". The boy murmured: "How soon, Martin?"
That was the last time Bruno spoke. He had died in Martin's arms. When they arrived at the hospital, the child was pronounced dead.
That happened thirty years earlier. Now almost fifty years old, feeling safe in the anonymity of the internet, the long overstretched bubble had burst. Martin confessed in a forum of strangers, a forum for mentally troubled or disturbed people.
In Martin's mind Bruno had taken up a life of his own. For thirty years the experience had followed Martin every day. He went to sleep with it, he woke up with it. The boy appeared in Martin's dreams, never leaving him without the begging: "Please, Martin don't let me die", only to be followed by the accusing: "You promised to not let me die, Martin. You promised. Didn't you, Martin!"
In this forum he revealed what had been going on inside him for so long. Often he changed psychiatrists yet had never told anyone of them the real reason for his demise. Now finally the tragedy had came out into the open.
One day I found copies from that case on my computer. To reveal the impact it made on me I selected snippets from those files verbatim. These are a rather minuscule collection considering the flood of information we had exchanged, however, they reveal the happenings more convincingly than the story being told otherwise.
How had I become part of that case? When I had stumbled upon this thread, a reply to Martin's tale from one of the forum members read:
"... it concerns me that a full thirty years after this event, it still haunts you so much that it is causing serious dysfunction in your normal life. I think you would agree that this is not normal or healthy at all, especially seeing as none of it was your fault and you did the best you could under the circumstances..."
That was a well-expressed professional opinion. Thinking that a different approach may be more helpful, I sent Martin an email. His reply:
"... you took the time to sit and talk with me... nobody has ever talked to me like that, i dunno what to say. Everything you said really meant a lot to me and I'm really happy and glad that you took the time to do that for me... You gave me a lot of trust there, i mean, the phone number, the email... i will never let you down or do anything to make you mad... Wow, i actually feel special now, i never thought i would again."
So began a series of over fifty email exchanges, of phone calls that often contained long philosophical discussions. In his second email the story began to unfold itself bit by bit.
"When I was young I wanted to become a Doctor. With my ego it was going to be Trauma Surgery, or Neurology or Pediatrics, either GP or orthopedics. Ortho patients are not usually all f...ked up in a life or death struggle. They are often really outgoing and smart and adventurous kids. That is why they crashed their motorcycle or bike, or fell off whatever. And they usually stay in the hospital a long time, post discharge care is extended too. So you can get a chance to know them.
Then came the dying, perfect, little ten year old blond blue eyed kid called Bruno. Shooting victim, who before he goes into cardio-pulmonary arrest, secondary to two gunshots.
He makes solid eye contact with me, and under tears begs me, "Don't let me die Martin."
He uses my name.
I promise him that is not going to happen. "I'll take care of you, Bruno. You are not going to die. Everything is going to be OK."
But I know that in the 20 more minutes it's going to take us to get to the hospital, with my driver doing a hundred miles an hour, he will go into cardio-pulmonary arrest long before we get to any more help. As soon as he loses consciousness I am going to intubate his trachea and start breathing for him, and then a few minutes later I will be starting CPR. I know its going to happen because he is bleeding out before my very eyes.
The liters of normal saline being pumped into him through the 14 gauge intravenous catheters in his external jugular veins are no substitute for blood. (He was wide-awake and didn't even really flinch when I put the needles into his neck.)
By the time we hit the hospital he was bleeding normal saline. I did promise him I would not let him die.
And at the end he didn't panic. He just gracefully slipped away.
And I was marked for life.
I can see his face and hear his voice right now.
He has been in my head and soul nearly every day for 30 years now.
Sometimes I imagine us meeting in the afterlife ...
.
That's all for this moment. After trying to cut and paste that last part, I am crying harder than usual. I always think I'm over it. But then I close my eyes and I am right back in the ambulance.
In my mind I see him. I remember touching him.
I can still smell the blood and the gunpowder.
I hear his voice again, I see his eyes, and I am helpless again.
The most beautiful thing in the world is dying right in front of me and I can't stop it. Not through my training, skill, faith or prayer. But God was there, and in the middle of the horror and blood and shock and pain and violence, he just slipped away, like he was seeing God and it was all ok and he wasn't afraid...
A little more Irish whisky and I'll be Ok."
After receiving this confession I realised the gravity of that case. Would I be able to help him across the distance of half the world?
Before I had time to reply, the flood gates opened up once more. Apparently he had found an opportunity to release the memories right down to the last bitter drop.
"... It was Bruno's tenth birthday and his parents presented him a rifle. When his older brother examined it, barely knowing how to handle such a weapon safely he pulled the trigger while pointing the rifle at his brother.
But are we about to find ourselves at war with God over our opposition?
So we must think and be cautious and thoughtful as we cast our pearls before the swine. Most people would not know god if they were sitting next to him. The flesh cannot comprehend the things of the spirit. Here is a fundamental problem, we attempt to describe spiritual things using a fleshly concept. (Language...)
If you had never tasted chicken before, I could talk to you for a year trying to describe it and never succeed. It would be impossible. But if I give you a piece of chicken, once you taste it, you know in ten seconds what I could not describe in a lifetime...
Do you follow me? You cannot use one sense to describe another.
So that is a literarey caveate that must be known and controlled. How do we send our message of love?
I am thinking of my day on 11-17-1971. It was 1;30 in the afternoon, windy day (no helicopters available) Me and Bruno alone in the back of a speeding ambulance. (Right now I can smell my own alcohol and marijuana) And his blood, and gunpowder and urine and feaces as his digestive systems were destroyed.
God Help me I cant get it out of my mind.
He was so beautiful. I see us looking into each others eyes and souls. Love strikes from nowhere.
I help him die.
His dad attacks me in the hospital. The cops stop him. His mother screams at me "You bastard, you robbed us of our son!"
I didn't let the parents come with us in the ambulance. I had a job to do and I can't have an out of control parent messing up my concentration and what I have to do to keep death away. I didn't realize I would not be able to stop that after about two minutes of the journey. Maybe I should have let his mom or dad come along, then they could have seen him as he died.
But instead, he died with me.
He needed a surgeon, Not me.
The comments I wrote about how he and I talked and interacted are so watered down as to be almost meaningless. We talked the whole time. He cried, I reassured. He kept calling me by name, I kept using his.
He let me hurt him, he trusted me. I made promises, I tried my best. In the back of my mind I prayed the whole time.
I made promises. I couldn't keep them.
"You stole my son from me, you heartless bastard!!", his mom yelled at me after they cracked his abdomen and tried for an hour in the hospital to save him, but it was all just for show. We all knew it. He was gone. It was never up to us when his brother pulled the trigger. At that second the path was etched in stone. But we all secretly harboured the hope that if we kept working, cutting . drugging, that somehow, some way we could make death retreat.
Not on that day.
He was so graceful when he died, I was the only one there. I think he saw God and was not afraid.
I can't say anymore about it, what happened in those thirty minutes is between Him and Me. – Only.
The only reason I haven't pulled the trigger when I have held a loaded and cocked .357 to my skull at least three times, is that he was able to go so gracefully, fearlessly and bravely into the next world. In the face of unbearable pain and fear and horror. That when I see him in heaven I will hug him, look in his eyes, which are so blue and deep and full of life... And I can say that I followed his example and did the same...
I wasn't before but when I typed that I am now weeping uncontrollably and can't see the keys to type..
I'll be back."
After my reply followed another long email. Here is a snip or two of that one:
" I have never told anyone about what happened in that ambulance on November 17 of 1971
No one.
Not my shrink, My friends, My spiritual associates, my mother (R.I.P)
No one. Never.
My paramedic buddies, we talked about it, but only in the professional way.
I was 20 years old. What a great call! A pediatric gunshot cor zero! Apediatric intubation! External Jugulars! Wow, I hope I get to run a call like that some day....
Be careful what you wish for.
Among my peers I was an instant legend. I did everything right. On scene less than three minutes. Perfect IVs, Perfect tube, Perfect call. an example of how it should be done."
Our ever increasing rapport developed as it became apparent in a long telephone call and the email that followed:
"To clarify, I smell booze and blood and pot tonight. The blood i have been able smell for 30 years.
Anniversary coming up soon.
What we said to each other in that thirty minutes on the phone, I don't think I will ever tell anyone. Personal on a level unique in my life. Private.
When we meet in heaven if Bruno wants to tell you or anyone else, he can. But in this life it is too close, too dear, too real, and even saying that much brings it all back. I have a photographic memory of the event. I remember the 'conversation' verbatim.
I wish I didn't.
Really drunk now...
But one guy on the forum said something: "You kept your promise ....he lives in you. You dream of him because he wants you to tell the story.
I have to stop."
By now we had developed our own conversational style with bits of humour and lots of tragedy either mixed or following each other in quick succession. Bit by bit I had outlined my plan to get him back to a more normal life. Here are snippets of one of those replies to him:
" ...I am trying to get you, after thirty bloody years, out into the open air, into the light, into the new destiny. That will save you and take you towards a new life. I will go on and take it step by step. it may go fast, it may go slow. As long as we are moving, that matters most.
I hate to criticise or hurt you in any way and yet it disturbs me that you, as I was trying to convey to you on the phone, AS I SEE IT, after your long secrecy, now you would like to trumpet your sad story to anyone in the world who'd be willing to listen. Over and over again, yes the anniversary, the 7th November, the 100 mph trip, getting to the hospital... then again, the anniversary, the 7th November, the 100 mph trip, getting to the hospital..., I helped him die, then at the next opportunity, again: the anniversary, the 7th November, the 100 mph trip, getting to the hospital... The boy's parents. How a man thinketh... so right. Am I right? I might be wrong. But it appears from all your posts, the anniversary, the 7th November, the 100 mph trip, getting to the hospital... - endlessly.
What are the facts? Put the emotions aside for a minute. Let us assume Bruno was sent to you by God. Ok. The boy's job done he went. That was God's plan. HOW would the boy judge you now if he could see you in all those thirty years re-living the trauma endlessly, crying your heart out day by day? And even if the time is not available it will emerge from the depth of your mind, irresistibly. If you don't fight it. Well, you can't fight it. It has to be replaced, substituted with a new, and bigger project. That's the plan we have agreed upon.
We could talk endlessly about our ideas of Mr. God. After WW2 I had access to pictures that were 'verboten' - prohibited. Not ever to be shown in public. Those pictures were taken after the air raid and following firestorm in February 1945 on Dresden. One of those pictures showed mother and child having been – not mercifully burned to death, no – but roasted to death. Nicely and slowly. The other pictures equally gruesome. That was just ONE example that helped shaping my philosophy to life.
Of course, according to the gospel that little boy would have been a sinner and his mother as well. They HAD to be punished. Bloody hell. Aren't we all just unimportant little serfs with a purpose that we cannot see? At least not at the time. We are – didn't YOU say it – tools to do something? Like a cog in a plan too big for us to comprehend?
And now look at little Bruno in that light.
If what I said above hurt you, I am sorry. But it had to be said."
And after his following reply how could I possibly have deserted him? Here snips of his next email:
"Peter, You could not possibly hurt me with anything you say. Sometimes advice, or help hurts the one being helped. Thats how it is. When you spoke of desperation the effect on me was one of the most positive things I could ever have heard. Because I suddenly realized that I was. It was right there in my face but I couldn't see it.
Desperate like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver that is just out of reach.
If you hurt me you could never lose me as a friend, because I think what you are hesitant to say would possibly be the most profound thing I have ever heard about myself. The most profound thing I ever NEEDED to hear...
Your words may well prove to be the light on the underpinnings of what happened to me, and how I dealt with it, (or did not deal with it...)
I have heard your voice on the phone now and I can feel your soul a little. So I trust you, like my young patient trusted me.
I don't want to burden you with a problem as hopelessly f...ed up as mine against your will. Thats why I am careful, for your sake, of using words like advice, or council, even though that is exactly what I am looking for. I look to you for that.
When a student (me) asks a loving teacher (you) about anything, and the teacher answers, the answer will be the truth and is designed to help the student. Whether the student likes what he hears is irrelevant. It is what he needs to hear.
In thinking of the things you must have seen in your life, the wars, the deaths, the horror, but I guess people really can't compare pain. For you to have survived your life with your mind intact, surely you hold some key to wisdom and knowledge that can help me. And I am most definitely desperate for that.
Bruno trusted me. I tried the best I could to save his life, I may have hurt him some more, but you know, he didn't seem to mind. He was slipping into shock as I treated him but he stayed fully "un-anesthitized" the whole time. He could feel the additional pain, for sure. But he seemed to know I was desperate to stop death in its tracks. I couldn't. I didn't fail. It was just not for me to do in that day. He was going back to God and I was just a witness to that 'wonderful' event.
Now I am crying again.
I will never be angry at you for what you say. Please, for the love of God, be as brutally honest as you can. Some procedures are more painful than others. I am looking to you as my doctor in this, but I am sorry to put that on you, I know you didn't sign on to be that.
But here we are, and life goes on.
I love you peter. I don't fully understand why, but there it is. So do not hesitate or worry or even choose your words too carefully. Somehow I think you could help me more than anyone else. Our relationship is well past the point of being able to be stopped by anything.
Certainly not by the evil in the world.
We will continue for eternity. Long after this life has left us both. or we have left it.
You will never be able to do it to me. Even if you purposefully tried to. I could never be offended by someone I admire."
A snip of my reply:
"Ok Martin, I take your word for it and we might leave it at that. Needless to say, unless I suddenly die there is no way for me to discontinue this connection without a definite closing. (Silly thought. Will NEVER happen, ok?) ... "
After ten days of silence I found him in hospital. He asked for help. I hypnotised him by email. (if there is such a thing) His hurried reply followed soon:
"Subject: If nurse ratchet catches me...
I'm supposed to be resting, after 20 mg of clonazepam I will be soon. Before she catches me I had to say I am so very fond of you and thanks for the note.
I CAN feel your hand and your prayers. The docs think were going to be alright.
Seeing your name fills my f...ed-up heart with healing. I can feel it.
Time's up.
The Thing approaches. Her name is Robin."
Two days later:
"Sorry for the delay but as we begin our search for the cause of my "Morbid Hypertension of Unknown Etiology", as they are calling it, The word cancer, of several different 'flavors' keeps coming up.
I have faith healers coming at me now. Chiropractors, nutritionists and more advice that I can shake a stick at.
One things for sure, I'm not doing chemo and radiotherapy if the best odds are 30 percent are still alive after three years of Aggressive Treatment, or ten percent living for five. That's not life. I'll find a more graceful way.
Testing resumes tomorrow. Nothing has been etched in stone yet. so until I have the "Facts" there is no point in guessing and worrying about what I will do if this or that proves to be the case...
That is much easier said than done though.
It is all really just entirely too much right now.
I would appreciate your thoughts."
Several days after this exchange he was home again and in an optimistic mood.
"I feel like a man just released from prison.
And what's even better is that the released prisoner has been given a new life and a job that he never thought he could actually have in this lifetime.
The opportunities are overwhelming.
Lets start talking again.
Your turn."
I prepared him for the next stage in our recovery plan:
"You wanted my thoughts. I'll come back to that later. In the meantime, Martin,
remember the "How a man thinketh..." That will be a key issue. Believe!
You will be aware that a certain thought can flood throughout your whole body.
Imagine a light shining through a body that is sort of transparent. Once a ray of light gets onto it, the whole object just glows. Keep that in mind until I come back and I will, soon."
His following note disturbed me somehow.
"Sorry for the sporadic communications, but some information takes longer to process than you think sometimes.
Saturday is the thirty year anniversary of 11-17-71.
That day was a Wednesday.
It was his 10th birthday, thats why he was home from school. The Ruger 10-22 was his birthday present. His own brother killed him with it.
So, historically, I have celebrated that day with Unconsciousness.
I have not decided what to do on this thirtieth year.
Something special I am sure. Any thoughts?"
When I had read this message, all the thoughts I could muster were a fearful suspicion he may have slipped back. There seemed to be a somewhat ominous tone in his message that I could not explain. Certainly not after all those wonderfully meaningful discussions we had. By now we had reached the fiftieth email exchange. I should also mention that at that time he was involved in a multimillion project that gave him lots of trouble. In fact it was more than that. It was a confrontation with serious consequences. Apparently he was fighting on two fronts.
A dreadful thought: Was I in danger getting close to a burn-out? I was hoping we had just reached an unexpected low in our relationship. So my reply was to remind him of three facets that supported the plan, the way to achieve a project together. I continued:
"I have been praying for your survival and recovery. Not that I am such a wonderful person. No way. I did it even from my own point of wishing you the very best with the great aim in mind to fulfil something that in time might emerge as the great piece of progress that is needed so badly in our world. Ten year old boys can move mountains even after their passing and that is the promise yet to be fulfilled.
Please write when time permits and I hope that soon we have a conference by phone without interruptions. We have to sort ourselves out. If you can record that off your phone line that would help you for review."
Two weeks passed. Then this:
"It's Thursday morning (ish) and i'm looking out the window of the fifth floor cardiac ICU toward my beloved mountains and home.
The sky is brilliant blue, the autumn leaves are in full swing, the mountains are a deep blue and covered with snow already. It's going to be a good winter.
Last nights ordeal in the cath lab was a nightmare. I'm going to continue to imagine it as just that.
The Doctors and I will make decisions today as to what we do from here. If I get out of this one, I think my writing will step up a notch in depth and meaning.
It's good to be alive today.
I don't remember when the last time I said that was."
This time there was no response to my reply. After waiting for a few weeks I asked if, after all, there was something I might have done wrong. I could hardly believe that his last message could have been written by the same man:
"... Give me a bit to apologize, not explain myself, but apologize for my stonewalling. I don't do that BTW, if I am pissed off or offended by someone, I usually do them the courtesy of telling them to drop dead. Since that has not happened, you don't need to do that.
The only thing I find offensive about you is your refusal to allow me to be an asshole....
I may hold the Higher Ground, but I am still shallow enough to take someones help and then leave them hanging. Sort of like a one night stand, where I get mine,,,and then off I go."
At that moment I imagined how a doctor must feel when after all attempts the patient dies. In disbelief I refreshed my memory from our earlier exchanges. One of his messages that had read:
"I will never leave you. Leave the paranoia. Go past it... I do, finally see, what could possibly be a light." That was a portion of somewhere around email number 25 of our exchanges.
I had to face it. His last reply was so far out of character, it left no hope to ever gain the trust, the affinity we had established, let alone the letters, the phone calls. With disbelief I reread: '... like a one night stand, where I get mine,,,and then off I go.'
I never replied to this, his last post. Neither did he ever contact me again. My search about his fate months later gave no result. His phone number was answered by a woman who gave me the impression that she considered me batty. Martin seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
As I interpreted it, a child had inadvertently killed his younger brother. In a life-and-death struggle that lasted for thirty long years he also had killed – at least mentally – the once Ambulance Officer Martin.
In my fantasy world I can see him in the afterlife, as he had mentioned it so often, finding and hugging ten year old Bruno and explaining to him how much he had tried and yet was unable to fulfil his promise to keep him alive.
Would that not be, after all the tragedy, a wonderful reunion?