(Published Friends Journal July 2009)
James , aka Ohio prisoner #498052, is 300 pounds, African-American. Although in cardiac arrest with CPR in progress he is by regulation shackled securely to the EMS gurney. My paramedic friend Ryan, recently back from Iraq and with whom I have recently lost touch, tells me they have had little evidence of heart activity despite having shocked James several times and given powerful intravenous doses of epinephrine. James was found down in his cell, it has been close to an hour processing out of the prison, driving him red lights and siren to room 21. Ryan breathes for James, squeezing the bag, forcing oxygen into James' lungs. Ryan is proud to give me such a concise report, we served together as volunteer fire-fighter/ EMTs. I am proud to serve as his EMS Medical Director.
We get a lot of prisoners in the ED from the two large institutions in our county. I have a good relationship with the corrections officers, perhaps because they have seen me over the years treat their orange jump-suited charges with the same respect and concern that I hopefully have shown themselves and their families when they have been ill or hurt. It is gratifying to overhear them tell prisoners, “You got Doc Cotton; he’ll take good care of you.” Makes me feel like a good Quaker and emergency physician. I remember stitching up one 25 year old prisoner’s face after he “slipped” in the shower. Stitching is time to chat, he tells me he has been studying to be a heavy equipment operator when he gets out, driving multi-ton bulldozers that could take out a city block in no time. The corrections officers laugh when I advise my patient to get that very prominent four letter word tattoo removed from his forehead before he applies for a job. I tell him as a prospective employer I certainly would feel a little uncomfortable putting so much destructive bulldozing power in the hands of someone with THAT word tattooed and shouting so loudly from his face.
There is nothing to be done for James #498052. His heart activity is a flat straight line. We stop efforts at 0552. I thank the nurses and the EMTs for their hard work. Especially the EMTs as it certainly was hard bringing in a very overweight James. They say their backs are OK.
We tidy up room 21. There is no family waiting across the hall this time. I ask Ryan how his injury, incurred when a suicide bomber attacked his transport in Iraq, is doing. Ryan deserves recognition , I announce to our team that Ryan is back from Iraq, that he was injured there. One of the nurses that opposes the war as much as I have thanks Ryan for his service.
Catching up with Ryan alone in the hall, it seems things have not gone well since his return from the suicide attack. Fortunately no one, save the attacker, was killed in his transport. We talk about what it feels like to know someone wanted to kill you so bad they were willing to blow themselves up. Ryan’s PTSD has lost him his wife, many friends, he was let go from the volunteer fire department we had worked together on. He was such an enthusiastic kid, we all called him “Opie” as he was as young and eager as his namesake from the television show Mayberry RFD. I tell Ryan that I am told I have PTSD also, from the death of a five year old entrusted to my care. PTSD hurts, it takes over everything, I am sure I had less of a case, I feel better now, I hope he will. I was able, sometimes, to let people care for me, other times I was hostile, difficult to work with, unreachable. Some of the nurses here now can vouch for these facts, should Ryan care to ask, I smile. I tell Ryan of the enthusiastic young Opie of seven years ago, that that is who he, Ryan, is to me. Ryan was Opie then, is now and always will be to me. I hope Ryan remains stationed in our area and we shall talk many times.
After Ryan’s EMS crew left, reporting James' death to the coroner, I see he was serving life for serial rape. I go back to Room 21, spend a quiet minute with him. What darkness he must have lived in, what darkness he brought to others! I remember working as a medic in Cleveland’s east side, the horrible “n-word” that so many poor African-American mothers called their own children, that the children and teens called each other. Did James' darkness start there? Or was he another innocent person wrongfully convicted, with only a hurried public defender to speak for him? At any rate, his life sentence is over.
Driving home, I listen to Dylan’s “the answer my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.” I remember being in Quaker gatherings singing that as a child, my mother playing Peter, Paul and Mary’s version in our home. That evening, a beautiful early spring, my wife and I watch our one-year-old granddaughter explore our yard for her first time. I hold Gracie and put her shoe back on for her.
To folks who ask me what do Quakers believe, I tell them I am not sure what we believe, but that I hope we ask the right questions together. For 350 years we have asked questions together, listened to the wind in each other’s words and in each other’s silence. In Meeting for Worship I sometimes feel that “peace which passeth all understanding” (Philippians 4:7) or the all-knowing quiet compassionate smile of Buddha. I hold James, Ryan, my wife Toye, Gracie, and all our children and grandchildren, James' victims, the nurses and all our patients, my parents and siblings, everyone, perhaps even myself, in the Light.
Brad Cotton is Convener of the Circleville, Ohio Friends Worship Group.
He has worked 32 years as a paramedic and emergency department RN and physician.