Bearing Witness

The first time it happened, it was a little girl who had found her brother stabbed to death.

She called because no one else in the house spoke English. Her little voice was so panicked. She kept telling me there was a lot of blood, that he was unconscious, that he wasn’t breathing. When I asked what happened, the only detail she could give was that his face was unrecognizable.

I didn’t know he was beyond help. I only knew what my screen told me to do next.

I tried to get her to do CPR. I tried again. I tried to get another family member on the phone. I tried to slow her down. She was too scared. Her screams filled the line. Nothing I said was reaching her anymore. We were both helpless.

After the call ended, I replayed it over and over. Not the screaming. Not the blood. The decision.

I wished I had told her to go outside.

It goes against policy. You’re supposed to keep the caller with the patient. You’re supposed to keep trying until they refuse. But she was a child. She had already seen more than she ever should have. I knew, even then, that following the rules wasn’t the same as helping her.

That regret stayed with me longer than the call itself.

Years later, it happened again.

Another child. Another Spanish speaking household. This time she had found both of her siblings dead. Fentanyl.

This time, I knew what I was dealing with. 

I got her mom doing compressions on one sibling. I got her dad doing compressions on the other. Once I knew hands were moving and help was coming, I made a different choice.

I told her to go outside.

I told her to flag down the fire department. To watch for them. To tell me when she heard the sirens. I stayed with her while she waited. She was still scared. It was still horrible. None of that changed.

But when the call ended, something inside me was quieter.

It didn’t fix the first call. It didn’t make the second one less traumatic. But it healed something small and specific. The part of me that believed I had failed that little girl years ago. The part that wished I had told her to go outside.

Sometimes healing doesn’t come from peace or time or closure. Sometimes it comes from being given another chance to do the thing you wish you had done before.