Windham Hospital Paramedic Chris Reddy is the unintentional hero. “I just happened to be on duty that night,” he recalls. “We had the right people at the call, and I had the right tools at the right time… it all came together that night.” The night in question is January 31, 2007, and it forever changed the lives of several local men. The paramedic team received a report of a structure fire in the city of Willimantic late that night, and Chris was one of the response team members.
Firefighters were on the scene of a major conflagration; the house was a loss, and sadly, its occupant, an elderly gentleman, succumbed to injuries sustained in the fire. Chris was onsite, as one of the firefighters from the Willimantic Fire Department pulled the victim from the flames and found that he had perished in the blaze. Suddenly, the fire “flashed over,” singeing the firefighter in the process, and Chris began to evaluate and treat him for burns. While he was tending the burned man's injuries, Chris noticed that another of the firefighters – the department's water pump operator – had collapsed to the ground. Leaving the firefighter's side, he assessed the condition of the water pump operator. There was no pulse. Chris started CPR and hooked up a cardiac monitor, which indicated ventricular fibrillation, so he defibrillated the firefighter. Success! Pulses returned, and the victim began to respond.
Meanwhile, the burned firefighter was transported to the Emergency Department, where they discovered significant burns on his hands, face, and throat, necessitating transfer to the Bridgeport Burn Center. During the transport, a paramedic would be needed to accompany him, to assist with pain control and watch for airway swelling. Chris volunteered for the transport duty.
Chris Reddy's actions that night saved the water pump operator's life. Chris acted to ease the burn victim's transport pains, and helped ensure his recovery. During the department's annual company dinner in February, the South Windham Fire Department honored Chris and his volunteer EMS driver, Ryan Dougherty. Both men were cited for bravery, quick thinking, and exemplary conduct.
“The incident was so fresh in everyone's mind – it was exactly one month to the day – and the man who collapsed in cardiac arrest attended the dinner with his family. That was incredible to me… he was out having dinner just a month after cardiac arrest. He got to meet the rescue and fire company members who had responded to the call. It was a pretty emotional time, but I wouldn't have missed that dinner,” Chris says. “It was really nice to connect with everyone and see them well and happy.”
A 16-year veteran of Emergency Services, and an American Heart Association CPR instructor, Chris says, “You know, it's the big thing we've focused on in our training courses. We practice ourselves, and we tell all our students how important it its to know how to use the defibrillator… well, this was a perfect example. Without that equipment, this man would probably not have survived.”
In true hero fashion, Chris claims that he was just the operator of some great equipment. But his knowledge and quick thinking played an enormous role in saving a life. To me, and to the whole fire company, Chris is a healthcare hero.
A lock of his hair, a fading photograph, and the knowledge that for a brief, shining moment, our hearts beat as one… that’s all I have left of the son who occupies a small solemn corner of my being. Although never formally named, I think of him as Michael, and he’s the stillborn son I had on July 1st, 20 years ago. He was our first, and although he never drew a breath, he helped save a life. He had, as the medical world terms it, a “cord accident.” Somehow, the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and drew tight, strangling him in utero, at the gestational age of seven months. The “first responders” were the nurses on the OB floor. There were many – and many of them are still working at the hospital – and they were wonderful.
Bertha coached me through the birth, and ran to get my husband (who had gone to change into scrubs) when Michael arrived abruptly. As I woke up that first morning after, Joy (who had been our Lamaze class instructor), offered the quiet, caring, and expert attentions that started me toward recovery. “I’m so sorry about your baby,” she said. Terri’s patient and compassionate handling of the forms that had to be filled and decisions that had to be made filled my morning. Other nurses came to tell me they had clipped a lock of his hair for me, and taken a Polaroid photo of him, letting me know that, when I was ready, I could claim these mementos (I did, about 6 months after his birth). Family and friends drew in around us, kept us sane, and functional, and life went on.
Two years later, we were again expecting a baby – this time, a girl – and my doctor recommended early testing, “since the 7th month seems to be the problem.” That recommendation, and the quick thinking of Susan Quimby, the registered nurse on duty that day, saved my daughter’s life! The baby was due at the very end of July, but on June 5, I gathered up my courage and arrived at the hospital for my first nonstress test – a simple, quick procedure that would help verify my baby’s health.
At 11 AM, I walked into the OB unit and was greeted by Susan Quimby. We chatted as we worked through the paperwork, and she hooked up the equipment for the test. As soon as the monitor began to spew out data, Susan went into action. She told me that the baby was experiencing fetal distress, and that I should go downstairs for an ultrasound, to get a better look. I called my husband at his office, to alert him to potential problems. By the time the ultrasound was complete, he was at my side. And Susan never left my side. Her easy rapport with the doctors and nurses was obvious. She called my doctor, who verified that there was a problem. She did her best to calm the rising fears of a distressed new mother, all the while preparing me, the room, the equipment, and the staff, for the arrival of a new baby. My mind was racing. Was history repeating itself?
Less than two hours from the time I first arrived at the unit for testing, our daughter Sara was born, an emergency C-section. Because there was so little time, I was given a general anesthetic, and when I awoke, there was Susan. “If you want to see your baby now, wake up!” She was holding something that looked (at least from my groggy perspective) like a clear plastic shoebox. “They are taking her to the neonatal unit in Farmington. She’s tiny. She’ll need to grow a little before she can go home.”
As my head began to clear, Susan stayed with me, answering questions and tending to my medical needs. “How big is she?” I asked. “Just a little over two pounds,” Susan responded. There were so many questions in my mind. Was she really OK? What if her oxygen supply had been cut off for too long? What was a “brain bleed” and what did it mean for her? How would I ever be able to care for her? Susan remained calm, answered my questions, kept me going.
At some point that afternoon, toxemia took over. My blood pressure soared. I slept. I lost track of time. But every time I woke up, there was Susan. At one point, I realized that she was doing her charting and paperwork by the light spilling out of my bathroom, so she could “keep an eye on me” and still finish her other work. In my more lucid moments, Susan and I chatted about the baby, about my course of treatment for the toxemia, about her family and mine, about life in general. We became friends. She brought me videotapes about preemies and their care. I was in the OB unit for nearly a week, and Susan was there throughout, answering my many questions and concerns.
Fast forward, seventeen years. Sara is a healthy, bright, and active young woman, anticipating her first year at college. Reporting for my new job at the hospital, I find that Susan is still an OB nurse there. She has attended hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women during the miracle of birth over the past 17 years. One morning, walking into the building, we finally reconnected, hugged, and reminisced. Mysteriously, Susan commanded, “Come with me.”
As I followed her through the unit and into the nurses’ locker area, we talked about the intervening years. Susan had been my nurse one more time – about a year after Sara was born, we delivered David. His birth was nearly on time, and fairly uneventful, although, as you might guess, the months leading up to his birth were very stressful. Again, Susan was there throughout all the many, many prenatal tests and through the day he was born. Again, she was my “rock,” my mentor, my anchor. Now, 17 years have passed, and she is leading me to her locker. There on the locker door is Sara’s picture as a newborn! She’s left it in place for 17 years! I am absolutely blown away.
My nurse, my mentor, my friend… Susan has cherished the birth of my daughter for all these years, much as I have cherished the loving care Susan gave me so long ago. I remember those days vividly. They are so clear, and so magical in my mind. But perhaps even more magical is the way Susan touched my life – and has touched so many other lives over the years – and has allowed our lives to touch hers. Her work as an RN is obviously more than a job. It’s a calling. She makes a difference – every day – caring for new mothers and the miracles they bring into the world, and that is an amazing gift. She is definitely a healthcare hero.
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