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“The Big Chill”
Sections of hanger doors wind wobble an uncoordinated riff as “gusty conditions” drum them in passing. Press the black button and hanger doors hum, creak and fold as they wench open. A sharp slap of cold chases in a swirl of snow carved from the runway edged drifts. The “light dusting” chases the tug as it pulls the EC out onto the tarmac. A sparkle of tiny diamonds lift circling in flight illuminated against then merging a star filled sky. The helicopter seems to shudder, blades bobbing with the shifting winds. A plow scraps its way down the far runway but there is no visible aircraft traffic.
Despite the clear sky, a light precipitation persists as the last of the passing front’s moisture freezes out of the February ether. With the landing light on, a “warp speed” visual illusion is created, beautiful and mesmerizing and suddenly is gone, lost to toggle off.
A warm liter of LR hastily tucked under the jacket gets spiked, numbered #1, tubing wound, taped and caribinered.
On a north then northwest heading has a crossing southwest tailwind with updrafts over the ridge and flying becomes a fish swimming upstream in a fast current. Ahead a flashing vehicle is speeding on the highway below, and further, lights strobe through a surrounding tree line. Broken, unintelligible, unreadable radio wave fragments sorts itself out to clear communications.
An LZ rendezvous, an emergent meet and greet for a transfer of care, advance critical stabilization and rapid transport to a higher level of trauma care. Fire Rescue vehicles line the edge of the LZ and outside of the turnout, an ambulance sits in anticipation., Inside the rig, a controlled chaos in a shuffling and repositioning of staff. Assessment during a verbal report, followed by a brief question and answer period while a cacophony of EMS transmissions is subliminal background. A synchronized wizardry of magic potions and paralytics, procedures in interventions of lines, tubings and airways. For now, the bleeding is stopped but blood is smeared about the backboard, an isolated drip hangs off tangled and matted hair which is splayed under the head bed immobilization. With a secure airway, the precious tube is bite blocked in a tube holder. A heavy winter jacket has been trauma sheared leaving ubiquitous puffs of down floating along the floor and, in other places, sticking like white Post-its on every surface.
The ambulance heater stifling warmth and, although small beads of perspiration form under Nomax layers, there is a creeping chill. And then, when it is time, the doors open into a Seinfeld shrinkage factor. Feathers float in escape with some immediately turning back.
A mix of staffs surround the sturdy Stryker and briskly chaperon it across the packed snow and gravel road, then four pointed lifted into the field to line up next to the lighter helicopter stretcher. The corner streetlight combine with a rescue rigs “floods” producing double shadows that ghost around the parked rotor wing. Breaths of fog blur among the hands that unclasp straps, pull apart the Velcro (“raft…raft”). Blood drips from the cross bars, off the backboard and Pollacks a pattern on the snow.
A quick backboard transfer to helicopter stretcher. The warm IV temporarily tucked a bug in a rug against a white chest, wrapped , belts clipped and quickly all secure. At closing time, the hatches are latched and after a quick walk around, board and the panel doors slide (“Chunk”) and clamp.
Rescue shadows grow in retreat as the blades turn, turning into spin. A popped Porta-Warm is swapped for the Ringers which gets hooked into the ceiling clips. On the back instrument console LED green letters and numbers light on the Wulfsburg as it crackles live radio traffic. The wind has died, the front has passed. The pilot gets “all set” response, “thumbs up” from the ground contact and departure time is noted. The helicopter lifting rotor wash stirs up a feather and snow specter that rolls, floats down the clearing, covers the crimson tears on the white canvas and fades into the dark surrounding conifers.
