Editor’s note: This article was originally published in “The Siren,” the official magazine of the California Ambulance Association, and is reprinted here with permission.
When I look back, I don’t remember the first time I encountered death in my EMS career. Sure, I remember running my first code blue and my first declaration of an obvious 1144, but as clinicians, when we run these calls, usually it isn’t the death we remember. Typically, the memory is of the way we ran the call, the procedures we did, what went well and what didn’t, and then we go run another call. Maybe even another code or 1144, and if you had more than one of those in your shift, you might even high-five your partner when your shift ends for the hard work you two did that day.
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As a medic, I felt prepared to handle this type of loss throughout my career; I understood it was part of the job. My second year as a medic, my relief and former partner didn’t show up for her shift. It wasn’t like her to be late, so after 30 minutes, we drove to her house thinking maybe she overslept. A few minutes after her partner and I arrived at her house, I declared her an 1144. There wasn’t anything I could do. This was the first death that didn’t fit in the “what to expect in EMS box” for me. The first one that didn’t end when I submitted my PCR and went home. The first one that – at 26 years – old made me call my dad to come stay with me for a couple of days.
A little over a decade later, my role had changed, and I’m now the leader of the organization. Early one morning, I received a call from our employee/PR manager informing me that one of our employees was killed in a vehicle accident on their way home from work – clearly, a call you never want to receive. I would receive two more calls like this from her before she left our organization.
In our organization, our employee/PR manager is the person who, unfortunately, takes the lead when dealing with the death of an employee. She guided me on the part I took in this, and we got to work. This was a new experience for me, seeing what occurs on the back end of an employee death. The leadership team couldn’t be consumed with sadness; we had to remain functional and focused. Very similar to our field crews running a code, you follow the process/protocol, finish the call, and go run another one. Less callous, of course, but there was a process for this type of thing. This was difficult, but something I could handle.
We set up support for our employees, arranged CISDs, planned meal trains for the family of the deceased, worked with HR for life insurance payouts, ensured the family received the employee’s pay, helped the family with funeral arrangements, arranged funeral processions with co-responders, and so on. We recovered from each of these tragic events as a strong team.
When leadership breaks
We welcomed our new employee/PR Manager in 2022, Eva Ybarra. Eva was a great addition to our leadership team and organization. She brought light and laughter to our organization that we needed. We were fortunate to work closely with Eva for just over a year. Then, last October, I got a call that would have normally come from her, but it was about her. It was just after midnight, and based on the name showing on my phone, I knew this wasn’t going to be a good call. Nothing could have prepared me for what I heard.
Eva had been shot. Our dispatch center received the call, our supervisor and ALS crew responded, there was no transport.
That was the loudest thing I had ever heard at midnight. Eva was now one of the casualties of Merced County.
Our whole organization was broken, and the one who would have gotten us through this was the one that was gone. How were we going to keep going? 911 calls were still coming in; we still had employees we need to support, and an EMS system to run, but leadership was broken.
The sun was out, but it was so foggy in our world, like a heavy grey blanket. At this point, not one of us in leadership could fully do our own job, let alone try and figure out how we were going to do Eva’s. How were we going to play Eva’s role in handling Eva’s death? As the COO, I struggled to find the answer to this for my team because I was shattered too. The first part of this process for me would have been to coordinate with her; every time I remembered this, I was reminded she was gone like a slap in the face. With the first step in our process being the piece we were missing, I found myself stuck in place, not knowing where to start.
We started like you would a puzzle, placing the pieces right side up and putting them together one at a time. It took everyone, and roles no longer mattered. Clinical staff figured out how to log in to our social media accounts, I wrote the post about her death, HR kept us fed, the supervisors drove us to deliver food to her family, dispatch set up rooms for all of us to just sit in silently together, our admin staff in another state helped with local tasks. It took a village for us to complete a task that normally took one person a few steps.
The Union was the first of our partners to send flowers and check on us. The card was addressed to “Riggs Leadership,” and there was something so significant to me in reading that; I broke down. Leadership was broken this time. Each death we’ve navigated in the past, leadership was on the supporting end of it; now it had shifted.
The grace I was given as the COO was the only thing that helped me survive this tragedy – the hugs from the SSTs when I showed up in sweats instead of a suit because I just couldn’t imagine getting dressed that day, the flowers from the Union that validated our loss and offered support, my leadership team allowing me to be broken and not have any answers. Our titles don’t separate us; they just label the role we play within our organization. Give grace as leaders; we will all need it at some point.
