Getting out of my car along the sparsely driven yet frenetic, four-lane Memorial Drive shortly after Monday’s fatal accident involving a transit bus and 11-year-old boy on a bicycle, I veered on the sidewalk past a woman and three children—as they walked peacefully toward the unknowing calamity ahead—and saw through scattered collections of onlookers standing and watching, some at sidewalk level and others on slopes overlooking the scene, in stunned silence.
From the curb and beyond, about three dozen people gazed at the wall of firefighters and paramedics in the middle of Memorial Drive looking over Hollister’s Joshua Rodriguez—an outgoing, compassionate, bright, loving boy who suffered the worst-possible luck in a community where any remaining luck ran out as it pertains to scant helmet use by a growing population of skaters, scooter riders and bikers.
The mostly adult onlookers witnessed what clearly, suddenly became a heartfelt, heart-pounding effort to save Joshua’s life. As civilians watched in collective motionless, firefighters stood between those responders at the boy’s side and the public.
Firefighters and paramedics generally react calmly—which may appear complacent to the naïve bystander—at accident scenes. It’s the effect of emergency training and experience, that workman’s calmness, and it’s crucial in keeping first responders on task, focused and efficient under pressure. It’s also essential in maintaining a mindset that no situation is too big.
Joshua’s accident wasn’t, either, but the responders radiated a wholly different vibe this time. This was a terribly serious accident, even compared with grim standards in the grimmest field. It was the kind of heartbreak that many of the firefighters could relate to themselves. It was a young, seemingly healthy boy on his bicycle in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he had little, if any, time to survive as a paramedic thrust at his chest in periodic sequences while attempting to revive a pulse.
“One-sixty!” shouted a firefighter.
Then a pause.
“One-eighty!”
The CPR continued and nobody else—nobody—said a word.
It didn’t appear any family members were at the scene. Joshua had been out on a summer afternoon as usual with friends at the skate park, three weeks before he would have started seventh grade at Maze Middle School.
So most of the emotion at the accident site—near blocks of homes, a school and park—beamed from responders. Normally stoic as instructed, they couldn’t help but show their compassion. There was no denying what everyone had to see and feel emanating from those pronounced CPR calls, from vigorous thrusts to the boy’s chest that onlookers could almost feel themselves, and from a strained look in responders’ eyes that spoke one word.
“Please.”
Needing a miracle, first responders continued pacing intensely through their fundamentals, as trained for such responses, in trying to give Joshua enough life so an ambulance could rush him to awaiting doctors at the hospital. They readied him for a gurney on a couple occasions, but had to pull back because he wasn’t stable enough to raise on the stretcher. Finally, they moved him to the back of the ambulance, and it was off within seconds.
While detectives unraveled police tape, marked evidence and took photos, the air’s elevated tension gradually subsided. Firefighters, and a somber fire chief, packed their equipment and departed rapidly.
On this day, at this scene, there was nothing more they could do.
