Then things got worse. Scores of “diff breathers” turned into cardiac arrests, and worse — 83Rs and 83Ds — codes for dead after resuscitation initiated and for dead on arrival. That deep cough we once heard when we arrived on the scene was replaced by the agonized wails of inconsolable family members. A father or mother or grandparent had just died, and we couldn’t even offer the comfort of a hug because the virus was so contagious.
On one day in April, 800 people died.
The E.M.T.s and paramedics of the pandemic are the firefighters of Sept. 11. First in, last out. The risks have been consequential.
It was a terrible blessing to be an E.M.T. at a time when the city was in desperate need. Many of the people we tried to save died, but many lived. I still feel shaken when I think about those deaths. But I never felt hopeless inside the screaming ambulances that radiated so much light.
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