While on patrol, an oncoming vehicle sped by me at almost 100 miles per hour. I had a feeling that something was wrong, that this wasn’t just a speeder gone wild. I made a U-turn and promptly stopped the vehicle. A man jumped out of the driver’s seat and frantically ran toward me. He cried desperately, “My son has been stung by a bee and he’s dying! Can you help us, please? He’s in back of my car. He can’t breathe!” I saw the boy’s head resting on his mother’s lap; he was gasping for air.
The couple did not realize that the hospital they were heading for had recently closed its doors. Even though I was a fairly new trooper and still conditioned to following protocol, I decided to use my God-given power of discretion. There wasn’t any time to wait. I piled both parents and their son in the backseat of my patrol car and headed for the nearest hospital.
I drove faster than I’d ever driven before—even faster than in Recruit School. The boy was suffocating. It was obvious his throat was swelled up. And he appeared to be losing consciousness.
Boisterous from adrenaline, I said to the boy, “Hey, look! All the cars are pulling over for you! Wow, they see our lights and sirens! How do you like being in a patrol car and riding so fast? We’ll be at the hospital in no time, sweetheart.”
I was probably more excited than his parents. I don’t know how I kept my voice from cracking. I kept urging the parents to keep him awake. I was so scared for the boy.
It was summertime and traffic was bumper-to-bumper with all of the tourists in town. As I wove safely between the vehicles I thought divine intervention must be at hand. We didn’t encounter any backups or typical delays.
Other thoughts rushed through my head, though, like Will I be reprimanded or fired for this? I knew calling an ambulance would have taken too long, but I was breaking departmental rules. I considered pending lawsuits. I finally shut out those thoughts and silently affirmed, I don’t care if I’m written up. They can fire me, if they want. The boy is hurt. I know I’m doing the right thing by following my instinct.
We arrived at the hospital in less than ten minutes, and the boy was rushed to emergency care. The parents thanked me repeatedly, and then I left. I returned to my daily business, though I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my desk sergeant. I was certain I would be confronted.
Later that day, when I returned to the Post, I was surprised to learn that the boy’s parents had stopped by to thank me again. Fellow troopers greeted me with smiles and the desk sergeant actually patted me on the back and said, “Kudos, kiddo. Good job, but get back to work.” At the end of my shift I went home and thought the incident was forgotten.
When I turned on the eleven o’clock news, however, I saw the boy’s attending physician talking with a news reporter. I thought to myself, Wow, this made the news? and I turned up the volume on the television.
The doctor said, “. . . by far the worst case of anaphylactic shock I have ever treated. If that trooper hadn’t brought the boy here so quickly, or had waited even five more minutes, this boy would not have survived.”
I chuckled and thought, Well, that’s cool. I hope my boss is watching this, because everything I did was against the rules! Then I shut off the TV and went to bed.
I was content. Divine guidance had directed me—and the boy was alive and well.
Since I had broken departmental rules, I was disqualified for any life-saving award. But, one month later, I received a letter of appreciation from the governor himself! I laughed. The parents were so appreciative they had called the governor. I framed it and hung it on my wall. To this day it reminds me that no badge or trophy can ever bring me the same joy as knowing those parents brought their boy home safely. Any material award would now be a total insult.