It might have been worse. Had I not reacted so quickly, instinctively pumping the brakes and yanking the wheel to the right, I could have run over the body. Then I would always have wondered if it was I who had killed him. There is irony in this thought, considering the consequences I would assume as a result of my stopping to aid a stranger on a moonless fall night.
Pulling my car to a safe area, I clicked my hazard lights on and parked so that my headlights illuminated the accident scene. As I stepped out of the vehicle a stiff wind bit through my T shirt, whisking away the last vestiges of warmth provided by the heater. Reaching into the back seat, I grabbed a flashlight, a reflective vest and a pair of rubber gloves from the first-aid kit that accompanies me on all my trips (I am a licensed emergency medical technician).
The victim lay on his left side, a pool of blood under his head. “He’s dead,” said one of the bystanders. Almost as soon as she had spoken the words, however, I saw the body shudder, the ribs rising with the unmistakable motion of a drawn breath. Although his breathing was regular, the man was unconscious and unresponsive. When I shined a light in his eyes, his widely dilated pupils barely flickered.
The accident site was in a remote location. By the time I heard the first siren, the pupils no longered flickered and the breaths were no longer coming on their own. I put an oral airway (a piece of equipment that helps unconscious victims breathe) in place. A sheriff’s deputy and another bystander began to perform CPR.
When the ambulance arrived, I helped the crew as best I could. While they loaded the cot, I gave my name and address to a deputy. Shivering noticeably as a result of both the cold and the unexpected excitement, I was eager to get back to my car and the comfort of the heater. As I walked to my idling vehicle, the ambulance pulled away. In the brightly ]it interior, volunteer EMTs bent over the body of the man whose crumpled car rested against a signpost in the median.
Because I have worked as an EMT for several years, the habit of washing my hands after every call is ingrained in me. A few miles up the road, I pulled into a 24-hour service station and let myself into the restroom.
The advent of the AIDS virus has made the wearing of rubber gloves de rigueur in all medical fields. Unfortunately, situations are more hazardous in an uncontrolled environment, and the thin latex is easily torn. Tonight was no different; the tip of my right pinkie finger was covered with blood. Turning on the tap, I washed away most of the blood. The dried fluid at the base and sides of the finger-nail, however, was tenacious. Only after liberal dollops of liquid soap and vigorous scrubbing did the last red-brown traces disappear. Convinced I had done the best I could under the circumstances, I dried my hands and resumed my journey.
The following evening, I was laughing with friends when the phone rang. It was the sheriff’s department.
“Mike, there is a very strong possibility that the gentleman involved in the accident last night was HIV-positive,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “If he was, you will need to be tested. When his blood work is completed, we’ll let you know.” A rush of adrenaline hit me in the gut. I found myself shivering, just as I had the night before.
“How about the driver of the car?” I asked, my voice steadier than my knees. “He didn’t make it.” It was the answer I expected.
The week since the phone call has passed. The victim’s tests are back. The results? Positive.
I have been exposed to HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. For the next year, I will have to undergo periodic blood tests to determine whether I have contracted the virus. Although the odds are strongly in my favor, I will never be sure. The nagging uncertainty will always be there.
I am not resentful of the man who died on the freeway that night. Nor do I regret my actions. They are the actions I felt morally and legally bound to take; I would do the same thing tomorrow. I am also not fearful of the future. My exposure was not what the experts term “significant” (a relative term, to be sure). The skin on my finger had no cuts or obvious breaks. The virus itself is very unstable; as soon as the blood dried, it was dead.
While the initial phone call left me with weak knees and butterflies, they were gone after a few minutes. I’m both a realist and a pragmatist, and I know my life is better spent worrying about things I can control, so I am not preoccupied day and night by this new development.
I can’t help reflecting that my experience is yet another consequence of the AIDS epidemic. In the past, the average person on the street would hardly hesitate to lend assistance to an injured person. Now, fears both founded and unfounded threaten to quell this spirit. The decision to give care has been transformed from a snap decision to a daunting ethical dilemma. Can we blame the individual who out of fear for his or her own well-being chooses to walk away?
Even those of us trained in the art of rescue receive one guiding principle from the earliest days of our education: the rescuer must place self-protection over foolhardy action. It’s a principle generally intended for easily observed on-scene circumstances. Who’s to say if it is any less valid for an invisible virus?
Sadly, the emergence of AIDS has resulted in a highly emotional division of “us versus them.” It is not my intent to contribute to this cleft. Indeed, it is my hope that by sharing my experience I can show that the dark hand of this modern-day plague continues to stretch out to touch all of us, in many ways. We must set aside misconceptions and the temptation to establish blame, uniting in the battle to overcome this intractable disease. If we fail, we will continue to succumb.
The spirit of the good Samaritan is already ill.
