From 
Del.icio.us
Digg
Reddit
Facebook
StumbleUpon
"Anyone Seen Donny?"
"Is Donny out there?" Joe Brocato was screaming from the attic of the burning house in Buffalo, New York. "Anyone seen Donny?"Firefighter Donny Herbert, 34, had just crawled across the smoke-filled attic, trying to open a window for ventilation, but no one could find him now. Firefighters had been battling an electrical fire at the wood-frame house on 21 Inter Park Avenue
for almost 40 minutes on December 29, 1995, when a ceiling beam buckled. The entire roof of the house caved in. Snow, ice, rafters, drywall, soot and layers of asphalt all came crashing down.
Donny was wearing full turnout gear, including an air tank. Mike McCarthy, who'd been in the attic near Donny, was pulled out of the debris. After surveying the scene, he yelled out, "You guys see Donny Herbert?"
None of the other firefighters had.
A line of men began repeating, "Anyone seen Donny?"
There was still no reply. So Acting Division Chief Joe Brocato starting calling. Radio channels had opened up to firefighters citywide, alerting them that one of their own was in trouble.
"Man down!" yelled Captain Tony Page. "Mayday, Mayday."
"He was right there," gasped McCarthy, pointing to the last spot he'd seen his friend, a pile of debris about 25 feet across the attic. While Brocato and Page ordered outside ladders to the attic window, two firefighters sliced beams with their axes, trying to find something, anything in the wreckage.
Finally they spotted him. Donny was pinned under a beam, in a sitting position. His head was bent forward at a 90-degree angle.
They dug him out, furiously hauling pieces of roof away from his body. Donny was given mouth-to-mouth and then hustled down to the front yard, where oxygen and CPR were administered.
The veteran firefighter was gray, limp and in critical condition. He was unconscious; he wasn't breathing. An ambulance took him to Erie County Medical Center. Donny had been without oxygen for about six minutes.
The weight of the world seemed to be pressing on Donny Herbert in the months leading up to December 1995. He arrived at work at 6 p.m. on December 28 for the start of his overnight shift. By 11:30 p.m., he was calling his wife, Linda, from the quiet of the empty kitchen.
"I can't sleep," he said. "Talk to me."
"What's wrong, Don?"
"I don't know." He paused. He seemed to be choking back tears.
"Don, are you okay?" Linda asked.
Something didn't feel right, he said. Couldn't put his finger on it. Linda chalked it up to stress. Donny was passionate about his firefighting job—that and their four boys were his main focus—but lately things seemed out of whack. Their house was in a perpetual state of renovation and repair. Money was tight. Their oldest son, Don Jr., was a freshman in high school, and they were about to throw a birthday party for their youngest, Nicky, who had just turned four. Tommy and Patrick, the middle boys, were involved in countless activities. And the overworked fire department had had a run of treacherous blazes lately.
After almost 15 years of marriage, Linda felt Donny had to ease up.
"I need you here," she told him. "The kids need you."
"You're right. I have to make some changes. I have to slow down."
They talked a bit longer. He'd be home in the morning, he said. "Call if you want to, no matter how late, okay, hon?" Linda told him. "Love you."
"Love you too."
She put the phone on her pillow in case Donny called back. He didn't.
Now, from the hospital, the emergency services chaplain, Father Joe Bayne, reached Linda at home. She was still in bed but answered on the second ring. "Linda, there's been an accident—Donny's been injured."
She gasped. "How bad is he?"
The chaplain paused. "He has a pulse and the doctors are working on him. We're on our way over now to get you. Can someone watch the boys?"
Linda threw on her robe and rushed from the bedroom. Don Jr. had heard the phone and come out of his room. "What is it?" he asked.
"Your father's been hurt in a fire," Linda said. "I think it's bad."
She was working hard to stay calm, both for herself and the family. When Father Joe and a deputy fire commissioner appeared in the driveway, she went out to meet them. Sirens blared as they sped off to the hospital. Linda prayed, Please, God, let him be okay. Please.
In the ER, Linda spotted Donny in a small room, hooked up to a ventilator and EEG and EKG devices. His face had some abrasions, but Linda knew it was a lot worse than that. "He was as still as could be," she said later.
Trauma specialist Alan Posner, MD, told Linda he was worried about oxygen loss and brain damage. The EEGs showed abnormally slow electrical activity in the brain. In addition to the blow to the head, Donny's heart had momentarily stopped. His face mask had been dislodged, rendering his air tank useless. His head and neck had been hyperextended, pinned forward by the beam. The result: slow asphyxiation.
The longer the body goes without oxygen, the greater the risk of brain damage and death. Those who survive prolonged deprivation can emerge in a permanent vegetative condition. It seemed Donny had been without oxygen for roughly six minutes. If he lived, no one knew how bad the damage could be.
His pulse was weak. His vital signs were fading. "Hang on, Donny," Linda said, starting to cry, shaking. "I love you. I need you. We need you."
Advertisement 
Your Comments
See all
...
Post your commentCancel