MASH Middle School
Feb. 5th, 2007 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947When I first heard the term “Medevac”, I thought of the movie and television show, MASH. I remembered scenes of vintage military helicopters landing at a MASH Unit to deliver or evacuate wounded soldiers. A helicopter would swoop into a tented, medical encampment, hover, raising swirls of dust and debris, and land. With blades gyrating and engine drumming, the copter would perch, straining on the ground, while the wounded were removed, or replaced. Medics would rush the casualties aboard, ducking under the flashing scythes overhead. There was incredible urgency in the scene: tensions were higher, sights and sounds were crisper, and everyone moved quickly. In the eternal passing of minutes, all ground personnel would finally clear the landing spot, and flee the thundering machine. The engine would roar even louder, the blades whirl even faster, and the helicopter would slowly rise, hover again, and then fly off.
I always equated Medical Evacuations (Medevac) with combat zones, or wilderness areas. A medevac was an extraordinary extraction, or a swift means of transportation, necessitated by the exegesis of war or rugged terrain. Medevacs occurred in Korea and Viet Nam, or on Mount Everest. They did not occur in a middle school in Los Angeles.
We have had four medevacs at our middle school this school year. All occurred during the school day, requiring a lockdown protocol so that the children would be contained in a controlled and supervised location, during the emergency. There have been so many of these events at my school, that they are becoming commonplace. The fact that a school is so routinely used as a medevac landing site fills me with dread.
We are alerted to a medevac situation when three or four siren-sounding fire trucks assault the eastern gates of the school, parallel to our grass play field. If school personnel do not quickly open these gates, the firefighters are trained to cut the locks and enter. One truck remains to guard the gate entrance, and two invade the school, quickly proceeding down the fire lane that borders the south side of the field. They drive onto the blacktop of the basketball courts, and establish themselves along the western front of the field. Four firefighters, in full firefighting regalia, jump out of their trucks and swiftly deploy across the field, stationing themselves at the four corners. These quick and methodical maneuvers have a “shock and awe” effect on children and staff members. The firefighters are “securing” the landing area, making sure that the evacuation site is clear and safe for the next wave. They give curt commands and no explanations. They are awaiting the arrival of the casualty-carrying ambulance, and the helicopter.
All of these actions take only about 5-8 minutes. During that time, the school principal announces a “lockdown” on the public address system and instructs all teachers and students to stay in their classrooms until the emergency is over and the invading fire trucks leave the school. Other administrators and security staff are deployed to cooperate with the firefighters by insuring that the field and basketball area are kept clear of students and non-authorized spectators. By then, the fire chief and paramedics have arrived in separate vehicles, and a command post has been established on the blacktop. All eyes gaze out at the western horizon, awaiting the arrival of the Fire Department helicopter.
When we finally hear the unmistakable drone of its powerful twin engines, the helicopter is already upon us. Dispatched from its Air Operations base at the Van Nuys Airport, the 412 Bell helicopter swoops in from the western sky. The red and white colored vehicle drops altitude across the school campus, turning over the basketball courts, and hovering over the field. A guiding firefighter stands atop the closest truck, extending his arm into the sky, with a long banner of yellow caution tape in his hand. As the helicopter positions itself for the final descent, a blast from it double blades kick up a final whirlwind of dust and debris, forcing all spectators to turn away as the landing sleds finally touch ground. The cargo doors open and three helmeted crewmembers leap out. One stays by the door, and the other two go running across the field to the paramedic ambulance. Soon one crewman returns, escorting a young woman, probably the mother, to the helicopter. They enter, and the woman is secured inside. Then a gurney is pushed across the field, bearing the wounded infant. The paramedics retreat with the empty gurney, and the jump suited crewmen climb back into their copter and close the doors behind them. In a few minutes, made longer by anticipation, the thunderous whine of the engines increases to deafening proportions, and the helicopter slowly rises into the air. The air ambulance makes a 90 degree turn and ascends, northward over the field. It banks towards west and soon disappears into the horizon from which it appeared.
On the ground, firefighters are returning to their vehicles, and securing away their gear. The paramedic ambulance is the first to leave, and the trucks soon follow. During this demobilization, the principal returns to the Main Office to announce the end of the Lockdown, and explain the reason for the drill to students and staff. The children are told that no student or staff member was injured or transported, and we ask them to send thoughts of hope and concern to the injured party and their family. We stress the important part our school plays in assisting the Fire Department and City of Los Angeles. We say this to justify this invasion of emergency forces onto our campus. Nevertheless, the experience is just a reminder that our students live in an area that is tremendously inadequate in medical services and health care. We are treated as if we lived a war zone, and the school was the MASH unit.
The grass field at my middle school is officially designated as the medevac site for the northeast section of the San Fernando Valley by the City of Los Angeles. This is necessary because this part of the San Fernando Valley does not have the medical facilities to provide proper emergency care for trauma victims. The injured are stabilized, but then must be transported to other facilities in the western part of the valley, or downtown. This social reality is euphemistically referred to as “a medically underserved community”. It is a neutral sounding explanation for an ugly fact. This area cannot meet the emergency medical needs of its citizens and children, so the school must be used to help fill the healthcare gap.
I always equated Medical Evacuations (Medevac) with combat zones, or wilderness areas. A medevac was an extraordinary extraction, or a swift means of transportation, necessitated by the exegesis of war or rugged terrain. Medevacs occurred in Korea and Viet Nam, or on Mount Everest. They did not occur in a middle school in Los Angeles.
We have had four medevacs at our middle school this school year. All occurred during the school day, requiring a lockdown protocol so that the children would be contained in a controlled and supervised location, during the emergency. There have been so many of these events at my school, that they are becoming commonplace. The fact that a school is so routinely used as a medevac landing site fills me with dread.
We are alerted to a medevac situation when three or four siren-sounding fire trucks assault the eastern gates of the school, parallel to our grass play field. If school personnel do not quickly open these gates, the firefighters are trained to cut the locks and enter. One truck remains to guard the gate entrance, and two invade the school, quickly proceeding down the fire lane that borders the south side of the field. They drive onto the blacktop of the basketball courts, and establish themselves along the western front of the field. Four firefighters, in full firefighting regalia, jump out of their trucks and swiftly deploy across the field, stationing themselves at the four corners. These quick and methodical maneuvers have a “shock and awe” effect on children and staff members. The firefighters are “securing” the landing area, making sure that the evacuation site is clear and safe for the next wave. They give curt commands and no explanations. They are awaiting the arrival of the casualty-carrying ambulance, and the helicopter.
All of these actions take only about 5-8 minutes. During that time, the school principal announces a “lockdown” on the public address system and instructs all teachers and students to stay in their classrooms until the emergency is over and the invading fire trucks leave the school. Other administrators and security staff are deployed to cooperate with the firefighters by insuring that the field and basketball area are kept clear of students and non-authorized spectators. By then, the fire chief and paramedics have arrived in separate vehicles, and a command post has been established on the blacktop. All eyes gaze out at the western horizon, awaiting the arrival of the Fire Department helicopter.
When we finally hear the unmistakable drone of its powerful twin engines, the helicopter is already upon us. Dispatched from its Air Operations base at the Van Nuys Airport, the 412 Bell helicopter swoops in from the western sky. The red and white colored vehicle drops altitude across the school campus, turning over the basketball courts, and hovering over the field. A guiding firefighter stands atop the closest truck, extending his arm into the sky, with a long banner of yellow caution tape in his hand. As the helicopter positions itself for the final descent, a blast from it double blades kick up a final whirlwind of dust and debris, forcing all spectators to turn away as the landing sleds finally touch ground. The cargo doors open and three helmeted crewmembers leap out. One stays by the door, and the other two go running across the field to the paramedic ambulance. Soon one crewman returns, escorting a young woman, probably the mother, to the helicopter. They enter, and the woman is secured inside. Then a gurney is pushed across the field, bearing the wounded infant. The paramedics retreat with the empty gurney, and the jump suited crewmen climb back into their copter and close the doors behind them. In a few minutes, made longer by anticipation, the thunderous whine of the engines increases to deafening proportions, and the helicopter slowly rises into the air. The air ambulance makes a 90 degree turn and ascends, northward over the field. It banks towards west and soon disappears into the horizon from which it appeared.
On the ground, firefighters are returning to their vehicles, and securing away their gear. The paramedic ambulance is the first to leave, and the trucks soon follow. During this demobilization, the principal returns to the Main Office to announce the end of the Lockdown, and explain the reason for the drill to students and staff. The children are told that no student or staff member was injured or transported, and we ask them to send thoughts of hope and concern to the injured party and their family. We stress the important part our school plays in assisting the Fire Department and City of Los Angeles. We say this to justify this invasion of emergency forces onto our campus. Nevertheless, the experience is just a reminder that our students live in an area that is tremendously inadequate in medical services and health care. We are treated as if we lived a war zone, and the school was the MASH unit.
The grass field at my middle school is officially designated as the medevac site for the northeast section of the San Fernando Valley by the City of Los Angeles. This is necessary because this part of the San Fernando Valley does not have the medical facilities to provide proper emergency care for trauma victims. The injured are stabilized, but then must be transported to other facilities in the western part of the valley, or downtown. This social reality is euphemistically referred to as “a medically underserved community”. It is a neutral sounding explanation for an ugly fact. This area cannot meet the emergency medical needs of its citizens and children, so the school must be used to help fill the healthcare gap.
