Lake Cushman, tucked into the foothills of the Olympic Peninsula in western Washington, is one of those places people go to retire or get away. With its heavy snow in the winter and the middle-of-nowhere vibe, not many stick around year-round. Most who do are retirees—folks escaping the grind of city life from across Puget Sound, like Seattle or Tacoma.
But here’s the thing: living this far out comes with its own problems. We were way out of range for fast help—no hospitals nearby, and forget about someone being there five minutes after you call 911. It’s something a lot of people don’t think about when they move to these remote communities. But this story isn’t about them. This is personal.
My Third Call
My third call on the job? I’ll never forget it. It was early, like 6 or 7 in the morning. That’s way too early for an 18-year-old fresh out of high school, but when the pager went off, I didn’t have a choice. I don’t even remember what it was dispatched as—I just knew I needed to throw on clothes and get to the station.
Here’s where small-town volunteer departments hit a snag: time. It takes forever to get anywhere. Let me walk you through how this plays out.
First, someone has to figure out they have an emergency. Then, they decide to call 911—who knows how long that takes. Let’s say 1-2 minutes. Then, they have to hope they’ve got decent cell service. If they’re lucky enough to have a landline, they’re set. They call, and the dispatcher starts plugging away on their system to figure out which department to send. That’s another 1-2 minutes.
Now the tones go out. The pager blows up, and it’s game time. Volunteers like me start hustling. Depending on where we live, it can take anywhere from 3 to 20 minutes to get to the station. Once we’re there, we wait for a partner (let’s say 3 minutes) and head out. Add in the drive—another 5 to 15 minutes—and then the time it takes to grab our gear and actually get into the house. Time adds up fast.
Every minute matters. Did you know your chance of survival drops by 10% for every minute your brain goes without blood or oxygen? Think about that for a second.
That Morning
So there I was, hauling my tired 18-year-old ass to the station, about 10 minutes away. I hopped on the ambulance, and we took off. Mid-drive, they tell me the patient is unconscious and unresponsive. To me back then, that could’ve meant literally anything.
We pulled up to this normal-looking house, walked in the front door, and boom—the vibe hit me like a brick wall. The air felt heavy, like something big had just happened. I stepped a few more feet in and saw him.
An elderly man lay on the floor in his bedroom. Mouth wide open, eyes still, skin pale, dressed in pajamas. No one needed to say it—he was gone.
I can’t explain what it felt like seeing death for the first time. If you’ve been around it, you know what I’m talking about. Something’s just missing. There are calls where you feel like you’ve got a shot, where the person’s still holding on. And then there are calls like this. The body’s there, but the person isn’t. It’s like the soul already packed up and left.
I’m not religious—never have been, never will be—but standing there, I could feel the weight of it.
The family was in the corner. Some were crying softly, others just… blank. People process death differently, and this was no exception. I was stuck in my own world, staring at this man who’d been alive yesterday but wasn’t today.
That’s when Gail and Tony, two of the moms in the department, swooped in. “Doogie, you good? Let’s get you out of here.” They practically dragged me back to the ambulance.
To this day, I don’t know what made them pull me out. Maybe I was pale, or maybe I couldn’t stop staring at the body. But those two women had my back. They didn’t have to, but they did. Writing this now, I realize how much I owe them for that.
Aftermath
At the time, I thought I was fine. I didn’t feel sad or shaken. I wasn’t the kind of person to show much emotion. But now I wonder—what was going on in my head that I didn’t even notice?
This stuff gets to you, whether you realize it or not. Whether it’s your first time seeing death or your hundredth, it leaves a mark. No nightmares for me, but the memories? Those stick. Families shattered, lives changed in an instant.
It’s a heavy job, but it’s also grounding. It makes you appreciate the little things—what you have, where you’ve been, and what you’re capable of. Good or bad, I’m ready for whatever comes next.
So yeah. (Earmuffs, kids.) Fuckin’ bring it.
