Richardson

Seven days after the earthquake hit, rescuers brought 25-year-old Richardson Degradelle into the hospital courtyard. He had been found in the street, buried under a pile of cement that had crushed both his thighs.

Amazingly, he was still alive and struggling for breath, his eyes rolling wildly in his head as he writhed his neck in a constant spasmodic twist. He was conscious and alert, looking at the doctors and his mother, listening to everything they were saying — including the fact that he was probably going to die.

His mother sat with her back against his to prop him up and help him breathe while doctors examined him. I asked him if he wanted water, and he whispered, “Oui, s’il vous plait” — polite even in the throes of death. The doctor looked at me and said, “He is dying,” to which I could only mutter, “Why?”

The doctor explained that when bones are crushed, the blood stops circulating and toxins start to back up into the kidneys. Richardson’s kidneys were failing, and the doctor said that even with proper equipment and medicine it was probably too late. However, they decided to do what they could to save Richardson, knowing that precious supplies may be wasted on a lost cause.

Seven days after the earthquake hit, rescuers brought 25-year-old Richardson Degradelle into the hospital courtyard. He had been found in the street, buried under a pile of cement that had crushed both his thighs.

Photo by Lisa Lucas

Photo by Lisa Lucas

Once they had stabilized him, they moved the gurney to the “tarped” area just outside the tent and said that the next 30 minutes were crucial. But, minutes later, Richardson began to seize, and the team rushed to his side. They worked on him for several minutes, administered an adrenaline shot and pumped his chest. But it was no use. The doctor looked to the sky and hit his hand against the other in a chopping motion. Richardson was gone.

As the doctor covered Richardson’s face with the blue plastic sheet, Richardson’s mother began to wail. “My boy, my boy, my only boy, tell me he’s not dead. Dear God, he can’t be dead.”

A crowd had gathered around, and several began to sob and shake their heads in disbelief. Like me, they could not understand why this was happening. The man had survived six days buried alive only to expire in the arms of hope. His pleading eyes and his mother’s cries are indelibly imprinted in my mind, and the memories are only heightened with the realization that there are more eyes and tears to come.