The Curse of Angels

   When I was just a boy, I remember getting excited every time I heard a siren. I’d search excitedly for the Fire Engine or Police Cruiser speeding by with lights flashing. I watched in awe as my heroes rushed to danger to save the day. I remember thinking those rescuers were so brave and must have amazing stories and experiences to tell. While I often spoke of being a Civil Engineer someday, deep down, I really wanted to be a Fire Fighter. I wanted to be brave, I wanted to be a hero to kids just like me, and I wanted to have my own stories to tell.

   After dropping out of college during my third year, I had finally made the decision to pursue my dream of becoming a Fire Fighter. I enrolled into an EMT course and began learning the basics of emergency medical care. It was a new experience being in an educational class that I actually enjoyed. Having not graduated High School but settling for my GED instead, I had a history of hating school. But there I was, after so many years of falling asleep in class and being a nuisance to my teachers, I was finally enjoying school. I was surrounded by people who had the same goals and interests that I did.

   As an aspiring EMT, you are required to fulfill a certain number of clinical hours both in a hospital ER and on an EMS rig. The first time I stepped foot into the ER, or in hospital terms, the ED ("Department" rather than "Room"), I was filled with the rookie jitters. After all those years doing what I thought everyone else wanted me to do, I was finally chasing my own dream of saving lives. 

   My very first patient was a man with a massive boil in between his hind cheeks. That’s right, you heard me correct, my first patient in my heroic pursuits, was a man with a hamster sized, puss filled boil in his butt crack that was eagerly spreading its territory to the butt hole.

   The spaciously abundant patient laid on his right side, with a gown covering his front half like a small napkin in despair. The surgical intern took his position standing in front of the patient’s belly. He stretched his arms over the sizable patient in the manner of a small child attempting to climb into a lazy-boy recliner. He placed his blue Nitrile gloved fingers into the man’s butt-crack with the finesse of a free-climber scaling the face of Half Dome. With the poise and discipline of a highly educated medical student, he gently, but firmly pulled the top butt-cheek upward. My eyes grew larger at the scene unfolding before me.

   The patient’s rear was spread far and wide displaying his soon to hatch anal gremlin for all to see. The Surgical Resident gracefully sliced the boil twice, forming an “X”, as if to reveal where the treasure was on his gluteus map. Thick, yellow puss spilled from the boil fervently until the last ounce came to an oozing halt. The hairs in my nostrils felt singed by the deathly odor that radiated from the creamy, soaked gauze. The Surgical Intern’s hands began to shake and tremble with exhaustion. He held on for dear life as the Resident stuffed endless yards of clean gauze into the remaining gaping whole. I felt my head go light and my world began to spin. My body trembled with terrified weakness and I struggled to remain upright.

   Once the empty boil was packed to capacity, the resident dressed it neatly and gave the signal to the intern that he could finally release his desperately trembling grasp of the upper cheek. Though video evidence would have testified of a gentle return of cheek to cheek, in my mind it seemed more like a thunderous clap that rang in my ears and brought my weakened knees back to steady ground.

   Though slightly shaken by this horrifying encounter, my career pursuit continued forward. I completed my Basic-EMT certification, graduated from the fire academy, splashed my way through a Swift Water Rescue course, and eventually obtained my Advanced EMT certification.

   Over those years of training and education, I enjoyed the company of countless heroes. Just as I had imagined as a boy, they all had amazing stories to share. Some were graphic, some were gory, some were silly, and some were a little unbelievable. Emergency professionals develop what might be considered a sick sense of humor to cope with the travesties they frequently encounter. A lost limb, a de-gloved finger, chemically burned skin sluffing from bodies; Mutilated corpses, psych patients off their meds running naked and wild; Drug seekers, bed bugs in pubic hair, and endless cases of physical, mental, and sexual abuse are all just a small smattering of a typical day at their office. Learning to cope with these sights and sounds through sick humor is simply a survival tactic.

   I’ve gained my own bucket of good stories over the years. Motorcycle accidents with various broken bones, vehicle roll-overs when I pulled a man from his turned over truck, heart attacks, a scalp peeled back from a skull filled with gravel like a sack of marbles, a man who cut off his scrotum as punishment for his sins. I’ve restrained violent patients, been spit upon by countless psychos, encountered a man who committed suicide by leaping 4 stories off a building. I’ve had feces flung at me, frost bite on my face and fingers, guns pulled on me, and even marveled at the relatively clean entrance wounds of multiple gun shots to a man’s torso. Despite the gory and the yucky, I’ve never really had much trouble managing the stress with sick humor; All except for this one particular patient.

   It was late at night; I was still relatively new to the EMT world, and ready for the next Pearl Harbor Triage scene to unfold before me. There’d be blood everywhere. Moaning and wailing from all directions. I’d take charge, find a lady’s crimson red lipstick, and start Triage, marking the foreheads of all the victims in need of a hero. I believed I had trained and prepared for any emergency and it was finally time for me to save lives.

   To stay busy, until the Japanese rained down hell upon their nemesis, Davis County, Utah, I kept supplies stocked, helped start IV’s and EKGs, and watched as the nurses cared for their sick patients. Being somewhat large in stature, I found the nurses quickly became comfortable asking me to help lift or move patients. I didn’t mind, I felt strong and useful, plus it gave me more chances to care for patients.

   Sometime during the night, as this routine continued, I was again asked by a nurse to help with a patient. This time I wasn’t moving the patient though, rather, I would be helping to hold her knees up and out of the way, like a mother about to birth a child, so they could place a catheter. Not thinking much of the request, I followed the nurse into the patient’s room.

   I was a little startled when my eyes gazed upon the 4-year-old little girl sitting awkwardly on the bed. Still not fully grasping the situation, I started talking to her. She was the cutest little thing with dirty blonde hair and big, chubby cheeks. Her clothes were a little small and looked like a Thrift Store special. She had a strangely weathered look about her that concerned me. But as we played, I discovered she had a special light about her countenance that broke through her worn attire like the sun’s rays peeking through a dark cloud. Her glowing smile was contagious, and I immediately fell in love with her whimsical chatter.

   As the nurse prepared the equipment in the background of our exchange, I eyed her seeking clarification. She pulled me aside to explain.


   My world shattered as the nurse informed me that this 4 year old little girl had been sexually abused, raped, and now had a severely inflamed case of genital herpes. Her pubic area was so swollen that she was unable to urinate. It was becoming painfully dangerous for her and a catheter needed to be placed to relieve the urine back-up.

   The placement of the catheter would be invasive, uncomfortable, and even a bit painful. Though not wanting to have a male in the room, the nurse explained that she needed a strong person to help keep the little girl from squirming herself into any additional injury during the catheter placement. The procedure needed to be done quickly and I was the best option to help limit the pain and discomfort.


   How was this possible? Who could sexualize a little child in this manner? Who could steal their innocence? What kind of monster did this? I thought monsters weren't real? But you'd have to be a monster to cause this kind of damage to someone so pure and sweet.

   Taking a moment to wrap my head around what was about to happen caused my heart to race. My mind was spinning out of control. I wasn’t sure where I was and what I was doing there. I felt lost with the heavy burden of obligation and professionalism. I looked back at this little girl and saw her differently. I can’t put into words what I saw, a writer’s burden if ever there was, but words simply cannot explain the scene unfolding before me.

   Focusing upon her ever so delicate presence, and despite the horrible thing that was about to happen, I suddenly felt strangely calm. The spinning stopped abruptly. My strength was renewed instantly. I knew where I was and what needed to be done. Looking back, I’m certain it was a tender mercy from the Lord that came to me in the form of strength and clarity so that I might help His precious child.

   We resumed playing and giggling as she told me nonsensical, and imaginative stories that only a child could understand. As the nurse finished preparations, she approached gently and began to explain to our little patient what we would be doing. “I need this big strong man to hold your knees above your tummy. You need to hold real still as I place this tube into your private. It might hurt a little bit, but it will help you feel better. Can you be a brave big girl for me?”

   Our little girl furled her eyebrows in confusion and nodded unknowingly.

   The nurse helped me as we raised her legs up and back towards her chest. She positioned my hands firmly behind the little girl’s bent knees.

   (As I’m writing this, I should note the uncontrollable tears streaming down my face as I relive this experience. I hesitate to tell the details, but I believe people need to know.)

   I’ll never forget the change in her countenance and the look in her eyes as the nurse placed the catheter. Oh God, that dreadful look in her eyes that burns my soul. I can still see it.

   Moments before this, she was a smiling and giggling little girl that had given her reluctant trust to me. But as the catheter was placed, she looked back at me with an expression that told of deception and sadness. Her face confirmed to me that she had been through this painful violation before. Not from a catheter of a well-meaning nurse, but at the hands of disgusting men. Her look seemed as though in her mind she was once again being painfully violated by those she once trusted; she couldn’t understand why we had betrayed her; why these people around her were allowing this terrible thing to take place. 

   Her eyes pierced my soul and I felt as though suddenly I had become another one of those repulsive men who had hurt her so badly before. Gazing into her eyes I could see heavy clouds closing over the sun’s rays and drowning a valley below in darkness. The brilliant light that was once there, was now gone. The brilliant light was smothered with the cold shadows of abuse. I could almost hear my heart implode as I broke inside.

   Doing the right thing should have brought me comfort. I knew what I was doing would help her. But I also knew she couldn’t possibly understand that. How could she, she was only 4. With great despair, I also knew, that in that precious, little girl’s eyes, I had just become another one of the monsters that haunts her in the dark.

   When the procedure was complete, my little patient would no longer look at me. I excused myself from the room. The strength that had once lifted me so suddenly had now left abruptly, dropping me without remorse. I wandered the floor for a short while in a confused haze. I walked through the process over and over in my mind. Could I have done anything differently? Should I have stopped the procedure and insisted on some other option? Should I have yelled at her stupid mother in her McDonald’s uniform and made a big scene? I told myself over and over that I had done what was necessary to help this little girl. But it’s a haunting feeling to know that you are the darkness in a child’s nightmare.

   When I regained my senses, I found the nurse and questioned her about the frequency of cases like this little girl. She looked at me, and with a bit of her own broken soul she said, “Joe, (placing her hand on my shoulder) it happens all the time. Sometimes we see children like this every day.”

   Rage whirled violently within me. I asked myself, how was this possible? This was Davis County, Utah. This is supposed to be a safe community. This is a family-oriented community. How could little children be sexually abused so frequently as for it to become a routine in the local ED?

   Fast forward several years. Finishing my college degree, I found myself seeking some shadowing hours. I reached out to a company that helps save children from child sex trafficking around the world. They put me in touch with Ed. He helps with the recovery aspect of their efforts. He’s a well-known figure in Utah whose own daughter had been kidnapped and abused years before.

   I spent the day with Ed providing education about child sexual abuse at fundraisers. Part of his presentation included a digital map that played a 24-hour time lapse. He explained that there was software that could detect when a computer downloaded child pornography. For every 50 downloads within a geographical area, a red dot the size of a pin-head would appear on this digital map. In the 60-second 24-hour time-lapse used in his presentation, the map went from empty to almost completely red. It was covered in thousands of little red dots.

   As I gazed upon the map with horror, my mind replaced the red dots on the screen with images of my little patient and her haunting gaze.

   Time passed on. As opportunity would have it, I found myself sitting on a panel at the hospital where I worked in Emergency Management. We were talking to staff members about violence in the workplace. The hosts of the panel discussion were Social Workers. After the panel had concluded, one of them came to me and told me that if I ever had anything I needed to work through or talk about, particularly because of my line of work, that I could come to her and she would listen.

   The panel and discussion had nothing to do with my experience with that little girl from years ago. But this therapist approached me knowing that people who work in the world of emergencies often see tragedy and believe they are too tough to ask for help.

   As I mentioned before, over the years, like many others out there, I have witnessed some terrible things. Being a man of faith, I have found myself able to cope with much of what I have seen. It may bother me for a time, but eventually it all passes in my thoughts and I try to learn from my experiences. But this little girl, from that night in the ED so many years ago, haunted me for years.

   I’d wake up in the middle of the night crying uncontrollably. I’d have nightmares of staring into her eyes as I became a monster. I’d waken in a cold sweat with clenched fists. At any given moment, a memory of that night would return and my stomach tied into knots. Tears would stream profusely from my eyes and I couldn’t make it stop. I couldn’t talk to anyone about what had happened without breaking into tears. Hell, I couldn’t even think about this little girl for a split moment without tearing up. It seemed as though every child I saw reminded me of that little girl. Concealing my sudden crying spells from others took great effort.

   Not being a big fan of spilling my guts to a therapist, I initially resisted the invitation to go and talk with the Social Worker from the panel. However, recognizing that nothing I did seemed to help relieve the painful spells, I decided I would ask for help.

   We met in her office a day or two after I had called her. I didn’t really know what would happen or what I would even say. But she helped me to feel comfortable and I began to speak. Of course, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t resist crying as I unloaded my story onto her. I was a disgusting mess of running snot and soaking tears. I was a 270lb inconsolable baby. She listened quietly. She didn’t try to impart any of her “shrink garbage”. She simply listened. When I felt that I had finished talking, she would ask me a question or two. Questions about myself, questions about why I did my type of work, why I wanted to help others. Looking back, I honestly can’t really say exactly what she did or how she did it, but I chose to trust her as I cried hysterically for nearly an hour.

   When the conversation ended, I had come to understand more fully that I was not actually a monster; that I had only been trying to help that little girl. It sounds simple and obvious, but I finally understood it in a different way. Without my knowing it, that Social Worker’s “shrink garbage” had been deployed in full force. I came to terms with the visions in my memory and found peace in my faith of Heavenly Father’s plan. The pain and tears aren’t gone completely, but my ability to cope has increased.

   I know we are all children of God, but I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for little kids, particularly for little girls. In fact, when my wife and I started family planning, while most men want a little boy, I really wanted a little girl. There’s just something special about them that can’t be quantified. They really are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.

   When I think of little children, I often picture a scene depicted in the Book of Mormon of when Christ visits the people in the Americas. He takes the children into his arms and blesses them. Then the heavens open and angels descend down and encircle the little ones and minister unto them.


   Children are precious in the sight of the Lord. They have an innocence that can drown out the darkness of this world. I believe they are angels we can see with our eyes. They may not have wings and halos, and they may not sprinkle magic dust all around, but their light is divine. Their love has the power to bring us closer to our Lord. It has the power to fill us with pure joy.

   The special kind of love we feel for our own children is as close as one can get, on this earth, to understanding godly love; The depth of love that our Savior and our Heavenly Father have for us.

   There’s a painting in my daughter’s room titled “Expressions of Christ” by David Bowman. It depicts the Savior embracing a little girl with her head resting upon his shoulder. They hold each other tightly with eyes closed. It’s the pure love of Christ comforting one of his precious angels.

   As I look back upon the terror this little girl in my story has faced, and the little red-dots of abuse covering that digital map, I think of the painting on my daughter’s wall. I imagine the happy day when the Lord will once again embrace His precious little ones and welcome them home from the relentless storm called life.

   I am grateful for the kindness of that Social Worker who gave of her time freely, forever easing the agony of my turmoil.

   I often marvel on the special gift of God’s precious children that he entrusts to all of us. Will their life on earth be welcomed with loving, protective embrace? Or will it be wrought with abuse and pain? I tremble to say it’s both.

   When we welcome these precious gifts and care for them with love and tenderness, they bless our lives with a heavenly magnitude. In direct contrast of such glorious love and emotion, when we harm or abuse these precious souls, something breaks within our world that cannot be mended alone. It’s a lasting wound in our hearts designed to be carried as an endless burden for harming one of God’s little ones. Notice for yourself, when there’s tragedy in the news about a child being abused or killed, we all hurt. We may not know that child or their family, but the pain felt by the community is real. I have come to know this divine enigma as the curse of angels.

   I think of that little girl often. I know her as one of God’s special souls that will one day find peace and love that heals all wounds. This truth sustains me, and many others; God will heal the wounds of the innocent. And though this healing may not come in our desired time frame, it will come. And it will be more than enough for those who have been harmed. That’s the beauty of the atonement. That’s the reason we celebrate and honor the Savior. He KNOWS their suffering and only He has the power to make them whole once again. Only He can end this curse. This world would be too much to bare were it not for our Savior Jesus Christ, and our loving Heavenly Father.

I still find myself excited each time I hear or see sirens passing by. I still see those men and women as true heroes without the capes and tights. But I also worry for them. I have had a glimpse of the terrible things they see everyday. I know that their lives are forever impacted by the things nightmares are made of. I worry that they don't talk about what keeps them up at night. I hope and pray that they will find peace and comfort. I love them for their efforts and encourage them to tell their own stories. What I didn't know as a child I know now with certainty, a heroes cape is soaked with tears.