Choke Hold
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

A 911 call comes in for a respiratory emergency at Floyd Bennett Field, the huge aviation field next to Marine Park in Brooklyn. The Police Department runs training drills there, so I figure this is going to be another cop with asthma. It’s fall, and the cold air generally sets off a lot of attacks.
A But when we get to the gate the security guard tells us to head straight for Area C, the U.S. Marine base.
We drive about an eighth of a mile and round a bend to see a platoon of marines on the field dressed in fatigues and olive-green T-shirts, apparently just finishing physical training. Their sergeant, a short man with bristly hair, tells us to go to Building B.
“Just past the barracks,” he says in a thick Southern accent, the kind I’ve heard only in movies. Though it’s American, his accent sounds more alien to me than the foreign accents I hear regularly during the course of my day.
My partner, Bronson, and I grab our equipment and jog towards Building B. A young female marine with a blonde ponytail and the same molasses ac cent explains the situation while jogging alongside us.
“We were practicing hand-to-hand martial arts combat,” she says, “and Davis got Nash in a choke hold. From behind him,” she mimics the movement. “The crook of Davis’s arm is supposed to leave space for the trachea while the forearm and upper arm squeeze the carotid arteries. It’s an effective way to down your enemy without seriously harming him. But Davis got it wrong, and his forearm pressed against Nash’s windpipe, so when he squeezed -“
“He crushed the trachea,” I finished. This can be serious. The trachea is a hollow tube protected by rings of cartilage. If these rings bruise, swell, or bleed, they can occlude the airway.
“He’s having trouble breathing,” she says.
Inside, we find Nash lying on a stretcher with an oxygen mask strapped to his face. His throat is red and he’s sweaty and has bits of grass stuck to his fatigues. But he’s talking, which shows his airway is patent. And he’s speaking in full sentences, which means he’s getting adequate volume into his lungs. A quick set of vitals tells me he’s stable, and a quick listen to his lungs shows he’s got good air exchange. Bronson and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Nash,” I say. “Does it hurt?”
Marines are trained to take pain, so his honest Midwestern “Yeah” means a lot.
His oxygen is being managed by Davis, who’s got an FDNY tattoo on his forearm. He tells me what happened in a Brooklyn accent that’s startling after the Southern twangs of the others.
“Don’t know how I could have made such a dumb mistake,” he says. “I was with EMS before I enlisted. I know where the trachea is.”
I laugh and ask him whether he wants his old job back.
“I’m a field medic now,” he says. “We ship out next month.” The military offers qualified EMTs both the training and the opportunity to serve as a paramedic. “Afterwards,” he says, “they’ll pay for medical school.”
I tell him that sounds like a terrific plan.
Davis helps me and Bronson get Nash into the ambulance, which turns out to be a fiasco. Our bus is brand-new, with a state-of-the-art stretcher I’m unfamiliar with, and Nash gets bumped around. “We really do know what we’re doing,” I whisper to him.
Nash stares up at the state-of-the-art halogen ceiling lights while I wave goodbye to Davis and tell him to take care. Bronson drives, and I start my paperwork while monitoring Nash’s airway and breathing. “Date of birth?” I ask. “November 26, 1983.”
He turned 18 in 2001. “You enlisted because of the Towers?”
His speech is muffled under the oxygen mask. “Went to college first,” he says. “Chemistry. After I serve, the Corps will pay for grad school. Researching bio-terrorism antidotes.”
I bring myself back to my chart. “Any medical history?”
He laughs. “Got your pen ready?”
I pretend to lick the tip. “Go ahead.”
“Rheumatoid arthritis, right hip. Surgery, left shoulder, three pins. Acid reflux. And my hands sometimes go numb – doctors aren’t sure why.”
I blink. He appears in excellent health: good physique, bright eyes – your typical Midwestern boy-next-door. “I thought Marines were supposed to be super-healthy.”
He laughs. “Ha. Oh, and asthma.”
I write everything down. “Any meds?”
“Just an asthma pump.”
“How often?”
“Before a long run, say twice a week.”
I fill in my chart, shaking my head. This guy probably struggled through basic training, and will certainly struggle in the Middle East. One dust storm and he’ll have an asthma attack.
Of course he knows what I’m thinking. “I always carry my pump,” he says.
But that’s the least of it. “One wrong hit to the shoulder and your pins will come out,” I say.
He grins. “All the more reason not to get hit.” I continue my chart, coming to the box marked Next of Kin.
“Who should I put?” I ask. “Mother? Father?”
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply into his oxygen mask. “Shirley,” he says. “My wife.”
Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY.This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.