The Doctor And The Bus

A doctor receives a doctor's bag from his father and starts driving to a conference. He picks up a hitchhiking boy who leads him to a crashed school bus. The doctor helps the injured children and discovers that the hitchhiker boy was killed in the crash. The doctor tries to call for help but his cell phone doesn't work. The policeman believes it was a tragedy and a miracle that the doctor was there to help. The doctor gives the policeman his father's number to explain the situation. Proof of Afterlife, the Condenser Series from Sceario.com You will believe. The Doctor and the Bus I heard this told as a true story from my golf buddy, a minister. I've looked everywhere to find it anywhere else. If you know anything about this story, please contact GQ at Sceario.com, that's GQ at Sceario.com. I was packing my trunk to leave for a conference in Lake Tahoe when my dad shouted, Hey, pal, from behind me, locking up the drive with a classic bag for house calls. He had a big smile on his face when he took the bag in both hands, hoisted it up to my face for me to see my name, Ross Tilson, MD, in gold-stamped letters. He put it in my trunk next to my suitcases and hugged me. Listen, I know you're a research doctor and I know you think that's all you are, or that you're not the guy to run a medical practice, but you are a doctor and there can be more fulfillment than, you know, healing and helping another person when they can't help themselves. I want you to have this with you. I know he does lots of charity work, Doctors Without Borders and other causes, too, but I like academia and doing research, so I smiled, thanked my dad, he means well, and he's been the best dad. I want to make him happy, but I don't like blood, I don't like fevers, colds, snot and smells. Maybe I don't like people, or at least sick ones. I do like the bag, it's really cool. I opened it while still loading my trunk and I see the stethoscope, suturing tray, the classic sphygmomanometer, or blood pressure cuff, it all makes me smile, it is really cool. Never occurred to me to get one, but I sure do love it. It's great, Dad, I would never have gotten one on my own. I don't tell him that I hope I never use it. Climbing in my car, I start a pleasant drive from Davis, California, through the state capital, Sacramento, up through Auburn, up into little towns like Colfax and Dutch Flat, before Truckee and turning south to Tahoe. I stop for coffee in Auburn, enjoying the already cooler temperature and the hills, the huge valley oaks and fresh air. I relish this highway. My car is a perk I allow myself, since I ride my bike to work, and often work from home, but on a highway, I have twin turbos and four hundred ponies. Every curve is an adventure, all the steep climbs a thrill like a roller coaster. It takes a few hours, door to door, from my house to Tahoe, but these miles melt away like butter in the hot sun. The oaks give way gradually to evergreens, tall and thick, invading my car with fresh pine aroma. I know there are lots of firs, and sometimes ponderosa and spruce along the road, and once I see those, I know I will see the granite peaks begin to appear in the distance, tall and marbled and jagged. Now I'm in a new world, roaring along, but under the speed limit, I swear, I see a kid hitchhiking, a little guy, about ten or eleven. No way! He looks me straight in the face, nodding at me, and even holds up his hand. Damn, I don't believe it, but I have to stop, give him a ride and a stern talking to not to hitch rides, that it's a dangerous world and all, but he's already climbing in. I barely stopped and he's in, strapped in and nodding urgently ahead, as if to say, get going. Okay, kid, we're going, don't you worry. I hit the gas, hoping he'll give an appreciative smile, or some other sign the power of my car has impressed him. Nothing. He's stoic, staring out of the windshield, biting his lip nervously. What the hell kind of trouble is this kid in, anyway? Coming up to a dirt road, he begins rocking in his seat and gesturing with his head. Not a sound comes out of him, only the movement. What is he, mute or something? I turn onto the road he seems to indicate, just creeping along. It's winding and tightly wooded with pines on both sides. You could meet yourself coming around some of these corners, and I worry there may be something larger coming the other way. It's graded nicely for a dirt road, and I know lots of people live up here. We're near a steep drop-off on our right side when he nods emphatically over the ledge, bouncing up and down. I look for a cabin, a shack, anything, but I see nothing. He's already out of the car, and I follow him quickly because he's headed for the ledge. And then I see it, a school bus, off the road and headed down the steep cliff, stopped predictably by a large pine. I can hear there are people in the bus, and the sounds are not good, groaning and crying. I run to my trunk, grab my brand new and ironically unwanted doctor bag. There are cuts, a broken wrist, lots of split lips where the kid's face has hit the backs of the seats in front of them. The driver, overweight and about seventy years old is dead, slumped over the steering wheel I suspect a heart attack. He veered off the road and was probably dead before he hit the tree. I call for help, describing where I am the best I can. Yes, above Colfax, off Magra Road, south of there. It's got a steep ledge off to the right. My black car is up on the road. The bus is down about thirty meters. We need to move about thirty kids, and they need water and medical. One fatality, the driver. I'm in the middle of wrapping my third sobbing spring victim when a policeman starts trotting down the steep embankment. I heard the call and I knew right where you were. I used to ride the same bus as a kid. I told dispatch where we are, just be a few minutes. More first responders, two fire trucks, several ambulances and police. They begin taking the unhurt kids away and loading the injured ones onto stretchers, but then there's more wailing up near the front of the bus, and two medics call for another stretcher. A cop is climbing the hill, shaking his head. I gotta call this in, we've got another fatality. When they pulled the driver from his seat, they found a little kid. He must have tried to steer the bus when the driver had his heart attack. He's dead, crushed against the steering wheel by the large man falling onto him. That's one brave little guy, I thought, doing what he could to help. Certainly terrified when all this happened, I bet. I watched them carefully maneuver the long stretcher down the bus steps. A person half the size of a man under a blanket. Two medics and two policemen are solemn, slowly bringing him up the steep hill now to the ambulance, and I have to see him better. I want to see him, so I walk closer and lift the blanket corner, and my blood runs ice cold. I don't say a word to anyone. Someone's talking behind me, and I can't understand them. It's like I'm in a dream. This little boy is the hitchhiker I picked up, who wouldn't talk to me, who never made a single sound, but he got me here with my brand new doctor bag to help a busload of injured kids, a hero even beyond his own death. I've been in constant motion for hours, calming and bandaging kids, helping the responders. Time has flown by since the young student climbed into my car, and it's twilight now, the sun turning the sky beautiful shades of red and orange. Suddenly I feel tired, relieved, and mystified, all in a rush. The policeman's voice comes through to me, finally. Dr. Tilson, do you want to use my radio to contact anyone, tell them you're going to be late? No, no, thank you. I have my cell. Your cell won't work up here in the sticks, Dr. Tilson. You can radio, and dispatch will call whoever you want for you. What? It has to work. This cell phone is what I use to call all of you to come up here. I open my flip phone, push my dad's number. I want to tell him what's happened first. But there's no signal. The cop is right. I don't have a single bar of signal. I look at him. But I swear, this is how I called all of you. Oh, I believe you. This crash has a feeling of a tragedy and a miracle all at the same time. These kids were lucky a doctor happened by. What were you doing way out here anyway? Did you have a patient? Yeah, turns out I had about 30 of them. I try to chuckle with the cop, but he can tell I'm exhausted, really shaken up. I give him my father's number, tell him to ask dispatch to explain the situation. I think my dad will be about as amazed as I am. We hope you've enjoyed this podcast from Scerio.com. Copyright 2020, Scerio.com. Some content used with permission from various authors.