“They rest in honour; may they rest in peace.”

These were the words of British Columbia Lieutenant-Governor Iona Campagnolo speaking of the two paramedics killed in the line of duty. The memorial service for the four victims of the Sullivan Mine tragedy was held on May 29 in the town of Kimberley, BC. In further reference to the men and women of the British Columbia Ambulance Service, she said: “All of them are part of the heroic brotherhood and sisterhood of keeping people safe.”

On May 17, 2006, two paramedics with BCAS died in the line of duty while attempting to rescue two mine workers who had collapsed inside a small enclosed shed. The official records will reflect that the four died from an “oxygen deficient” environment, but the cause of that circumstance is still not fully understood. Nor, perhaps, may it ever be.

What is certain is that Kim Weitzel, 44, and Shawn Currier, 21, started their shift in Kimberley, BC, on May 17 as they did any other. They could not have known that this shift would be their last. Nor could they have imagined or foreseen that an unexplained specter would visit them and take their lives on an otherwise routine call.

Therein lies the story of the courage and the tragedy of their lives and deaths. And, maybe, ours.

* * *

I was sitting at home on Wednesday, May 17, reading email on my notebook computer. In amongst it all was a memo from Toronto EMS Chief Bruce Farr. Reading it, I first learned of the tragic events in Kimberley that morning.

I recall that my heart sank and I felt an immediate sense of grief and loss. For a moment I had an uneasy feeling and worried that maybe I knew one or both of them, as I know a number of BCAS paramedics. It was a day or more before I learned their identities. And while knowing took away the fear that it was a friend of mine, my sense of loss was still profound, knowing that two colleagues had been killed in the line of duty. The tragedy came home even more when I realized that the call to the Sullivan Mine heralded no hint of danger. Just a routine call. This tragic event could have happened to any of us—even me.

As paramedics, we seldom stop to think about how dangerous our job is. It’s not productive to do so; to remind oneself about the risks and dangers inherent in our work. And it is dangerous. According to US statistics, we are almost as likely to be killed on the job as police officers or firefighters. We have a three-fold increased chance of dying in a motor vehicle accident. We are exposed to dangers seen and unseen. Some dangers we can’t see, like disease-causing pathogens. Most dangers on the job, though, are visible. They are in-your-face kind of dangers, like violent patients, hostile crowds, dangerous highway environments, raging rivers, extremes in heat or cold, collapsed buildings, construction sites. They announce their presence and advertise their dangers. Most dangers are honest about what they are and don’t veil themselves in the innocuous cloak of docility and serenity—like a ten foot by ten foot shed. They jump out at us, loom over us, beckon us to our deaths like a siren at sea. They make us frightened. They scare the crap out of us. Fear makes us mindful and cautious. Fear saves our lives.

What is so frightening about the deaths of Kim Weitzel and Shawn Currier is that their lives were taken by a ghost in the darkness, an unexplainable lack of oxygen in a shed that stood beckoning them inside with open doors. How can you be afraid of a shed?

In my twenty-three years in this wonderful, awful profession I have feared for my life at least a handful of times. Once high above the streets of Toronto at the top of the Scotia Plaza as it was being built, climbing out onto a plank to retrieve bodies from a construction elevator that crashed through the top of its elevator shaft after the counter brakes failed. And then again while descending within that elevator’s sister elevator back to the ground with a critically-injured construction worker. Once as I sat perched on the roof of a small, crushed sports car, reaching down through the sun roof to stabilize the mangled jaw of the female driver and provide c-spine support, while the car fifteen feet to my left caught fire, burned and exploded. Once more when my partner and I arrived first on scene of a house explosion and fire and were told that there was a baby on the second floor that didn’t get out with its mother; and then made the decision to enter the residence, its walls blown outwards, the structure burning and unstable. Then one more time when we went to the rescue of a man being beaten to death inside his home. Again, we arrived first on scene to be met by his wife and children—all in pyjamas—standing on the curb, sobbing and wailing, begging us to go save him. How could we not? We entered that house, descended into the dark basement, and interrupted the assailant who now was about to administer the final deadly kicks to the victim’s head. Somehow, we subdued him. Somehow, he wasn’t armed with a gun or a knife. Somehow, we survived.

Sitting here reliving these incidents it would be easy to judge my actions as having been reckless and without due regard for my personal safety, but I can tell you that I am not a reckless medic. Sometimes, a situation compels us to act in a way that goes against the textbook.

But a shed?

Courage is overcoming one’s fear to act when threatened; to face danger and then defeat it. It takes a brave person to do this job. Every medic I’ve ever known meets this challenge daily.

Kim Weitzel and Shawn Currier were these kinds of medics. They accepted their job and welcomed the challenges it would present. They accepted the work as being inherently full of risk and danger. They acted as servants of their community, prepared to do whatever it took to care for the people in their charge. And because of this, they are heroes. Not because they took risks on a daily basis. Not because they crawled through flames to get at patients. But because at some point in their lives they each said, “I want to help. I want to help and I accept the risks that so doing entails.”

As Ambulance Paramedics of B.C. President John Strohmaier said, “They’re not heroes because of that one day, but because of the choices they made every day.”

In the words of Jordan Pyke, a friend of Currier’s, “This shows tragically that he was willing to do anything to save the life of a stranger.” Truly, the mindset of a hero.

* * *

The memorial is over. The throngs have gone home. Kimberley is getting back to normal and slowly recovering from the loss of four of its finest citizens. Every day, paramedics across this country go to work, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

This job will always be populated by men and women who embody the spirit of these two fine paramedics. We live life as fully as we can, because we know how tentatively we grasp the bonds that hold us here alive. We breathe the air a little deeper, because we know the value of every breath. We hold friends and acquaintances close, because we know the meaning of a life fully shared.

Kim and Shawn challenge us to be the best we can be, by their lives and by their sacrifice. Let us honour them by renewing our commitment to our profession, our friends and our families.

Life is too short not to be lived well. Kim and Shawn, you showed us courage, conviction, duty, grace and compassion. We honour you.