LOS ANGELES — After the call came about a gunman at the North Valley Jewish Community Center, paramedic Todd Carb drove the ambulance with such intensity that his partner turned to him and said, only half joking, “Don’t get us killed.”
“I was anxious, because I knew it was a JCC, and we’re aware of what hate groups have done recently,” said Carb, 40, who used to attend Jewish singles dances at the NVJCC and is still a member of his childhood synagogue, Temple Beth Emet in Burbank.
“When we arrived on the scene, it was absolute chaos,” the paramedic recalled. “Even though police said the area was secure, all the officers were running around with their guns drawn and their eyes huge, so it was clear the situation was not static.”
Carb realized there was a chance the gunman was still on the premises. But he and his partner that day, Danny Jordan, also of L.A. Fire Department Station 87 in Northridge, didn’t hesitate to enter the building.
“We knew that patients were likely to be inside, and that some of them could be children, so we were chomping at the bit to get in there and start working,” Carb said. Seconds later, he was kneeling beside Benjamin Kadish, 5, who had suffered bullet wounds to the abdomen and left thigh.
Blood was everywhere. Benjamin’s eyes were glazed and he was in shock, sweating profusely with no discernible pulse in his wrist. Carb was unable to work an IV into his deflating veins. The boy had minutes to live.
“There was no way he was going to survive a trip to UCLA or Children’s Hospital, so we rushed him to Providence Holy Cross in Mission Hills,” the paramedic said. “As we raced back to the JCC, I started fuming, not only as a paramedic but as a Jew dealing with [the aftermath of] someone who had targeted my people,” said Carb, who endured anti-Semitism as a child in Sun Valley, Idaho, when teenagers repeatedly tried to set fire to his house.
“I was offended that children had been shot at, and I was even more offended that they had been shot at because they were Jewish,” he said. “I said out loud, ‘What kind of monster could do something like this?'”
While working on patients, however, Carb kept his cool; 19 years with the fire department has taught him that emotions can wreak havoc with one’s medical judgment.
“Because it’s natural to feel particular emotion about the little ones, I had to work harder to distance myself,” he admitted. A “stress debriefing” session with colleagues and a fire department psychologist the night of the shooting helped Carb process his feelings.
During Shabbat services tonight at Carb’s synagogue, congregants will honor the paramedic for his work. But he doesn’t see himself as a hero. “We were just doing what we were trained to do,” he said. “But I have to say, the fact Benjamin Kadish is still alive is so rewarding. When you have the chance to help save a life, it makes up for all the negative and trying times we have as paramedics.”