Kevin WhitsellKevin Whitsell is a 20-year veteran paramedic and firefighter and the founder and host of “A Silent War Within,” a podcast dedicated to confronting and destigmatizing mental health challenges among first responders and healthcare professionals. A Mississippi native, Whitsell spent years in critical care transport, including pediatric and neonatal patients, before moving into supervisory roles. His advocacy is rooted in his own journey through the mental health struggles that come with the job. He can be reached at [email protected] or at asilentwarwithin.com.
By Kevin Whitsell
Most of my Delta memories involve sweltering heat, but this particular call happened on a cold, bitter winter day. I was still working as an EMT at the time, paired up with a paramedic who stood about 5 foot 6 and weighed maybe 140 pounds soaking wet. I, on the other hand, have always been a pretty large guy. Because of our size difference, my partner had a standing rule: I always had to walk up to the door first. His logic was simple. If someone decided to start trouble, they would target me first, giving him enough time to turn around and run.
Sunlight had just faded over the Mississippi Delta, which is always when the calls start stacking up. Dispatch keyed the mic and sent us to a house just a few miles from the station for a report of a person exhibiting strange behavior. In our line of work, that complaint is a complete wildcard. It could mean a psychiatric crisis, severe intoxication, or a sudden metabolic issue. Because we operated in a high-poverty, high-crime area near our station, running routine calls in those neighborhoods was our bread and butter.
When we pulled up to the dark house, law enforcement was not on scene. In that part of the state, police officers did not routinely respond to standard medical calls with us. Keeping with our tradition, I walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.
The door swung open, and out stepped a man who was easily 6 foot 7 and weighed somewhere around 350 pounds. Before I could even introduce myself or state why we were there, he reached out, grabbed me by my uniform, lifted my nearly 300-pound frame completely over his head, and launched me off the porch into the front yard like a WWE wrestler.
I hit the grass, and instantly we realized we were in a fight for our lives.
Luckily, we happened to have a paramedic student riding clinical hours with us that shift. Thank God he was there, because what followed was a grueling, seven-minute brawl just to survive. The man refused to let us retreat to our truck. He hit us, kicked us, threw us, and spit on us. In the middle of the chaotic scuffle, I managed to reach my radio, press the emergency button, and scream for immediate law enforcement assistance.
In that neighborhood, response times could be slow. It took seven agonizing minutes for the police to arrive and help us subdue him. By the time the scene was secure, I had sustained a fractured orbital socket (a break in the bony structure surrounding the eyeball), a bloody nose, busted lips, and severe trauma to my ear. We later found out the man was high on PCP, also known as phencyclidine (a powerful dissociative hallucinogen that can produce intense psychosis, complete insensitivity to pain, and perceived superhuman strength).
We managed to get him transported in another unit, and my crew went straight to the emergency room to be treated for our own injuries. But the most infuriating part of the entire night did not happen on that porch. It happened in the hospital hallway.
A supervisor arrived at the hospital, pulled us aside, and explicitly told us that we were not allowed to press charges because our company did not press charges on patients.
I looked him in the eye and pushed back hard. I made it crystal clear that the moment that man laid hands on us, he ceased to be a patient. He became an active aggressor, and our physical safety superseded everything else. I refused to let corporate policy erase our humanity. My partners and I went against the grain, filed the police reports, and pressed full charges. That man is still serving his sentence in the Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman today for assault on healthcare workers and public officials.
While we can laugh about the sheer absurdity of being thrown off a porch all these years later, the underlying reality is far from funny. For decades, first responders and healthcare workers have faced an absurd expectation to absorb physical violence as just part of the job. We are expected to accept bodily harm, brush it off, and get back in service.
It is always okay to defend yourself. It is always okay to draw a line when your life is threatened. The physical and mental scars from calls like that stay with you, leaving a permanent reminder to protect yourself.
That issue is why we frequently discuss workplace violence and self-preservation on our podcast, A Silent War Within. We are human beings inside those uniforms. We deserve to go home safely at the end of our shift, and no job description requires you to become a punching bag.
