A Guest Post by Claudette Scheffold
EDITOR'S NOTE: A version of the following post first published on Claudette's Medium page on October 29, 2020. This updated version of her essay has been edited for brevity and clarity. We again thank Claudette for allowing us to share another remembrance of her father here on the Daddying blog, especially during a time when the work of fire fighters and other first responders has never been more critical and deserving of our gratitude:
My father, Fred Scheffold, was a Battalion Chief in East Harlem and a 32-year veteran of the New York City Fire Department when he was killed by terrorists at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. He lived his entire life – personal and professional – guided by his oath to protect lives and property. He also had an unwavering moral compass and put the care and safety of others above all else.
Trying to live up to the ideals modeled by my dad has never been easy. So many times, I would have preferred to put on blinders and ignore what was going on around me. Most of those times, I couldn't. The way I was raised, and maybe my Catholic upbringing, prevent me from standing by and doing nothing when someone is in trouble.
The summer before my dad died, I was living with my parents while I attended graduate school. One night in June, after a pizza dinner with my sister and her husband near their apartment in Connecticut, my mom and I were driving home to Piermont, NY on the Cross Westchester Expressway. It was still light out — early evening — when a car cut across three lanes of traffic directly in front of us. Its tires squealed and sparks flew. The car spun around on the grassy divider to our right and hit a concrete sign post broadside. The passenger in the back seat was ejected from the car and flew 20 yards through the air before he landed on the ground.
I’d never seen a human body hurtle through the air in such violent fashion (and I will never forget). I watched in silent horror before yelling, “Stop! Stop! Pull over!”
My mom’s instincts were the same as mine and she immediately pulled over while I called 911. As I desperately tried to relay our exact location to the 911 dispatcher, my mom and I ran to the man who had been ejected and was lying on the grass. He was bloody, swollen and barely conscious – moaning and trying to move. He was also barefoot — he must have been ejected with such force through the back windshield that he lost his shoes.
We kneeled next to him, prayed Hail Marys, and tried to offer some comfort until the ambulance arrived. My mom covered him with a blanket she found in the trunk of our car. My heart pounded as I rested my hands on the man’s forearm and tried to let him know he was not alone.
The 911 operator told me to check on the other people involved in the accident, so I left my mom with the man on the ground and raced to where the car had stopped. My heart felt like it could pound straight out of my body. Around a dozen others stood near a woman who was lying unconscious just outside the front of the car.
The 911 operator asked if anyone had checked her pulse. Someone had, and her heart wasn’t beating. He said I needed to start CPR. The people around me said they had tried but it didn’t work; she was dead. I relayed this to the 911 operator, who by then knew my name.
Despite what the others had said, he insisted, “Claudette, you need to start CPR, now.”
I felt wholly unequipped to try to resuscitate this poor woman’s heart – foolish for even considering it. I felt too inexperienced, self-conscious, and just plain young. He said he would talk me through it. Even though my dad had trained my sisters and me many years before when we were kids, I lacked confidence. At 25, in that moment, I still had the mindset of a kid — there were older, "legitimate" grown-ups around me who said they already tried but failed.
To this day, I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t try CPR again because I was embarrassed.
Then I heard sirens. The ambulance seemed to be very close, and the 911 operator must have heard the sirens too because he didn’t pressure me. It seemed as if hours passed before rescue workers finally arrived and began working on the two victims. The driver was unscathed. Months later, my mother and I learned both passengers had died.
Once the police arrived, we recounted everything to them. A reporter was also on the scene and I shared my story. Then we returned to our car — shaken and upset. Looking back, I don’t know how my mom was able to drive us home. I’d never encountered anything close to the accident and aftermath we had just lived through.
The image of the man’s body in the air is forever seared in my brain. I will never forget the feeling of the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
By the time we got home, I was distraught and crying. I felt helpless at the accident scene, and the only tool I had in my arsenal was prayer. My lack of confidence and fear held me back from trying to help in any life-saving way. I wished I’d known what to do while the man was on the ground. I wished I’d tried to do more for the woman. All I wanted was to talk to my dad and tell him what had happened. But I was too embarrassed to even call the firehouse through my tears — in case someone other than my dad answered. My mom made the call.
I wished I’d known what to do while the man was on the ground. I wished I’d tried to do more for the woman. All I wanted was to talk to my dad and tell him what had happened. But I was too embarrassed to even call the firehouse through my tears — in case someone other than my dad answered.
On the phone, I shared with my dad how I’d felt so frantic — how I had run to the man on the ground but didn’t know what to do once I got there, and felt as if my head was going to pop off. I could feel his composure through the phone. “You have to stay cool. When something like that happens, the most important thing is for you to be calm.”
I told him I didn’t try CPR on the woman. If he was disappointed in me, he didn’t let on. He reassured me we did all the right things. We tried to help. We stopped the car immediately. I called 911 and talked the operator through the scene. My mom thought of the blanket. We tried to render comfort to a dying man. He validated that I did the things I knew how to do.
The very next day, I signed up for a CPR and First Aid class at the Red Cross. I wanted to be prepared if I ever found myself in a similar situation again.
I have high expectations of myself — I’m Freddie’s daughter after all. I aspire to be like him and make him proud. My dad was easier on me. He understood the difference between what a trained, professional life-saver can do versus a terrified lay person.
To me, he was always a civilian and I don’t think I ever fully grasped the depth of his life-saving training and skills. How maybe it didn’t come naturally to him to remain calm in dire situations. Maybe it took time, training, and a lot of experience. How administering CPR and First Aid were skills he cultivated over years, not over a few sessions with three sisters on the floor of our living room.
My mother shared with me that my dad completed far more training than was required of firemen. As part of his specialized training, he spent many nights volunteering in the emergency room at Harlem Hospital in the early 1980s. She said he loved it.
To this day, I am still disappointed in myself for not trying CPR that evening. I don’t want to let myself off easy. I feel as if I could have done more but I didn’t and have to live with wondering if I could have made a difference.
As I’ve gotten older, I try to focus on the things I can do to help in a crisis. I never shy away from calling 911 if I see someone on the street who looks like they need help. One afternoon I helped a new mom with her baby on a hot summer day when she fainted on my corner on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. We’ve since become friendly, and I like knowing I was able to help her, a stranger in need. And one of the many wonderful things about New York City, where I live, is that the police, fire department and EMS respond within a couple of minutes.
Growing up, my father’s bravery and sense of civic duty were ever-present and not something he turned off because he was off-duty. I was 17 before it clicked for me when writing a college application essay. The essay called for me to write two to three pages about someone I admired. I decided to write about my dad.
When I was a teenager, my father and I didn’t always get along, but mostly it was because of my poor attitude. (Perhaps you’ve heard a thing or two about the difficult teenage girl years.) I wrote my college essay about my father’s repeated acts of bravery at work but also in everyday life — how he was always willing to help someone, to put a stranger above himself. I asked him to read it before I sent it. I was a little surprised by his reaction. He put it on the bed and was about to walk out of my room without saying anything. So I asked what he thought. He said, “It’s good,” and nothing more. I hope he was honored by my words. I hope he was touched, and the essay clearly expressed the feelings I’d had for 17 years but had never told him.
I hope he was proud of himself.
Of course, at times, my dad’s moral compass could be plain annoying – unwavering, black and white. While stuck in traffic once as someone tried to sneak back in after passing cars from the shoulder, my father refused to let this car in and became agitated over this cheater. I said, “Does it really matter? Who cares if one person tries to get in?”
My father exploded, “Of course it matters! It’s appeasement! If someone had stood up to Hitler when the Nazis marched into the Rhineland, maybe we could have avoided World War II.” At the time, that seemed a stretch for me. I had trouble drawing the line between one person sneaking into traffic and an entire world war. Then again, I was a teenager when he made the analogy. Now, I see what he was saying. We can’t stand by and appease those who do the wrong thing. If we look the other way, if we pretend we don’t notice, we rationalize and sanction bad behavior. One act of appeasement leads to another and small acts can lead to big consequences.
We are all called to look after one another but also we are all called to stand up for the greater good.
Once, my father had used all his skills to try to save a stranger’s life at Great Adventure. From watching that, I learned that if I had something to offer a person in distress, it’s my obligation as a human being to do it. It’s also my obligation to look out for my community, in general. To be aware and vigilant. To notice what’s going on around me and act on matters that I can positively affect.
As Freddie’s daughter, I won’t turn a blind eye to things when they don’t seem right. I will step in or I will call for help. As Freddie’s daughter, I will do what I can to stop people from being taken advantage of. As Freddie’s daughter, I won’t tolerate cheaters and liars. As Freddie’s daughter, I will remember my moral compass. As Freddie’s daughter, I will stand firm when faced with a choice between right and wrong. As Freddie’s daughter, I will choose goodness and morality and I think you should too.
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Resources to find factual info about CA wildfire relief efforts, support First Responders, and help families affected by the ongoing disaster:
LA Works – Central hub providing links to organizations active in local disaster relief and guidance on other ways to help
Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation – Ways to donate and offer support to firefighters and paramedics across the City of Los Angeles
211 LA – Providing temporary housing assistance for displaced wildfire victims with help from Airbnb
SoCal GoFundMe – for impacted families and first responders
World Central Kitchen – Meals for first responders and families impacted by the wildfires
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Claudette Scheffold is a nonprofit professional with over two decades of experience. She and her husband are the proud parents of two school-aged children. Claudette has written a memoir about losing her father, FDNY Battalion Chief Fred Scheffold, in the World Trade Center attacks on 9/11. Excerpts of the memoir can be found on Claudette’s Medium page. In her free time, she coaches the track team at her children’s middle school and runs in Central Park with her tireless Australian shepherd, Sadie. She lives in Manhattan with her family.
