When George Wager realized that his dog carried more emergency identification than his children did, he decided to do something about it. What he did can save your child's life

Have You Tagged Your

Kids Today?  

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BY JEFF BLYSKAL AND

MARIE HODGE  

A GREAT MANY people knew Kirsten Sweat, a third-grader from Cincinnati's Hyde Park community. But for two terrifying hours on January 26, 1982, Kirsten Sweat, nine, became Jane Doe—Parents: unknown. Home: unknown. Medical history: unknown.

She had fallen asleep on the school bus going home and, awakened by friends, was confused and got off 13 blocks ahead of her stop. She decided to find her own way on foot. Then, as she darted across three lanes of traffic, a car hit her.

Unconscious and suffering from cerebral contusions, internal bleeding, and multiple cuts and abrasions, Kirsten was rushed to a hospital, where her immediate life-threatening injuries were treated. But further treatment and tests were held up for more than an hour—until she could be identified and a parent found to give consent for the operation.

Each year minors suffer more than 20 million injuries, 8000 of them fatal. Unless the child is in danger of dying, doctors often will not operate or treat injuries without the consent of a parent or legal guardian—that of a baby-sitter, day-care worker, teacher or even a relative frequently does not count. Doctors prefer parental consent to avoid costly malpractice litigation. Thus, crucial medical treatment can be delayed while working parents or parents temporarily out of the home are tracked down.

Kirsten survived, but suffered brain damage. Whether earlier identification and parental consent might have produced a different outcome is unknown. But Kirsten now wears a tiny tag on her shoelace that will allow doctors to act immediately in any future emergency.

The tag is a gift from George Wager of Buena Park, Calif. Three years ago, he quit his job and plunged his family deeply in debt in order to give such tags away free.

The Wager Lifesaver tag is a piece of durable, non-erasable, water-proof material that can be sewn into a child's clothing or attached to shoelaces. It is no bigger than the washing-instructions tag found in-side most garments, yet it has space for important information, including a parent's signature authorizing doctors to "do whatever is deemed necessary to insure the safety of the child" (see box, page 82).

A rumpled 40-year-old who made a living designing advertising giveaway promotions, Wager came up with the tag idea on May 27, 1983, as he sat on his porch watching his three children, Carla Michelle, 15, Patty Ann, 11, and Shawn, 9. He had just read a newspaper story about a local nine-year-old who was hit by a car. The police had difficulty locating the boy's parents, since he carried no identification. Six hours after the accident, his mother was found; 20 hours later, the boy died of massive head injuries.

Wager glanced at his Great Dane next to him, examining the tags showing the dog's name, address, owner and phone number. "That's stupid!" Wager said, “My kids go off in all directions. Any thing could happen to them and my dog has more identification than they do!"

Wager talked to firelighters, paramedics, police and emergency-room doctors, who all confirmed the need for some sort of children's ID tags. He then designed the first ones, using a material produced by Kimberly-Clark. Since the one thing all children have in common is shoes, Wager concluded that was where the tags should be affixed. The next step would be getting large retailers of children's shoes to put the tags into their products.

"It shouldn't take long," Wager told his wife, Kathleen. "Retailers will be crazy about the idea."

Wager formed Lifesaver Charities, a nonprofit organization with an office and one secretary, and sent letters to children's shoe retailers and manufacturers. He was shocked to find little interest. Un-daunted, he wrote to manufacturers of children's clothing and to national retail chains. Again, no interest.

In the summer of 1983, a national sheriff's magazine ran a brief item offering the tags free to any police officer or department that would distribute them. Mean while since all expenses were coming out of his pocket Wager took a second mortgage on his home. He also decided to work full time on his tag project. The couple would try to live on Kathleen's income (she owns a company that manufactures doll clothes).

In the first few months after the article ran, several police officers requested small quantities of tags. Then Wager received a phone call from Douglas Feltman, a sergeant on the Mitchell, S.D., police force. Earlier, Feltman had ordered tags for his two daughters. Now, he wanted more. "What are my chances of getting about seventeen thousand?" he asked.

Wager was ecstatic. "I'll send as many as you can give away."

Feltman took on tag distribution with zeal. He visited schools and PTAs to tell them about the tags. The three local banks agreed to insert one tag and a note explaining where to obtain more into monthly bank statements. McDonald's, Burger King and Hardee's also distributed them. By spring 1984, Feltman had given away 30,000. The story spread over the newswires; calls came from North Dakota, New Jersey, Iowa, Nebraska and Wisconsin. Word of mouth helped. In Egg Harbor, N.J. a patrolman showed some tags to his colleagues. Det. David Green of the Madison, N.J., police heard about them, asked Wager for 10,000 tags and distributed them at local schools.

In Cincinnati, Linda Zailer of Sibcy Cline Realtors was seeking a child-safety program for a city festival. A police sergeant suggested that Sibcy Cline distribute Wager's tags. Zailer gave away more than 75,000 in one day.

Sibcy Cline and others paid Wager for the tags they distributed. But by late December, the Wagers were $80,000 in debt and had fallen behind on mortgage payments. On Christmas Eve, 1984, George and Kathleen were talking about the presents their children would not get. "I've had it," George said suddenly. "Why should I worry about everybody else's kids?"

In the days that followed, Kathleen often found George staring out the window. One morning she dropped an envelope in his lap. "Read these," she said. Inside were letters from children at two New Jersey elementary schools. Said one: "You're nice for giving us those identification tags. When I was little, I got lost and it was scary. You're special, and so am I!"

As George read on, his resolve returned. He told the bank why he had fallen behind on the mortgage and got another month's grace. He also began to encourage organizations to contribute two cents each for the tags they would give away.

Wager decided to concentrate on one state at a time. He had New Jersey in mind, and the man to help him was Madison's Detective Green, then president of the state crime-prevention association. Wager persuaded Green and the association to distribute two million tags. Kimberly-Clark donated the paper.

Wager also found corporate sponsors. Wakefern Food, a cooperative of 189 ShopRite Supermarkets in six states, agreed to hand out the tags. Gradually, other companies joined the campaign.

Thus far, Wager's distribution network has given away a remarkable 30 million Lifesaver tags.

In June 1984, nine-year-old Rebecca Thompson of Missoula,

Mont., was visiting her father in

Arizona. One day, out racing with her stepbrothers, she ran into a giant saguaro cactus. As she pulled herself away, Rebecca saw two dozen toothpick-size needles embedded in her left arm. Blood dripped from the wounds, and her father's first fear was that his daughter might suffer the same slow-blood-clotting disorder as her mother does.

On the way to the hospital, Luke Thompson remembered that his daughter was allergic to medications, but he wasn't sure which. That worried doctors, who wanted to administer sedatives. Rebecca's mother could not be reached.

"Do you know what medications you're allergic to?" the doctors asked. "Or your doctor's name?"

Rebecca shook her head. Then she remembered. "The tag!" she cried. "Look in my shoe!"

Several weeks earlier, Rebecca's mother had laced one of George Wager's tags into her daughter's shoe. There, doctors quickly found the needed information, and the painful cactus needles were removed.

"Without that tag," Rebecca's mother said later, "my daughter's ordeal would have been longer, more painful and more traumatic than it turned out to be."