It's Time

Sitting at the side of the road at one of my normal standby points, book in hand but completely failing to read any of it, it's obvious that the school holidays are finally in full swing. Children have been let off the leash, running around playing outside until much later in the evening than usual. Some ride up and down the pavement on their scooter, others play with a ball, whilst a few more chase each other screaming, shouting and laughing with the innocence of youth. Eventually, one comes over and taps on the window.

"Are you an ambulance?"

Some days earlier, our neighbour of several years moved out. It's unusual these days to know your neighbours well, and we were very lucky that not once did we have any problems between us. The day after she left, new people moved in; a family with young children. Them and my kids hit it off straight away, and became best friends within minutes. The first night shift I was due to work since they moved in was last night. It was the first time they saw me in uniform. As I was getting into the car, one of their kids came over.

"Are you a, errr... an, ummm... an ambulance?"

Regularly, at least several times a shift, as I pull up outside an address, someone will open the door, turn their head back towards the house, and announce my arrival.

"The ambulance is here!"

The last time I checked, I was not a vehicle; I did not have flashing lights on my head (although the bald patch reflecting in the moonlight might give that impression); and I definitely did not eat diesel as one of my five-a-day fruits and vegetables. So why is it that nobody seems to know who we are, what our title is, or, quite often, what we do?

A child seeing a police officer in uniform knows that they are a policeman. Or woman. They know that those working on a fire-engine are firemen. Or women. They know that the people walking around the hospitals with stethoscopes round their necks, whether or not they can pronounce stethoscope, are doctors, and that those in uniform who do most of the doctors' work in every department are nurses. So why is it that children rarely know who we are? A teacher is a teacher, not a school. An out-of-hours doctor on a home visit doesn't suddenly become a Ford Fiesta just by virtue of the fact that that's the car that carried him.

Partially, it's probably our own fault. We don't get out there enough, meeting the public who, until they desperately need us, are happy to forget that such things as ambulances, and those who man them, exist. We're not as cool as the fire-brigade or the police, we don't give off a sense of pride like doctors or nurses.

When was the last time you heard a child say they want to be a paramedic when they grow up? Except my youngest, that is, and he's slightly biased. A few weeks ago I went into my children's primary school and spoke to the top class as part of a "Careers Day". This group of ten and eleven-year-olds were shocked and amazed by who we are and what we do, some even expressed an interest in hearing and learning more about it. For them, it's early days. It took me until I was a lot older than ten to decide on my career path, but as a child the thought of being "an ambulance" was never one of the options. Now, for them, being a paramedic is another possibility to think about, another point on a list.

It's time we started promoting who we are and what we do. It's time we were proud of who we are, of what we do, of what our title is. It's time that our public relations included more than announcing facts and figures in the news, of smiling when we hit targets and hiding in shame when we don't. It's time that our knowledge and skills spoke for themselves, that our care and compassion are the name that walks before us. It's time for our job to be recognised for what it is, for us to be recognised for our job, and not for the vehicle that carries us.

At least, in the meantime, a group of holidaying kids, a bunch of my children's school friends and some new neighbours now know.