Thursday, 26 July 2012

A Life Worth Living?

Life is difficult, I get that.

There are financial troubles,

family conflicts.

Friends who fall out, 

failed relationships,

failed studies.

A home barely suitable for

human habitation.

You can't cope,

you want out.  

You want to die,

you understand what that means,

clearly comprehend the closure,

the finality.

So you try, not once,

but twice.

You fail, and I'm glad.


not because you've failed at life,

but because you've failed at death.

I'm glad,


because you're only

ten years old.

You have a whole life yet

to live.

Tuesday, 10 July 2012


Remember me? I used to blog here regularly. Somehow, recently, it just hasn't happened. I know I've already apologised for this once or twice before, but here I am again doing the same thing. Lack of material isn't the problem. The diary with the scribbled notes still exists, reminders of people and places, images and faces, but I just can't seem to bring them to life.

Almost four months have passed since I was last on an ambulance. The wheels of bureaucracy in the local ambulance service are grinding slowly and painfully, despite the fact that on more than one occasion I've been told how desperately they need more paramedics. Someone must have put some sawdust in the gears.

For now, writing about my life in EMS is difficult, not because I don't have stories to tell, but because my muse seems to be lacking. It's a strange concept. In order for me to write about tea, in one form or another and how it interacts in the life of a paramedic, maybe I need to be drinking the horrible stuff that awaits crews at fewer and fewer hospitals. 

In order for me to write about elderly patients, either the amusing or the heartbreaking, perhaps I need to be meeting them regularly, treating them, either their illness or their loneliness. 

For me to write about victims or witnesses of street-side carnage, the real or the perceived, perhaps I need to have a board and collar within easy reach, even if I choose not to use them. 

Violence is real, too real. Never-ending. Tragic and often inexplicable. 

Yet, I just can't seem to get to writing about them. I need that spark back in my life, the inspiration to put pen to paper, or fingers on keys if you prefer. Hopefully, that spark is heading back my way. 

Yesterday, I had a phone call. 

"What size are you? We're trying to sort out your uniform."