Back On The Road

My last post on here, some nine months ago, reads now as both a warning and a reminder. I was

warning myself, not aware enough at the time that the elephant in the room that I'm ignoring was precisely the thing that should have been uppermost on my mind. It took a couple more months and one critical incident to finally make me heed that warning. Although when I did, it was through necessity, not choice.

The fog floated across the highway, a surprise, unwelcome visitor on what had begun as a clear winter's morning. We were heading back to the station after the first call of the day, a patient with the body of the ninety year old she was, but a mind still that of a teenager. She spent the entire journey to hospital warning us never to get old, because "Your legs will want to dance, but you brain will tell them they can't even stand." We were still discussing her presence of mind and praying for the same level of sanity at that age, when our thoughts were shattered by a call from the control room.

"Find the first place you can to turn around and head in the opposite direction. Calls coming in of a serious incident. Details to follow as soon as we have them."

It was, in theory, nothing unusual. We're used to calls coming in and being told that someone had fallen from height, only to find that the height involved was the pavement. Or the call to a pedestrian hit by a car that turns out to be little more than a glancing blow at zero speed. Or even the unconscious patient who just happens to be walking around when we arrive. Something in the dispatcher's voice said otherwise. Something in the air on that highway turned decidedly cold as we travelled to an unknown serious call.

The last orange flames were being put out as we arrived at the scene.

All around were rivers of firefighting foam as plumes of smoke climbed into the air, the last signs of the now extinguished fire. Wreckage covered an area the size of a tennis court, an area that up until a few minutes earlier had been a holding area for enthusiasts waiting their turn to take to the skies. The marks of the tiny aircraft were clearly visible as one wing seemed to be the only part unclaimed by the fury of the inferno. One firefighter, stepping back out of the way now that his job was done, motioned to us that it was now safe to approach.

It took some time, but eventually we identified the victims. There was very little by which to be sure. At first it was uncertain how many there were. The human form had been disfigured beyond recognition, first by impact, then by fire, as the microlight lost control and hit the tarmac, cruelly ending their lives in an instant. 

The rest of the shift passed by in a blur. The images, too raw to process, remained locked away for the next few hours, even for days and weeks, and then broke out all at once without any warning. Since then I have learned a great deal about PTSD, about not hiding from it, about coping with it, about getting back to work, and most of all – about me.

I have learned that, unlike my thoughts on the previous post, it isn't just me. That there are plenty of others who struggle, some less so but some much, much more, and all that they required to start on the road to understanding and acceptance was a voice that would proclaim loudly – I'm here with you.

This is why this blog is back. I'm honoured to have you as readers, but first and foremost the writing has always been for me. It has taken me a while to realise that, but I'm back. If you're here to come along for the ride, to join me on this journey through a world hidden from most, then you're more than welcome back on the road, as always. 

Birthdays

Five o'clock in the morning and for the first time all night, we finally arrive back on station. Within seconds, before the engine has had the chance to cool, or the water in the kettle given the chance to boil, the phone rings again, sending us out on our next call. It had been one of those shifts. Job to job, patient to patient, hospital to hospital. With barely the chance for a bite to eat, we had inhaled cups of coffee throughout the night to keep our energies, as well as our hopes, alive and kicking.

Five minutes later we arrive at the address, still with no real details of what awaited us on the second floor of the dilapidated building. The only information we knew was that an elderly lady had pressed an emergency button and there had been no contact with her since then. The three of us grabbed the four bags of equipment and a carry chair between us and started the march up the stairs. Any hopes of there being a lift in the building were dashed the second we pulled up outside and saw its age. 

A tired, but determined voice answered our first knock. "I'm almost there, just give me a minute!" We waited, each silently praying for the clock to tick a little faster, for the end of the shift to arrive, for the calls to end so we could go home. As we did so, a shuffling sound from indoors became louder, like a dog scratching on a door trying to get out. Eventually we heard a key turn and the door opened just enough for us to peer in. 

"You'll have to push the door to get in, I've got no more energy left." Gently we did as were asked, guessing that she was leaning against the door, when after a moment we were able to squeeze in through the gap that had opened. The smile that greeted us was like that of a child seeing its very first snow. Pure delight shone from Eva's face, as if she had stored up ninety years of smiles for just this one freeze-frame. 

"I'm fine, really I am. I just need help to get up off the floor. I've been here for a little while, thought I could manage to get up on my own. Looks like I was wrong." 

"How long have you been there?" 

"Since nine o'clock last night." All three of us do the mental maths. Eight hours on the floor. Eight hours trying to solve the problem by herself that we would now solve in thirty seconds. We checked Eva for any injuries and found that, other than a small graze on her elbow, she seemed to escape unscathed. "I need two things from you please," she asked, almost pleaded. "First, I need you to make sure I'm steady enough to get to and from the bathroom. Eight hours stuck leaves a lady just a little in need of refreshment." 

She smiled her child-like smile again. 

"Second, and more importantly, I'd like five more minutes of your time. Just to have a look at something for me." Presumably a medical issue had been bothering her and now that she had readily available access, she would use the opportunity. 

"We're not going anywhere. Get yourself settled and I'll make you a drink first whilst you do." Once Eva was up on her feet, it took only seconds before she regained her balance, walking around the flat in a manner almost as spritely as a  teenager rather than a nonagenarian. 

"Just a few minutes. I promise. No more." 

When Eva returned, she asked us to follow her into the lounge, where we were greeted to a picture gallery of immense proportions. Every wall was covered, every bookcase had pictures on the shelves, every picture frame hid several pictures within it. Hundreds upon hundreds of pictures, each with smiling faces that crossed ages, generations, and eras.  

"These are my children. And my grandchildren. And my great grandchildren. I should have lost count by now, but I know. I know all their names, I know all their birthdays. Sometimes I might need a small reminder, just that the date is coming up, not that it's their birthday." She stopped just long enough to look once all the way around the room. "It's a birthday today, too, so I'm glad I'm up in time to go and celebrate." 

"Whose birthday? Which generation?" 

"Mine," she said with a wicked grin. "And," as she pulled out a hidden envelope with an old photograph of a young couple at their wedding, "my husband's too." 

I'd had a quick look around when I looked for the kitchen to make her a drink. There was no-one else there. Just Eva and now an ambulance crew. Definitely no husband. 

"Where is he? Your husband?" 

"He's in a home, just a few minutes walk, not far away. When his mind started to wander, his body sometimes followed and he would end up lost, so about five years ago we decided it would be safer to have him move into a home. I see him every day except Tuesdays. That's when I meet with friends for a coffee. Every other day, I always leave the house at six in the morning to get to the home in time to make his coffee and have breakfast with him." 

All three of us looked at our watches. Almost six o'clock. 

"I'm presuming you don't want to go to hospital and get yourself checked after your eventful night on the floor?" 

"Don't be ridiculous. Spend my birthday, my Izzy's birthday in hospital? No way. The only place I'm going is to visit him. And if you people are as kind as you look, you'll help me get down these stairs." 

"We'll carry you down if you like!" 

"Most definitely not. I've still got legs that work, haven't I?" None of us dared argue.

With one of us either side, we slowly walked Eva down the flights of stairs to the entrance of the building. She refused any further offers of help, from us accompanying her on foot, to the offer of a lift in the ambulance. 

"It's only five minutes away, I'll get there the same way I do every day." 

"Happy birthday," the three of us called after her as she started to walk away. 

She stopped, turned around and smiled that smile once more. "Thank you for making it so." 

Five Words

Stepping into the office with an envelope in my hand, I was about to take one of the biggest steps in almost a decade.

"Need my signature on an application form, do you?"

It was an obvious question for my boss to ask considering the fact that once again, the coveted places on the air ambulance had been advertised. That, and the fact that he had no idea of my real motives.

"Not quite!" I answered, handing him one of the copies of the letter. He looked down at the piece of paper, the cheap and nasty stuff that the ambulance service has started to use recently in yet another cost-cutting exercise. The confusion on his face said it all.

"You're sure about this are you?"

"Quite sure."

"Can we do anything to change your mind?"

"Not unless you're packing the LAS into a suitcase and sending it with me."

Handing in my notice was a great deal more traumatic than I had ever anticipated. I have loved my job. If not every minute of it, certainly as a career, as a way of life, I have loved it. But the time had come for a change that MrsInsomniac and I had been planning for some time. I'll write more about the change we're making in another post.

I've already had my final shift. It was initially scheduled to be a lonely solo shift on a rapid response unit, but luck had it that there was a student who needed a few extra hours out and about, so she joined me, hoping that my reputation for attracting "real" jobs would prove itself in reality. It didn't, but it gave us time to talk. Time for me to pass on a little of my questionable wisdom and for her to ask questions, question my answers and answer my challenges too.

Towards the end of the shift, she threw me a curve-ball.

"If you had to sum up your career in four words, how would you do it?"

"Four words? I'm not sure I can. Am I allowed five?"

"You can have five. It's my leaving present."

It took me some time. We attended another call, handed another patient to yet another crew and still my mind's rusty cogs whined and creaked to come up with some cohesive thought. Eventually, in a dull flash of panicked inspiration, I had it.

"Tried to make a difference." It really does some it all up.

It speaks of the patients who had no-one else to care for them, it speaks of the families suddenly bereaved, it speaks of the babies brought into the world.

It speaks of the children who were left battered and bruised by their very own flesh and blood, and others who were nothing if not heroes to their families.

It speaks of the people who just needed to hear a voice tell them that help is at hand, and it speaks of those pleading for help for their loved ones.

I hope it speaks of the students I worked with, studied with, taught and learned from.

I hope it speaks of the people who read this blog, those in the know and those who hope that they will become more in the know by reading it.

I tried. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I failed, but I tried. In most cases, I'll never really know.

My move takes me away from the London Ambulance Service, but not away from the world of the ambulance. The blog will continue (considering the accolade it has just received, it couldn't really not). For some time it'll be based on the scribbled notes that already sit in my diary, and soon stories will be told from new notes, new patients, whilst looking out over new horizons.

And if nothing else works out, I'm still proud of who I've become, what I've achieved, and the experience that I've gained. I'm proud of this blog. I'm proud to call some of the best ambulance staff out there my friends. And I'm still proud of those five words.

Playing Dead

Saturday night. 

In fact, it's worse. 

It's a post pay-day Saturday night. 

The calls are coming in faster than the customers can spend their hard-earned cash. Call after call is alcohol related, leading either to faints or fights, pass-outs or punch-ups. Suddenly, in the middle of it all, a genuine call. 

In fact, it's worse. 

It's a genuine call made by a child. 

The call comes in as a mother who isn't breathing. The child is barely able to contain their emotion as they  follow instructions from the call-taker. Luckily, I'm less than a mile away. Under a minute later, as I step across the threshold, a bag on my back and another two balanced on my arms, a young child grabs me by the hand and practically drags me off my feet. 

I walk into the room to see a sight that worries me even more; it's not just one child who's distraught, but four. The oldest is ten years old. All are crying, worried, scared. One begs me to help their mother. 

"She's not breathing! Do something!" 

Another asks me the awful question. "Is she dead?"

All it takes is one look at the mother. Her eyelids flicker like no dead person's can. As I call her name loudly, she jumps a little, but tries to stifle it to keep up the pretence. As a crew arrives, I usher the children out of the room, asking them to let me treat their mother whilst reassuring them that she'll be absolutely fine in a few minutes. 

"Right," I say, "the kids have gone, and it's just us. Now do you want to tell me what this is all about?" It's  rare for me to lose my temper with patients, but I'm close. She opens one eye, then the other and after a moment or two, decides to pretend that she remembers nothing and that she doesn't know where she is.

Leaving the crew to treat the so-called patient, I go to speak to the children. One of them tells me that the two oldest siblings were fighting, their mum shouted at them to stop and when they didn't, she collapsed and stopped breathing.

"She just dropped to the floor?"

"No. She sat on the couch with a bit of a bump, shouted again, and then fell back with her head on the cushions."

"I understand. Just so you know, your mum's going to be absolutely fine. We'll let you in soon so you can see her and talk to her."

"You mean she isn't dead?"

"No, she's not. She's just a little upset."

Back in the room with our now alert patient, I could bite my tongue no more.

"You realise what you've done to your children, don't you?"

"It's their fault. They know how to behave. I just wanted to show them what it would be like if their mother wasn't here. When they fight, they pretend like I'm not here anyway, so I thought I'd show them what it would be really like."

Speechless and angry, we invite the children back into the room. As the youngest runs into her mother's arms, I leave the house, wondering what would force a parent to be so cruel to their own child. 

Double Dutch

For me, being bilingual is more an accident of birth and upbringing than an actual talent. My skill for languages at school was somewhere up there with biology lessons. There are hundreds upon hundreds of different languages and dialects around the world, and, it seems, that there are people all over the place who want to read these ramblings but can't quite cope with my English. 

A few days ago, someone linked to this blog from Google's translation service, and translated the whole thing into Hindi. This is what it looks like. Cool, huh? 

I decided to give it a go, so I did the same into the other language I speak. 

It made for interesting reading. Re-translating it back to English would look a little like this: 

Ss;lfkh5 hds afh nphuIPOHUfaog7  ap7tfih  Toaieh oajef va2oieh a. 

Double Dutch at best. 

Totally, and completely, well, rubbish - Google translate still leaves much to be desired. 

So, my apologies to those of you who want to read these ramblings in any language other than English. I may translate them properly one day, but until then, I'd steer clear of online translations... 

Dot Com

I know you'd never guess it (ahem), but really, computers and me are not the best of friends. They know more about me than I'll ever know about them. Scary really. 

I'm still slightly scared of the "Esc" key in case I escape from something that then turns out to be irretrievable. 

I have no idea what most of the "F" keys do, except that "F1" is supposed to mean Help! I've tried using it when my coffee cup runs dry, but nothing seems to happen. 

It took me two months from when I started to work out how to add links, and even longer to sort out pictures.

And editing HTML? You might as well ask me to count from one to one hundred in Xhosa. 

But give me a chance. I mean, it's only taken me thirty-several years to work out that painting a flat, square chunk of wall isn't all that difficult. Neither, for that matter, is dropping a gallon of paint all over your laminate floor, but more on that maybe some other time.

Nevertheless, I have finally (and probably two plus-years later than I should have done), organised my own domain. So, no longer need you type all the long winded addresses should you want to find my ramblings, you can just go and ask for......... *DRUMROLL* ..........

InsomniacMedic.com

I shan't put a link on here, as you're already here, and that would be weird. 

For now, you will see no difference, and if you head for the old address you'll still end up here. The blog will still appear on the blogger host, but hopefully, some big things may follow. In the meantime, thanks for visiting again and again to read the rantings, ramblings and general musings of a sleep-deprived wannabe writer. 

Milk Bottle

Two bottles of milk by the front door,

A neighbour sensed something was wrong.

"She has one bottle delivered each and every day!"

A light was on,

The television flickered through a sliver of open curtain,

But there was no answer to our calls.

A kick, another kick, and the door splintered open.

In the kitchen, by the table and an upturned chair,

She lay where she fell.

A bowl of dry cereal sat waiting,

For an unopened bottle of milk.

Sppel Chekking

I admit, I'm a pedant. I don't claim to be perfect at it, but to me, spelling matters. 

I have an editor and a sub-editor for this blog who regularly pick up on mistakes I make, as well as using the sppel chekking fasility, because grammatical errors aren't picked up. 

So, in a begging open letter to our call takers, I ask you to please check your spelling. 

I know that if the message on the screen tells me the patient has "palpertayshuns", I can understand what it means. 

I know that if the patient apparently has narrowed "artoreys", he's at risk of heart problems, and not, as would seem at first glance, that he's a high-risk attorney. 

Vomiting. It has one 'T'. Lots of carrots and a dreadful smell, but - Only. One. T. 

Assmah. Really? Or are you just sending coded messages as to what you think of me? 

Stares. As in "The patient fell down the stares." Into my deep, dark, bloodshot eyes? 

And many, many others. Some amusing, some confusing. 

So please, dear call takers. I know it all happens in a hurry, I know the callers aren't always calm, clear and concise. And believe me, I know, that for all the tea in China, I couldn't do your job. But I beg of you; please, please, check your spelling before sending it down the computer to the often baffled crew... 

Anyone else out there got some good ones to share? Feel free to add your comments!

Scriptwriting

Just as I'd started to get over the trauma of the call itself, a reminder arrived through the internal mail. 

The Coroner was requesting a report. 

As I sat for the next two hours typing out everything as I remembered it, or as a copy of my paperwork reminded me, I wondered how much I would have changed given the chance to press a delete button and rewrite the script just as I was doing to ensure the accuracy of my report. 

Thinking back to the call, I wouldn't have changed a thing. The team worked well, the skills were flawless, the professionalism without blemish. 

But as I typed out the last line of the conclusion, I realised that there was one thing that needed to be crossed out and rewritten, one thing, that if given the chance I'd never have sent in to the editors for printing. 

The final page of the script. 

Sometimes we don't write the scripts. Sometimes we're merely characters within it. 

Two Seats

A pair of expensive-looking trainers adorned the feet that stuck out from behind the bush. It was the only part of Jacek that was visible from the street. A concerned member of the public walking home late at night called the ambulance when he thought someone must be lying dead. It's a good thing he waited, because we'd never have spotted the shoes from the road.

"He's in there. Not sure if he's breathing or not, didn't want to get too close."

At five in the morning I had to ask what he was doing walking around the streets.

"I was on my way home from work. I do funny hours too."

"Oh really? What do you do?"

"I'm a nightclub bouncer."

I should have guessed really. Six feet four in every direction, close cropped hair, and a badly fitting suit - a perfect stereotype. The fact that someone who intimidates people for a living was a little nervous about approaching a pair of shoes, or at least whatever or whoever was attached to them, seemed a little ironic. I shook the patient's legs and one of the shoes fell off, making our bouncer friend visibly recoil.

A groggy mumble of "Go away!" from deep inside the bush only added to his discomfort.

"Do you still need me here, or am I alright to go home?"

"Yeah, sure. We're OK here. Thanks for your help."

He practically ran away from the scene.

After a few more attempts at waking up our patient, he finally relented and climbed out of the branches, hampered slightly by the thorns of a lone yellow rose. His face appeared last bearing a five o'clock shadow, but at the wrong five o'clock.

"Go away! I'm sleeping!"

There's gratitude for you.

"You can't sleep here. People will think you're dead and call ambulances!"

"Go away! I'm sleeping!"

"Where do you live?"

"I live here. Go away."

His clothes, other than the odd branch and a few green leaves, were clean, maybe even new. Not exactly the attire of a long-term homeless man. 

"Do you have any family in the area?" 

"No. They not live here." I guessed by his accent that he must have left his family in Eastern Europe somewhere. 

"And friends?" 

"My friend he is here." 

"Where's here?"

He turned round and looked back into the bushes.

"Here!" He points aggressively at the broken branches. "Don't you speak English good?" 

I looked at him, looked at my crewmate, shrugged my shoulders, and climbed half way into the bushes looking for a drunk friend. 

"Jacek, There's no-one in here!" 

"He is there! You not see him!"

I look again.

"There's definitely no-one here!" 

"He is there! Only I see him. You no see him!" 

I climb back out of the greenery, and look much the same as our patient with leaves and bits of broken branch all over me. 

"You mean to say I've gone looking for an invisible man?" 

My crewmate takes one look at me and tries to stifle a giggle. We help Jacek into the ambulance and as I'm about to take my seat, he suddenly shouts. 

"You not sit there! Friend - he is there!"

All of a sudden, the trolley seems a much better choice of seat. At the hospital, the waiting room is busy, and I take a minute to look around.

"What are you waiting for?" asks my crewmate.

"Just trying to find two seats together." 

Central Locking

Before the old ambulances could be completely replaced, we were treated to a smattering of new vehicles. Shiny yellow, with a trendy battenberg design all the way round, and as an extra confusion, diesel engines rather than the lawn-mower type petrol ones. Many a medic would be caught out in the first few months by feeding the engines with the wrong fuel.

They were hardly loved, those old LDV's. Nothing more than vans that had been given blue flashing lights for the roof and the front grill. Meat wagons. Loud, growling engines that would wake an entire street at three in the morning, but which you had no choice sometimes but to leave running, just to make sure that you still had some battery power by the time the patient had been recovered from the scene and placed on board. The three battery lights on the front would give the cab a disco feeling as they would all start off a tired red, change through slumbering amber and on their way to eager green, each individually, each moving backwards and forwards through the sequences depending on what the driver tried to get out of the engine.

At least the temperature control was reliable. The heating would completely fail in the winter, and work whether you liked it or not on the hottest days of summer. The air-conditioning never worked - there simply wasn't any. Anything that broke, fell apart or went missing was fixed with tape, a staple of any medic's armoury, along with all the medical stuff, and in fact probably higher on the priority list than most of the real kit.

In their final days, as they sensed the day of judgement and their own demise, they mounted a rebellion. They had a knack for trying to poison the occupants by filling the cab with noxious gases that would leave crews needing oxygen therapy themselves. Finally, not so long ago, and at least five years past their best, the last of the old fleet were mothballed.

In the early days of the new Mercedes ambulances there would be fights as to which crew would have the privilege of owning it for the shift. Those on the longest shift thought they were entitled to it, or those who were taking the longest transfer. The lure of the softer suspension, gentler ride, and most importantly the ability to control the internal temperature were cause for more than one disagreement. Yet, as the younger members of staff would argue over the newest, shiniest ambulances, the old guard would reminisce about the wondrous days of sliding doors, scoop-and-run, and were often mocked about their memories of the horse-and-cart. Finally, after several weeks of watching others enjoy the pleasures of the new arrival, it was my turn, and as I tried to climb in the passenger side door, I discovered one more novelty that the old trucks lacked - central locking.

Dean took the keys and control of the vehicle for the day, I never even got a look-in, not that I minded particularly. Even from the earliest days in this job I've preferred to attend rather than drive. Dean, however, was like a kid in a sweet shop who'd been given free run of the shelves, and loved every minute of finally driving a vehicle that responded as an emergency ambulance should. After a few routine calls, we were tasked to a call given as a man with a serious laceration to his arm caused by broken glass.

Arriving at the call a few minutes later, we took out the normal bags, as well as an extra bag of bandages. A trail of blood stretched across the pavement by where we'd parked, down the paved driveway and into the house that was about thirty metres away. Dean locked the ambulance. We started to walk towards the house and as we opened the porch door, a figure started to run towards us and stopped us in our tracks. As he came nearer, we saw that he wasn't alone, but carrying what looked to be a knife behind his back. We could just see the handle and a glint of metal, but that was enough. 

We stepped back out, backpedalling at speed, and Dean had the presence of mind to slide the porch door shut in a hurry. Still carrying all our kit, we ran back to the ambulance, and tried to climb back in, only to find that the doors, for the first time ever, were locked. Our "patient" had almost caught up with us, and now all I saw was the knife, which turned out to be a samurai sword being waved menacingly above his head and coming ever closer. I dropped the bags.

"Open the doors!" I screamed to Dean. 

"I can't! The bloody things won't open!"

"IT'S THE CENTRAL LOCKING!!! USE THE KEY!!!" 

Dean fumbled in his pocket for the unfamiliar key, whilst we both ran round and round the ambulance trying to avoid being sliced in half. Dean yelled to a neighbour to call the police, as this was before the days when we had personal radios, and our only means of communication were, like our safe haven, locked inside the ambulance. Eventually there was a standoff, where we stood at 180 degrees to each other - us on one side - and a sword wielding maniac on the other, but all three of us standing by doors. If we unlocked the ambulance, he could get inside just as quickly as we could. We worked out a plan where we could hold him away from an access for just long enough to unlock the doors, climb inside and re-lock the ambulance before he'd climb in. Another couple of circuits of the ambulance and we'd finally positioned ourselves as per the plan, and miraculously managed to pull it off. 

"Control, this is Z321, we need urgent police assistance!"

"Z321, received. Can you tell us what's happening?" 

As I tried to catch my breath, I told them in half sentences what had happened and they promised to arrange for the police to attend. Our sword-swinging friend had finally realised he couldn't get in, and instead took to trying to smash the windscreen, which thankfully held fast. Any interested bystanders had quickly seen sense and fled back into the safety of their own homes, and as he turned away to pick up one of our discarded pieces of kit, we had just enough time for Dean to beat a hasty retreat, far enough to be safe, but close enough to still see the scene. Ninety seconds later, the first of the police units arrived, closely followed by several more. 

We watched from afar as our patient was quickly bundled to the ground by half a dozen officers, the sword wrenched from his grip, and he was placed in the back of a police car. Not without a struggle, but it wasn't a very long one. Slowly, Dean turned the ambulance round and we headed back to the scene, safe in the knowledge that neither assailant nor weapon were now of any threat. Stopping alongside one of the officers, I wound down the window and briefly explained again what had happened. 

"We'll need a full statement," said the officer, "we can do it here or back at the nick." 

"Might as well do it here. At least we've got air-conditioning." I climbed through the door between the cab and the back of the ambulance as the officer tried to open the back door from the outside. 

"Can't open it!" he said, "Must be jammed!" 

"Oh. Yeah. That'll be the central locking..." 

Dean pressed the button that magically unlocked every door to the ambulance. 

"Must remember not to lock these in future, especially on samurai-sword calls. Too bloody dangerous!" 

Crosswords

Mrs Vine and I could easily be on first name terms by now, except that she's very much old-school. I learnt that very quickly the first time we met on what was supposedly a "Breathing Problems" call. Control called me on the radio and let me know that she'd already called half a dozen times in the past few hours, each time claiming to have a serious problem, each turning out to be nothing of the sort. 

With the key to her front door locked away in a coded key-safe, she never had to leave her room to let anyone in. She would just tell the control room the number we need to crack the safe, and they send it down the computer screen in the car. I'd hardly set foot in the house and was looking for somewhere to put the key so I wouldn't forget to replace it, when a shrill yell cascaded down the stairs. 

"Close that bloody door already! I'm getting cold up here!" An ominous start.

Her voice reflected the night - cold and miserable. I tried to be a little more cheerful. 

"Good morning, Miss. What's made you call the ambulance out tonight?"

"Don't call me Miss. I have a name!" 

I didn't expect to have to ask the question, having been already chastised, but as she seemed to be waiting for it, I obliged. 

"And what is your name?" 

"My name is Mrs Margaret Vine and as we're not related, I'll expect you to address me as Mrs Vine." 

"Right then, Mrs Vine. I understand you've been having some problems with your breathing?" 

"There's nothing wrong with my breathing. It's just what I told that woman on the phone, because she kept banging on with these stupid questions and I just wanted to make sure that I got one of you here." The contempt in her voice almost made me want to leave, or at least explain the reasons behind all the so called stupid questions, but in the end I decided that both plans were futile. In the first instance she'd call again, and in the second, any explanation would probably go in one ear and straight out the other. 

"So how can I help you?"

"Well, first of all, my carer's left me." She was still shouting as if I was stood downstairs by the front door, despite the fact that there was no more than a metre between us. I'm a little ashamed to admit that the idea of her home help abandoning her didn't surprise me in the least. "And then, the cleaners don't come when they're meant to, and my doctor's completely useless and won't do what I tell him to!" 

"I see." I wasn't sure that I did, but I was trying. "And how can I help?" 

"You can pass me the newspaper and a pen, and sort these pillows out for me.Then I'll be able to do the crossword and hopefully fall asleep!"

"You called an ambulance to pass you your newspaper?"

"Yes. And to sort out these pillows. I shan't ask again." 

"And then you're going to sleep?" 

"As soon as I finish the crossword." 

"Fine then." 

As I found the paper and the pen, and fixed the pillows, I thought about offering to help with the missing crossword clues just to hurry the process along, but decided to leave her to it. I found the key, and as I stepped out across the threshold, Mrs Vine's voice once again filled the night air. 

"Close that bloody door already! I'm getting cold up here." 

I left the house and hoped she finished the crossword before I finished my shift.

Everything and Nothing

The email arrived last week, subject matter - "Appreciation." 

"Please see attached letter." 

The attachment was dated well over a year ago. 

"I'd like to thank the crews who attended our house on what was a very distressing day for us. If it wasn't for them, their professionalism and skill, their dedication and especially their kindness, our father would have died. Please convey our heartfelt thanks and appreciation to them all."

For us, it was just another call. So much so, that I don't actually remember the call at all. 

To the patient, and to his family, it was everything. 

Coping

Eyes glazed and bloodshot, he stands in a corner at the side of the building trying to hide his tears, but to no avail. His colleagues avoid his eyes, fearing that they'll make things worse. Last time him and I met on a call, it was after a man had been shot in the head. He sat holding a bandage over the bleeding wound whilst we worked to save the man's life, none of us fazed by the scene or its consequences. 

"It's never the big things that get you. It's always the ones you least expect!" A word at a time, sobbing through a simple sentence, he managed to verbalise what we all felt. 

His police uniform, bullet-proof vest and all might shield his exterior, but his insides were in turmoil. We all were. He was just brave enough to show it, even with his colleagues and superiors around. I'm not that brave.

At the scene, blood trailed around the house. 

There were no screams. 

No shouts. 

No reaction at all. 

And just for once, I wish there were. It might have made things seem less surreal, and maybe we'd have had less time to think. 

When it was all over, the scene was cleared, the ambulance had taken the patient away, and I was left with my car and a dozen police officers. I tidied up outside and went to talk to him, trying to rationalise the medical side of what we'd just seen. 

But a dead baby can't be explained. 

It can't be rationalised. 

It can't be forgotten. 

Our uniform makes people think that we can deal with anything, sometimes we think the same too. Sometimes we believe that we can see anything and just go home at the end of the day as if we've had just another day at the office.

But we're as human as a bank clerk, a teacher, a garbage collector. Each of us finds a way to cope, because we have to, just so we can go back to work each day and do it all again. 

And for now, at least for me, coping means that I travel to and from work using a different route, just so I don't drive past the scene every day and see those vacant eyes. The eyes that stared back at me from the blood-soaked crib.