Scars

We're both going to be left with scars, but mine seem unfair. Unfair to you, not to me. I don't have the right to feel this way, to feel the anger, the frustration, the sadness and injustice of it all. After all, he wasn't my child.

My children were safely at home, sharing popcorn and a movie with friends.

Your child was being roughly manhandled by ambulance crews desperately trying and miserably failing to save his life.

We must have seemed so cold to you, so callous, calculated, so damned professional. Sticking tubes down his throat, needles in his scrawny arms, pounding on his delicate, fragile chest. But we're human too. 

At the hospital, after we'd walked back out of your lives, we shed a tear, shared a tear. Some of us outwardly, some torn from the inside out, some showing a passive face, hiding the emotion that was battling to break through the dam. 

As we worked to save his life, nothing else mattered. But afterwards, there are questions, doubts, replays of every single thing that happened go through my mind. Could we have done something differently? Could we have worked faster, better, harder? Would it have made a difference? 

The team at the hospital told us that we did everything that we could. They came out to the ambulance to find a saloon full of sombre faces in green uniforms. They said what they said, and left to go back to talk to you, a conversation so much worse. I know we did all we could. I know that we couldn't have done anything better. I know that nothing we could have done would have saved his life. I don't expect you to feel the same. 

It's never right for a child to die. Not through illness or trauma, neither by accident nor malice. You know that better than I, as you sit and try to come to terms with a tragedy so deep that the scars will never entirely fade, whilst I go home and hold my children closer. 

At home, I tried to leave your child behind. "Just another day at the office," I'd tell myself. I failed at that too. 

Instead, I sat and cried as I polished my boots clean of all the scars of that call, feeling guilty that I'm erasing any physical memory I have of your son. 

I know that you can't erase the memory. Won't erase it. All I can hope is that the memories that linger aren't the ones I have, of a lifeless child, bereft of hope. I can only pray that the memories you keep are the good ones, the happy times, the playful child full of life.

And that in time, your scars heal, if only a little. 

You Lot

Balancing on the icy pavement, Alfie flags me down and watches the car practically skate down the road towards him. The snow has finally stopped, and what's left on the roads is now compacted into thick sheets of ice. The nights seem brighter, moonlight and streetlamps reflecting off the shimmering surfaces. Abandoning the car in the middle of the road, I step out onto the frozen pavement making doubly sure of each step. Non-slip boots might work on oil, or water, or blood, but they're useless when competing with ice, so I put a bag on each shoulder, hoping for some extra balance.

"She's in here, mate," Alfie yells, already standing back in the front porch. I follow him in, and as I catch up he starts telling me a little about her.

"Mum's got dementia, so you have to take some of what she says with a pinch of salt. Other than that, she's pretty good. Only takes an aspirin every day." He shows me into the bathroom, a favourite haunt for elderly fallers.

"What's her name?"

"Loretta Dent. But just call her Loretta. She's not really one for formalities."

"Hi Loretta," I turn towards the patient, kneeling down beside her, "what are you doing down there?"

"Well, I'm not really sure! I was just on my way back from the loo, about to go to bed I think, and the next thing I know, Alfie's in here with me, a phone plugged to his ear, and he's telling me not to move!" She looks around her, making sure that she really is on the floor, and that she's not going to fall any further.

"Alfie!" She calls. "Alfie dear, be a good boy and pick your school bag off the floor. Your father will be home any minute, and you know how much he hates things in the middle of the lounge!"

Alfie takes me to one side, and explains that his parents divorced when he was twelve years old. He hasn't heard from his dad since, some forty years or more.

"It's alright Mum, everything's clear. Let's get you sorted. This nice gentleman has to come to help you up off the floor." A mock look over my shoulder to locate said nice gentleman fails to do so, and I tell Loretta that I presume he means me.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No. A paramedic. An ambulance man."

"Oh, well you're better than doctors anyway, you lot."

"Must be the dementia!" I say to Alfie, outwardly humble, and inwardly proud. Even a little smug.

"Oh no," he replies, "this time she knows what she's talking about. You lot always have the time for us. When I have to get the doc out for her, they're in and out in five minutes. Hardly bother checking her blood pressure. Sometimes they just guess over the phone, and prescribe something. Think that absolves them of responsibility!"

I don't really know what to answer. I try to defend the doctors, saying that they're on a much tighter schedule than we are and joking that maybe they get paid by the patient, and we get paid by the hour. Alfie just shrugs his shoulders.

The crew turn up a few minutes later, and together we help Loretta off the floor, recheck all the numbers, and prepare to leave her at home so she can get back to sleep. We place her gently back in bed, and Alfie makes sure she's tucked up, the thick duvet covering her up all the way to her chin. I think of how many times I do that for my kids, checking on them several times a night to make sure they're warm enough and all wrapped up, and how many times over the years Loretta must have done the same for him. Years of motherly kindness partially repaid with each gentle gesture. 

"Goodnight, Loretta!"

"Goodnight you lot! Thank you ever so much!"

As we leave, Alfie turns off the light in her room, and walks us to the door.

"Call us again if you need us." I tell him. "If it's before seven in the morning, you might be very unlucky and it'll be us lot again!"

"Careful what you wish for!" Alfie answers. "You never know what she'll get up to in the night. You lot might be back sooner than you think."

Two hours later, we were.

"Oh, am I glad to see you lot again..."

Boots

I have a serious problem. I don't deny it, and I don't plan on resolving it.

My problem is that I can't stand a scruffy uniform.

Your uniform represents who you are, the care you take and even the pride you have in who you are and what you do. An untucked uniform shirt is a sure way to say that you just don't give a damn.

And I can't stand unpolished boots. Those who know me will bear witness as they read and smirk at this post.

 

A clean, tidy uniform and a pair of shiny boots do a lot more than just look good. They portray an all important sense of professionalism which is sadly sometimes lacking in the world of EMS.

 

Slowly, one boot at a time, I'd love to be able to change that.

 

In the meantime, my students, as well as my kids, will just have to put up with my problem.