Familiar Arms

Wrapped in blankets almost up to her eyes, Liana's barely visible. Naz, her husband, met us at the door with a roll of the eyes, as if to say here we go again. It takes a few minutes before we coax the first words out of her and longer still until we could calm her breathing enough to be able to have a conversation. A little boy of about three, a mix of Middle Eastern features and Eastern European pallor, runs around the house without a care in the world. Every few minutes he would come back in to check on what was happening and satisfied that there was nothing untoward, would go back to playing.

Naz never left the room for more than a few seconds at a time. He stood by the door, watching our every move, listening to every word. 

"Is Liana on any medication?" I ask him. 

"Only some painkillers when she needs them." 

"Do you have the packet?"

"I'll go and find it." 

The moment he leaves, Liana moves the blankets a little away from her face. 

"Liana, do you want to tell us what's wrong? What's got you so upset?" 

She shakes her head so violently that the straight-flowing tears suddenly zigzag their way down her cheeks. But she can't bring herself to say it. She just looks in the direction of the door and a shiver runs through her. When Naz comes back, I suggest that we need to do some more checks in the ambulance.

"I'll come with you." It's a demand rather than a request.

"Why don't you stay here with the little one, we'll just be a few minutes, do a few checks, then we can decide what the best plan is." 

Reluctantly, he agrees, but tells us he would just get their son ready and then he would be down too. In the time it takes him to find coats and shoes, we've already got half a story and realise that we need to get Liana away from home. She told us a little of the terror she faces at home every day, how she's not allowed friends, how her family have been kept away, how the threats of harming their child make sure she's kept on a short leash. Before she can tell us any more, the door to the ambulance swings open and Liana jumps in fear.

"Well, what are you doing with her? She doesn't need hospital, you know. She just needs to get back home and calm down. She's always doing this." 

"Where's your boy?" 

He shuffles slightly aside to show us a frightened shell of a child, totally different from the one we met upstairs. 

"I think we need to take Liana to hospital. Her pulse and blood pressure are a little concerning, so we want a doctor to look at her." It's a white lie, one we hoped was real enough for him to accept. 

"You're sure, yes?" 

"I'm sure." 

"Can I come with you?" 

"Why don't you come in your car, then you've got a way of coming home?" 

"Fine. But I don't want this child crying all the way there. You can take him too." 

"Not a problem. We'll look after them both. We're only going to the nearest hospital."

"I'll be a few minutes behind you. I go to the emergency department?" 

"Indeed." 

For the few minutes in the ambulance, Liana was silent. Her little boy had calmed down a little, a combination of glove balloons and a bottle of bubbles easing his fears. He even managed a laugh when one of the bubbles flew up to the roof of the ambulance, drifted slowly down and suddenly popped on his nose. As we arrive at the hospital, an all too familiar queue appears in front of us, with two other crews and their patients waiting for triage. It gives us some more time to talk, but Liana chooses to keep quiet. 

As we reach the front of the line, I have one final chance. 

"Has he ever hit you?" 

A single tear escapes and rolls down her face, as a confused little boy wipes it away for her. She leans forward, kisses him on the head and lifts the back of her shirt. She's black and blue from top to bottom. Belt marks, cigarette burns and crude, jagged cuts cover her entire back. 

"Please don't tell anyone. Please!" Her plea is barely audible, no more than a tormented whisper.

"Liana, I don't have a choice. Some of these wounds need treatment. I have to tell the nurse."

After more tears and pleads, once we promise that both she and her little boy will be looked after, she finally agrees. Having waited almost half an hour, we hand over just as Naz walks into the department and immediately all the eyes turn on him. 

"You told them, didn't you? I told you what would happen if you told anyone!" His screams make every other person in the department turn around and make me clutch on to the little boy. "What are you all looking at? She deserved it!" 

A security guard hurries over and after a bit of a struggle promptly removes Naz from the department, all the while calling for police over the radio. Liana breathes a sigh of relief and holds on tightly to her little boy who I've handed back into familiar arms.

Sisters

At the risk of having posts on my blog that are better than my own, this is a guest post from PenguinEMT - one of the people at the top of my list of friends whom I've never met. Yet.

_____________________

She lay in a barren field, the blood from her face and knees mixing with the dirt and grime to hold her together as a sheath of discolored glue. I heard no sound, save that of the vehicles racing by. As I came closer, I heard some slight gurgling and moaning. The officers stood back as we surveyed what has become a scene that haunts my dreams.

I spoke to her softly, trying to encourage a response. Nothing. Once in the ambulance she roused, shielding her face with her hands, screaming in absolute terror. My voice calm, I assured her we were there to help. With every procedure, every move we made, she recoiled and screamed, her voice hoarse. 

We weren't to touch her, she said. She belonged to her husband. Only he could touch her. 

We couldn't. 

He would be angry. 

*****

He lay curled up on the basement floor, the blood soaking the carpet. A crimson mist coated the walls. From upstairs I could hear the sounds of anger. Downstairs, however, it was eerily quiet. 

A faint pulse, but no response. Four occlusive dressings and two packs of gauze. I spoke loudly, attempting to garner a reaction. Any reaction. Finally, at the hospital, I heard a faint whisper. 

"Thank you," he mouthed, eyes still closed. 

*****

She stood in the kitchen, a mere wisp of a thing. The anger was palpable, her face mottled with tears. The knife block was empty, its contents scattered on the counter-tops and in the sink. All of them covered in blood. 

My exhausted mind traveled back in time, just an hour. 

Sisters. 

The Vow

With her head in her hands, Lea sat on the torn green seat at the back of the ambulance. Perched on the edge in total silence, trapped in a world of fear, as the shuddering of her shoulders told a tale all of their own. I remembered meeting her once before when she told me of her dream to move from her job as a health care assistant to that of a paramedic. 

I was packing my kit back into the car as the ambulance took off in a hurry with a badly injured cyclist. The driver of a car parked at the side of the road didn't look before opening their door, and the cyclist had no way of avoiding the collision. Riding downhill at high speed meant that his injuries were severe, and a doctor was called to scene to help stabilise him for travel. The doctor traveled with the crew, leaving me to tidy up the carnage.

Lea was the first one on the scene, having seen the accident from her bedroom window, and when I arrived I was glad of her help. Initially I left her holding the patient's head, and then, when pairs of more experienced hands arrived, she kept running backwards and forwards getting whatever piece of equipment we needed. 

When the action was over, she came over to help me pack up. 

"I'd love to be out on the road, on the front line, but they told me I needed a driver's license." 

"Very difficult to drive an ambulance without one!" 

"Well I hoped they'd just let me do all the other stuff, you know, the real fun bits!"

"Oh, you mean like talking to people who can't cope with a bit of a sniffle, you mean?" 

A look of mock horror crossed Lea's face. 

"You mean it's not all trauma like this?" 

"'Fraid not. It's one percent trauma and ninety-nine percent routine. Sorry to shatter your illusions!" 

"You haven't really. I know it's not always like this. I did my homework, you know! Now all I've got to do is learn to drive."

"For what it's worth, I love this job, even with the sniffly people. You come to work, ignore the nonsense, ignore the politics, and try to make a difference in just one person's life. It's that one call in a hundred that makes it all worthwhile. And it doesn't have to be a trauma job, either. It could be just talking to a ninety-year-old war veteran." 

I cleared what was left on the road of the mess that we'd created, and got ready to leave the scene. Lea approached the car window again. 

"Thanks for letting me help. Now I'm even more determined to get in!"

"Well, you were more than helpful. Good luck. I really hope you make it!" 

Our second meeting was a year, maybe even two years later. Now she sat, a broken woman in desperate need of help, and not knowing where to look. There were bruises down both her arms, a palm print on her cheek and a deep cut to her forehead. Tiny shards of broken glass reflected the light as they sat on her face and clothes. A police woman sat next to her, held her hand and told her that she could talk whenever she was ready. Two other officers had removed her partner from the house. He put up no fight, showing his cowardice for all it was. 

"Lea," my voice as gentle as possible, "we'll need to take you to hospital. You'll probably need some stitches, but you'll be fine. Is that OK with you?"

She nodded. 

"They've got him, so he can't do you any harm, and this police lady will be with you the whole time, alright?"

Again, with the tiniest movement, she nodded her approval, and we set off for hospital in an impenetrable silence. As we arrived, she finally spoke.

"You know what this was all about?" Now she was practically shouting. "He didn't want me to go to out to work. He didn't want me to ever leave the house. All he'd do is scream 'What do you want to go to work for?' or 'What do you think you can do that's any good?'"

She dried her eyes, summoning up the courage to speak out.

"I told him I wanted to do what you guys do. I told him that I was learning to drive so that I could work on an ambulance. Do you know what he did? He slapped me round the face and threw the glass at me! Told me that now I've got a reason to be on an ambulance." She stopped and took a deep breath.

"I'll show him!" She said. "I'll prove to him that I don't need him, or his approval. And while he sits in jail, I swear I'll be the best damned paramedic there is!"

From what I've heard, she's kept her vow.