Bystander

I decided to try something different, and write this post from the point of view of the bystander. Sometimes it's easy to forget that they might be more affected than the patients...

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They came thundering in like a stampede across the savanna, bags on their shoulders and equipment in their hands. I directed them upstairs, and told them the same thing I'd explained to the gentleman on the other end of the phone. I think it's too late.

It was the first time I'd ever had to call for an ambulance, and I only called because I didn't know what else to do. Lily and Ted had been my neighbours for as long as I could remember. I never really left home, visiting regularly throughout my university years and even the first few years of my marriage. They adopted me as their own, and my children were the grandchildren they never had. When my parents died within weeks of each other, we renovated the house, and instead of selling my childhood home, we sold our house and moved back in.

"Uncle" Ted and "Aunty" Lily were family, whether they were related to us by blood or not. My kids adored them as much as I did. We ate together, spent days at the beach together, celebrated birthdays and anniversaries together. So when Lily knocked on my door early that morning with tears in her eyes, I knew.

They came rushing in, four of them, their green uniforms and tired eyes showing signs of another night shift nearing its end. And yet, the speed and energy with which they came bundling through the door, well, it was as if they had only just started. All the while, I knew deep down that it was too late, but just for a minute, watching the paramedics running up the stairs, I dared to hope that maybe they knew something I didn't.

Moments later, the first of them came back downstairs, empty handed and sullen faced.

"I'm sorry," he said, genuine regret in his eyes, "there was nothing we could do. I'm afraid Ted's died."

He went on to explain that Ted had probably passed away during the night, and probably just drifted painlessly away in his sleep. I was glad to hear that. Small mercies are all we have to grab on to when there is nothing else left to do. Lily was sitting by the table in the kitchen. She knew too, but somebody had to tell her. I didn't have the strength to do it, so I asked him if he would. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder, nodded gently, and walked towards the kitchen.

"He's died, hasn't he?" asked Lily, her voice as broken as her heart.

"I'm afraid he has. It's probably been some time, and it looks as if he just fell asleep."

He was so kind, that paramedic, I wish I'd asked his name. In fact, they were all so kind, but I could hardly remember any of their faces, so I'd probably have forgotten their names too. Once they'd cleared up, they each came in to make sure Lily and I were OK. One of them made us tea, the sweet, warm liquid slowly thawing our numbed minds. It's the drink that cures all ills, at least temporarily. For Lily, and thinking back to my own parents, I feared that this might be the beginning of the end. She promised to stay strong - she meant it, too - and I promised that I would always be there for her. From the day Ted died, six weeks ago today, I checked in on her at least once a day, even though I knew that she had carers twice daily, morning and evening. 

Then, tonight, the carer knocked on my door. She couldn't get in to the house. Lily wasn't answering the door, and the key was still in the lock. As soon as I walked up to the house, I knew. The police broke the door down, and once again the green uniforms went rushing in. Once again I hoped I was wrong. Once again, as the first paramedic came back downstairs, I knew that I wasn't. He put an arm on my shoulder, told me what I already knew, and that he thought that Lily had obviously decided that she couldn't live without Ted, and had chosen instead to join him. 

As I looked at him properly for the first time, I was surprised, but relieved. This was the same paramedic who'd been here when Ted died. At least he understood. At least he knew. He knew that I was not just a nosey neighbour, that I was more than a simple bystander watching it all from the sidelines. It wouldn't make a real difference in the long run, but at that moment, as I stood there engulfed in sadness, it just felt right.

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!" 

Survivor

Today is International Holocaust Memorial Day. This repost is my attempt at keeping one story alive, honouring one memory, and teaching just one extra person, in the hope that if we remember our history and learn from it, we are unlikely to repeat it. 
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Like a herd of elephants, we charge into the sanctuary that has been their home for the last forty years, maybe more. Eyes withered with age and a hand crippled by arthritis, a tattooed number just visible below the three-quarter length sleeve, pointed us in the direction of the upstairs rear bedroom. She lay there, exactly as she had done for probably several hours, a peaceful look on her immobile face. There was nothing left for us to do. Back downstairs, waiting for confirmation of the inevitable, was the person who had lived with her and cared for her for the best part of seventy years. 

As soon as we broke the news, the lifelong protector broke down in tears, and after a minute or two, composed herself, and began a breathtaking monologue.

"She's my baby sister, younger than me by three years. She was five years old when our parents were dragged out of our house, along with our six other siblings, and machine-gunned. I saw it, couldn't help but watch in warped and terrified fascination, through a darkened window in the cellar of a neighbour's house. Eva was still hiding in a drain when they marched off. To this day I don't know how she ended up there."

Rosa's perfect English is betrayed every so often by a Germanic twang to some of her words, labeling her for all eternity with a past she'd rather forget.

"When it was all done, they were dumped into large wheelbarrows, taken just past the tree line not fifty paces away, and thrown into a mass grave. As a parting gesture, the soldiers fired on them again, silencing the few voices still calling for help. Or praying for the end. Whichever would cease their suffering quicker.

"After they disappeared to look for more fun, I ran out of my hiding place and went to find Eva. We had seen death around us, heard it, tasted it, but this was the first time it hit us directly, and we knew we had no-one left. For a few days we hid where we could, and once a day I left Eva and went to steal any food I could. One day, when we heard more soldiers coming, we ran into the woods, and never looked back. 

"For over a year that forest was our home. We even hid in the graves, where we learnt to play dead if we heard anyone coming. Bodies were dumped on top of us, and we'd have to dig our way out. We slept in barns when we could sneak in, found abandoned houses where they at least had a roof, even if no windows. We stole food, ate dead animals that we found, every so often a friendly home owner would give us something small, but they'd never let us stay. The fear in their heads ruled the compassion in their hearts. 

"About two years later, we were finally caught. It was a blessing in disguise. We were taken to a camp and forced into different jobs. The Kommandant's wife took a liking to Eva, and decided she'd take her in as a maid. It saved her life. All other children her age were taken away, often literally snatched out of the arms of screaming mothers, and never seen again. I was put to work in the camp itself, anything from scrubbing floors to sewing uniforms and repairing soldiers' socks. Beatings were a regular part of life, but so was a daily slice of bread and clear soup. No more fighting for food, or stealing it. I saw Eva every few days, when one or other of us managed to sneak across the camp.

"We survived so much that others didn't. We were the lucky ones. At the end of the war, after we were liberated, we eventually found our way to London. I was fourteen, and Eva eleven, but our life up until that point gave us a look of several years older. We were taken in by a children's charity and cared for until we decided we'd never again trust anyone else. We worked hard, saved some money, with it we bought our own home, and have lived here ever since.  I don't know how I'll live without her here."

Once again, the tears flowed. Rosa's mainly, but we weren't doing a great job of hiding ours either. I sat, pen and paper in hand to fill in the necessary forms, but as Rosa's sobs ended her story, I found that I'd not written a single word.

"I'm sorry", she said, wiping her face dry. "I have more than sixty years worth of crying to do. This is the first time since."

At her request, we contacted a friend who arrived within minutes of our call. We left the room to allow them to talk and grieve together. To comfort each other. To shed those reluctant tears. Whilst they did, we reloaded the ambulance with our equipment, sat in silence as I completed the paperwork that I'd struggled to fill in while in the house, and fought to comprehend all that we'd heard. After writing the empty words that described all that had clinically occurred, we returned to the house one last time to explain to Rosa what would now be happening.

Once we'd finished and offered our condolences, Rosa got up and saw us to the door.

"Don't worry about me", she started. "I've got my friends and neighbours. They'll help look after me".

And as we stepped back out over the threshold, as a farewell comfort from her to us, she called us back again.

"I'll be fine", she said. "I'm a survivor".

I know she is. I just hope I've done her story justice.