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. 

Ten Years On

I, too, remember where I was, and what I was doing, as I heard the news for the first time. I was a travel agent at the time, and the first I knew of the events of "Nine-Eleven" was when a customer called to say that he'd heard there'd been an accident, a plane crash into one of the Twin Towers, and he wondered if and how it would affect his plans for the night flight to LaGuardia airport.  One half of my brain prayed that, assuming it was true, it had indeed been an accident, whilst the other half, the cynical half, screamed terrorism. Twenty minutes later, the world and I knew for sure. 

Ten years later, ceremonies have taken place all over the world to commemorate the shocking events of the day that changed the world. Ten years later, New York City can stand and watch as the site is rebuilt from the ashes, the Pentagon once again has five walls, and a scarred field in Pennsylvania where heroes came to rest, is once again nothing more than just that. Only one thing remains the same: thousands upon thousands of people are left grieving with nothing but memories of loved ones. 

Three thousand people lost their lives that day. Office workers, airline passengers, members of all the Emergency Services, bystanders watching the world change before their very eyes. America as a nation lost something else that day too: its innocence. The realisation that there are people out there whose very own lives mean less to them than the cause they purportedly stand for was a problem, a distant news item, that, until that day, was safely thousands of miles away in the Middle East and Asia. On that fateful day, mass terror, suicide terror, hit the streets of two of the most famous cities in the world. Four years later it hit the streets of London too.

That terror had a cause, has a cause. They want to change the world. They want a world that adheres to their rules, their beliefs, their dictum. It is a world that our minds cannot comprehend and cannot allow. It is a world that we're fighting against, and must keep doing. 

Since that day, the day the world changed forever, everything has changed, and yet nothing has. This morning, as I thought back to the horrors in America, as the pictures replayed over and over again on television, as one caller after another on the radio recalled where they were and what they were doing, I took one of my children to play football. Yesterday was spent with family and friends, tomorrow the kids go back to school. Life goes on, much as it was before. Airport security may be tighter than ever before, we may all be a little more aware of our surroundings, a little less innocent, but life goes on, much as it was before. 

Since the day that everything changed, nothing's changed. 

And that's our victory. 

Eavesdropping

Flying east, as the sun turns to set, the plane hastens the arrival of night and is soon surrounded by darkness. A bright light flashes every few seconds on the wing, repeatedly, momentarily painting it red. 

Spotlights come on throughout the cabin, illuminating random faces, each with a different expression, no two faces or thoughts the same.

A couple discuss their holiday as they try to settle their infant child. Many are lost in a world of their own, watching a movie, reading a book, trying to sleep. 

The air crew hand out drinks and a meal and are kept constantly occupied, driven to distraction by their captive audience. Customer service of the most intense kind, neither consumer nor provider with room, should they need it, to run and hide. 

Half way to landing, two university friends chuckle and guffaw as they reminisce on their fortnight of fun and frolics. 

"At least we avoided hospital this time!"

"You remember that? It was hysterical! The girl in the ambulance couldn't keep a straight face!"

I try to listen in a little bit closer, hoping to hear what had led my unknown colleague to lose her composure, but they told no more of the mystery event, turning after hysterical laughter to more mundane conversation. 

"You back at uni tomorrow then?" 

"'Fraid so. Straight back down to earth with a bump." 

Not exactly the words I wanted to hear at thirty thousand feet. 

Serves me right for eavesdropping.