The View from the Back Row of the Classroom

Over the past few weeks, I've gone back to school. I've been sitting in the classroom listening to lectures I've heard before, albeit in a different language, surrounded by a group of paramedic students who are just about ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting but hopefully grateful public. The vast majority of the students are about to start their lives as combat medics which has made for some interesting scenarios, but one or two are heading for civilian roles. And then, there's me. I've sat at the back of the room that is fit to burst, writing bilingual, multi-directional notes, taken a few exams and hopefully come out the other side unscathed and ready for the front line once more. 

It's been a bit of a struggle to get my paramedic licence recognised and accepted here, and has involved two steps backwards of bureaucracy for every one step forward in actual physical achievement. It's been frustrating. I've been on the ambulances, but in a limited capacity. My paramedic skills have been safely tucked away until the piece of paper that I need is finally spat out of the machine, hopefully sometime very soon. 

I don't mind jumping through the relevant hoops. I don't mind sitting in classes I've heard before, because the reminders that they're providing are more than useful. It has been, however, somewhat disheartening that it has taken this long to make the progress that I'm finally making. 

Yet, as always, there is a silver lining to the cloud. Going back to school has given me the opportunity to see another generation of people who are already loving their chosen path. There are those who are looking far into their futures, planning to change the world, or at least their little part of it. There are those who are talking about being a part of something bigger, part of an EMS world that is looking to expand, to improve, to change, to evolve into something better than it already is. I've had the chance to introduce some of these students to forums, to various forms of social media, to blogs, to ideas, to people, at least virtually, who share their vision. 

(In the meantime, I have another day in the classroom tomorrow, and a rather daunting exam, the equivalent of the end of the paramedic course, on Tuesday. No public holiday here. So those of you celebrating Christmas, spare a thought and send some positive vibes just before you tuck into your turkey and mulled wine.)

From my seat at the back of the class, the future is looking good. Hopefully, once I've defeated the monster that is bureaucracy I'm embedded a little more in the system, I'll be able to be a part of that future. I might even tell them that I know the person who writes this blog... 

Bragging Rights

Sometimes, I look at the career I've chosen,

and think back to my biology teacher. And laugh.

(No more than the most basic grasp of the subject.)

Sometimes, I look at the blog I write,

and think back to my English teacher. And laugh.

(Poor writing style, no imagination, little effort.)

Sometimes, I look at the job I do,

and think back to my careers adviser. And laugh. 

(Back-office job, contact with the public ill-advised.)

I laugh at how wrong they were. 

I laugh at how I believed everything they said. 

I laugh at how, despite the fact that I believed them at the time, I proved them all wrong. 

A very good friend of mine recently told me that he used to read my blog, but stopped because it was too self-centred, sounded too much like a self-portrait of a hero in the making. Initially, I was a little troubled by his comments, well, actually, more than just a little troubled. I didn't perceive that this is what this blog is all about. However, thinking about it, I guess he was at least partially right. It is very self-centred. But that's only because I can only write what I feel. I can't express the feelings of the people I meet, although I can often have a good guess. And for anyone who's known me for any length of time knows, expressing what I feel is a very new (and exceptionally frightening) concept that I still fail at doing in a face-to-face situation. It's precisely why I took to writing. 

As for heroics? Pah. Anyone who does the same job I do is as much a hero as I am, although I am almost totally certain that none of us looks inwards and sees anything suchlike. We see a person who may have a special skill, maybe even a special connection with people we've never met before and may never meet again. We may even be opportunists who are presented with a statistically skewed number of chances to help preserve a human life. But heroes? Soldiers who save their comrades whilst under heavy fire are heroes. Random members of the public who jump into a raging sea to save a drowning child are heroes. We have a job to do, a special job maybe, but we wear uniforms, not capes. 

All of that doesn't mean that I'm not proud of who I am and what I do - alongside my colleagues. I may have recently had some second thoughts, well, more of a crisis of confidence really, but hopefully I'm back to  what passes as almost normal. I'm still pleased that I chose the path I did, even if it did take me some time to realise what that path should be. And if that comes across in this blog as being too self-centred - well, good. Because, whether my friend likes it or not (and yes, we're still friends), I've still got much to brag about. Even if it is self-centred. 

Mug

It's nothing fancy, the end of year gift, just a simple mug. If teachers are anything like paramedics, and I think there's a lot in common, they need their cup of coffee refilling regularly. On the back of the mug there's a short inscription: 

A teacher preserves the past, 

reveals the present

and creates the future. 

Simple, but true. 

I can only regret the fact that I never, in my entire school career, had a teacher like the one this mug was bought for. Someone who has left such a positive impression, has been so inspiring, so enthusiastic over the few years he has taught my child. Some things are written in pencil, but it seems that his mark has been left in indelible ink. 

As paramedics, we only have a very brief period of time to make our impressions. Often it's a once in a lifetime experience for patients and their families, and often, even if they remember nothing else, they recall how they were treated not only as a patient, but as a person. 

It's left me wondering what a similar mug would read, if instead of teachers, it were dedicated to paramedics. 

Teddy

The room was on the third floor, not in an apartment block - but a private home. The driveway was the length of many suburban streets, and the private estate on which the house sits could pass for a royal residence. The country park feel only added to its charm, but at the same time left the scene feeling cold.

"He's just in here. I won't come in with you, because he screams each time I step into the room."

The room is also massive. Floor to ceiling mirrored wardrobe doors only added to the size making it seem twice as big. An en-suite bathroom cleverly hidden in the far corner. In there, huddled in a corner with his knees under his chin, sat the terrified figure of an eight year old boy.

"He's been fine up until the last few days, maybe a couple of weeks I guess. Can't work out what's bothering him. He's slowly stopped talking, hardly eats, hardly sleeps, and has started wetting his bed at night. He won't let me help him get dressed, won't let me check his school bag, hates going to school which he used to love doing and he doesn't want me to step into his room! Now he won't even come out of the bathroom!"

"Alright. I'll try to talk to him. What's his name?"

"Andy. Andrew really, that's what we christened him, but nobody calls him that."

I step into the bathroom and sit down on the floor by the door. Andy tries to scrunch himself up into an even smaller ball, pressing his legs to his chest and shutting his eyes as tightly as he could. I notice a small bruise on his forehead, an almost ever-present mark on any young boy's head.

"Hi Andy. My name's Ben. Your mum tells me your not feeling too good, can you tell me what's wrong?"

Without a sound, he turns himself towards the wall, facing away from me. I kept my distance and pondered my next step. Children are not small adults, they're child-sized, fully-grown children. You can't just talk down to them - you need to look them in the eye and speak at their level. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom was starting to get uncomfortable. 

"Andy, is something hurting you?" 

Without looking up he shook his head from side to side. 

"Do you feel sick?"

Same response again. I asked Andy's mother if he had a favourite toy, and without a word she left and returned a moment later with a teddy-bear. 

"Andy, would you prefer to show me what's wrong on the teddy?" 

A shrug of the shoulders was the closest Andy came to cooperating. I handed him the bear and asked him to show me what had happened, but he sat just as still as before. 

"Shall I ask teddy instead?" It felt wrong to be treating an eight-year-old as though he was still a toddler, but it seemed to work. Andy nodded his approval and I addressed teddy instead as he sat hugged tight by his owner. 

"Teddy, does your tummy hurt? Have you bumped your head? Has somebody said something not nice to you?" 

All the questions were met with a tough silence and a shake of the head. 

"Why don't you show me what's happened then? I'll stop guessing, and you can just tell me. Does that sound OK to you?" 

After a few moments, Andy suddenly stood up from under the sink, turned on the tap and stuck teddy's head under the stream of cold water. He then turned the tap off, and started hitting the teddy's head on the sink.

Suddenly, having taken out all his anger, the teddy's arm fell off. 

Andy sank to the floor, curled himself back up in a ball and sobbed uncontrollably. I turned round to see his mother in the same state, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, all the answers she'd been seeking suddenly hitting her like a juggernaut.

"Andy, I think you and teddy need to speak to someone like a doctor. Mum can come too. I can put a bandage on teddy's arm for now if you like. Will that be alright with you?

Andy looked at teddy who turned his head to look back. They both nodded their approval. 

Next Time

I hear myself say it out loud,

voicing the thoughts of two hundred people,

friends, teachers, paramedics alike.

"Breathe, damn you, breathe!"

The school playground is cleared of kids,

but nervous, inquisitive eyes stare out from every window.

For all their teenage bravado, they're still kids, and they're scared.

Green uniforms work in a frenzy of organised chaos,

whilst blue uniforms ask questions, keep the peace.

His heart beats, but his lungs are still and silent.

The eyes, the windows into his soul, are glazed, the pupils tiny.

The mask breathes for him, oxygen rushing into the bag and then pumped into the lifeless body.

Cannulas, drugs, oxygen, more oxygen.

And then, suddenly, as the drugs and oxygen nudge into his brain,

he finally breathes on his own.

Minutes later, on route to hospital,

he's sitting on the bed, asking what happened.

We tell him.

And warn him.

And threaten him.

Next time, if there is a next time, he might not be in the playground.

Next time, if there is a next time, he might be all alone.

Next time, if there is a next time,

He might not be so lucky.