Tag: EMS

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Why Do I Care How Much it Storms

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

I was a paramedic for ten years. 

That’s not quite true – I became certified as an EMT in Massachusetts in October of 2006, earned my New York State paramedic card in 2010, and let that lapse in 2016 after moving to Vermont. Two states, two certifications – for those who don’t drive the band-aid bus, it’s simpler to say that I was a paramedic for ten years. 

Now, in the times of Covid, people react differently to that. “Thank you,” is heard a lot more often. Neutral acknowledgements of, “you must have seen a lot,” and “Bet you’re glad you’re not doing that now!” have become the common response, replacing the question every first responder hates.

“What was your craziest/best/worst call?”

I’m never sure what people are looking for when they ask. War stories? Blood and gore? The intro to an episode of Criminal Minds? 

Sure, I’ve seen those. I can tell you about the heartbeats I’ve watched slow, the last breaths I’ve exhaled alongside, the countless rounds of CPR. I could tell you about not knowing how to deescalate a person in a schizophrenic break, or knowing how to best restrain a violent patient before they injured you and your partner. I can give you the names of the friends I have lost, not in the line of duty, but duty still implicated in their deaths. 

I can take you to the ambulance bay, the acrid smell of stale urine and freshly crushed cigarettes, chew spit and diesel exhaust. Where every head turns when the bay doors slide open, triggered by errant garbage interfering with the sensor. Where hard plastic backboards, not yet washed clean from last night’s shootings, lean stacked haphazardly, waiting for bleach.

I can take you to where the discarded nitrile gloves are missing a finger (the better to find a vein with, my dear), where oxygen tubing holds closed wobbly cabinet doors, where the radios crackle on and on.

I can tell you about the smattering of good calls; the ones where we actually made a difference, when we were in time. The babies I’ve helped come into this world, the overdoses reversed. 

But that’s not the call I want to tell you about. 

Hawthorne and I picked up shifts together as often as we could. We stretched them out, offering to take a couple extra calls, hold hands a couple extra hours in the never-quite-dark of the city. We never ran out of things to talk about. 

One day, sometime in late winter/early spring, we got dispatched around morning rush hour for an interfacility transfer. A woman had given birth and her baby had been transported overnight to the children’s hospital NICU. These were easy calls to us back then. I took the chance to drive while Hawthorne took care of the patient. She didn’t need any care other than observation and conversation, something to help pass the worried minutes from door to door. Now that I’ve had kids and especially one in the NICU, I think about those calls often, the opportunity for empathy I didn’t notice as it passed. My own ambulance ride to bring Lucy earthside is hazed by the hypertensive headache and steady drip of magnesium sulfate; I remember that my medic that night was in the military, and he was kind. 

Since I was driving, the radios were mine – dispatch, 911, and AM/FM. I skipped over the country station in deference to the direct challenge in the bright blue eyes that caught mine in the rearview mirror. I settled on Top 40, whatever the station was. Traffic had cleared mostly by the time I called transporting. I sang along softly to the radio and made the trip into the city.

As we pulled into our destination, Bruno Mars came on, playing “Just the Way You Are.” I glanced back at this person who put stars in my eyes as if they had been born for that purpose. Those brilliant eyes smiled into mine, the melody making its way behind the dividing wall between the compartments. I remember straightening up in my seat a little, and pushing my voice out a little louder, a little more confident. I sang them every line of that song. I somehow navigated the ambulance into the parking space; I don’t remember ever looking away. 

I don’t think I had called Hawthorne beautiful before that day, when I borrowed those lyrics to give them. The magic of music is that it gives us the words we can’t say. I know my voice cracked a bit on those notes; mama sure as hell sang tenor, not whatever high-alto range Mars is famous for. I don’t know if I have ever sang truer.

The DJ broke in, the vocal equivalent of a record scratch, and not nearly as welcome as the real thing. The radio static almost obscured the response from dispatch after I called us on location. The moment over, Hawthorne turned back to the anxious woman on our stretcher. I jumped down from the ambulance, swinging the door hard to close it. I reached up for the handle; right door, left door swung open. I lifted my hand to my partner to steady themselves on the steep drop between the truck and the ground. They clasped it as if the world hadn’t shifted underneath us. I pushed the lever in, pulled the stretcher out; Hawthorne guided the wheels down, and through the sliding doors we went. 

We finished the transport and walked the stretcher back to the truck. I made it up, sheet precisely laid and tucked in, safety belts clasped and tightened, ends folded and arranged just so. Hawthorne wandered off with the rugged laptop to finish the paperwork and have a smoke. I jumped out of the rig, slammed the doors shut, and walked around to the driver’s side to move the truck out of the way of whoever would be coming in next; the driveways in and out were narrow, and call volume was high. Flip the switch, hop in, turn the key. It worked (always a question of whether it would or not), and I slid the truck out of the drive and into a spot, angled towards the old brick wall. I let it idle and pulled out my book, The Bridges of Madison County. My eyes were devouring Waller’s words; I was deep in the heat of Iowa summer when the door holding my feet in suddenly opened. Hawthorne leaned in, leaning over me, their boots steady on the corrugated running board, legs apart for stability as they held onto the frame. Eyes on mine, those clear-day ocean eyes, they kissed me until mine unfocused. My hands were trapped between us, holding the book, one finger stuck awkwardly between pages. Tenderness, a soft thunder I had not heard from Hawthorne, radiated out and around us, warming me far more efficiently than the questionable heat in the rig. 

I don’t know how long we stayed there, lost in that moment. It was like a dream; the kind that you wake up from in the middle of the night, not knowing why, then you fall right back into it; when you wake up in the morning, you can’t tell what was dream and what wasn’t. 

I can’t tell you a single other thing about that day; any other call, any post we made it to. I don’t know if we got out on time (probably not) or if we volunteered to work longer just to be near each other (probably). The only thing I knew was that Hawthorne had trembled my heart, so tired of hurting. They had reached in and given me a gift I didn’t know I wanted, didn’t know how desperately I needed. And I had given one to them, as well. From that day forward, until it became a word too imbued with femininity for them to find themselves in, I called them beautiful as often as I could. 

It’s going to be six months this week that they’ve been gone. Grief digs her nails in my softest parts, leaves bruises over bone and sinew. The hurt and anguish run deep; the anger has become a balm to the raw wound, a salve that deadens the pain for a little while. I’m exhausted from feeling so much, so consistently. I’m still working out how an absence can weigh so heavy, how a loss can leave so much behind. 

The wind is picking up, neighborhood chimes creating a chorus of sing-song clanging; not exactly a lullaby. Some undetermined piece of house shudders with the gusts, banging against the siding. The past couple days have seen temperatures in the fifties, but the wind has snuck in leaving a cold wake around doors and windows so recently open. Nights like this Hawthorne and I would curl into each other as best we could around 40 pounds of anxious old dog. Ella hates the wind. 

I’ve got the bed, the dog, and the blankets. All I’m missing is my love. 

So tonight, I’ll remember that call, wrapping myself in the tender and warm they filled me with that cold day a decade ago. I’ll cuddle Ella close and listen to the wind moan its way over the old boards, but it can’t get to me here; I’ve got my love to keep me warm. 

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Time I Had Some Time Alone

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

This isn’t the post I have been trying to write. Here there is no research, no fact checking. I realize now why it has been taking me so long to finish that one.

I am anxious as hell.

For those of you who know me well and this is not a revelation, I’ll thank you to keep your “well, duh,” under your breath – behind a mask optional.

I am not anxious about the coronavirus. I earned my master’s in public health just this past year from johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health, with a certificate in Quality Improvement, Patient Safety, and Outcomes Research. That certificate won out narrowly to one in epidemiology or statistics, two other public health realms near and dear to my heart. I feel I have a pretty solid grasp on the behavior of the virus, the steps to mitigate the spread, and the danger we are in.

I am not anxious about getting the virus. I am a relatively healthy 33 year old; I have high blood pressure, but it’s well controlled on medication. I was recently pregnant and my daughter is exclusively on breastmilk, but there is no indication that this puts either me or my daughter at risk. I have a decent immune system, honed by nearly ten years in emergency medical services, dealing with some level of exposure to whatever is going around. I am vaccinated accordingly, I receive the annual flu shot, and I wash my damn hands.

While I am increasingly worried about Hawthorne contracting the virus, that is not the source of my current gripping anxiety. Hawthorne has poorly controlled asthma, and has for years. Their immune system takes a beating, often. Whenever we are sick together, their symptoms at least twice as long as I do, and the asthma exacerbations continue into weeks. We have sort of made our peace with the fact that Hawthorne will likely come down with it, and we have made preparations for how to handle things if and when they become significantly ill. They have been tested for the coronavirus and are currently quarantined in our home; we have divvied up the silverware and towels, we are following the guidelines as close as we can while not leaving me with all of the parenting, cleaning, chores, and my own work. 

I’ve been up since 4:30 on a day where I do not have to go to the office. Lucy was up every hour last night; it’s strange to think that something that I’m eating is disagreeing with her tiny tummy so much. I couldn’t sleep any longer, couldn’t try. My mind has been racing, my eye twitching. Lucy learned to screech this weekend, and practices every chance she gets, testing it out with every mood. It’s adorable to see her smile, all gums and joy, and then jarring to hear her hellshriek with the same smile. I’m not anxious about the impending couple weeks at home with her on my knee, coffee at my elbow, and data on my screens. 

I am anxious because right now, with seemingly inevitable quarantine (which I agree with!), I am about to lose the hard-won routine and structure I have developed since returning to work after maternity leave. Self-isolating or quarantining leaves a lot of wide open days; Lucy is too young to have lesson plans, and I’ve never worked from home for multiple days in a row. I feel like I have just completed my reentry into work life, crash landing and stumbling out, dazed by the sudden atmospheric shift. I have made it over the first hurdles of balancing work and life with a new baby at home, the first days of not knowing quickly how to proceed when I don’t have childcare, the first extended hours of feeling like a vital and visceral part of me is missing. 

Years ago, Hawthorne helped me realize that one of my coping mechanisms for stress and lack of structure coalesces into overworking myself. Maybe I start spending long hours at work, or banging away at work projects off the clock. Often it means I start looking around the house and the world and everything in between, making lists upon color-coded lists of projects to do. What is coming to surface right now is the drive to help. I feel useless, helpless, here at home when I know how hard my colleagues are working. It doesn’t seem to matter, internally, that I will be back at the office soon and able to jump back in the trenches with them and support. I understand how hard it is to believe that the best thing that I and millions of others can do is simply #staythefuckhome. I’m fighting the urge now to not be involved in every community initiative, moderate every Googledoc, deliver every meal, and write to every isolated senior. 

Part of the reason I never questioned becoming a doctor when I was growing up was I felt that doctors were, above and beyond, helpers. They were able to take care of people, to fix things, to make things better. Watching some of the doctors my father interacted with when diagnosed with ALS scuffed my rose-colored glasses, so long trained on the medical field. I remember my anger at his first neurologist, a jaded man with wire-rimmed glasses on a straight nose and zero compassion. Even at 15, I felt nostalgic for a time I had never known, when doctors visited the homes of their patients and occasionally accepted bread and unlabeled jams as payment. I had watched Patch Adams too many times, I guess. If I was going to be a doctor, I was going to be a doctor who cared.

Jumping headfirst into emergency services felt natural; there, I was helping people, I could see that every day. I did fall into the EMS culture (another story, another day), but mostly, I was able to remember what I walked away with from my original EMT class. When people called 911, they were doing so for a reason. They needed help. People have been taught for decades now that when there is an emergency, you dial 911. No one has done a good job at defining what an emergency is on a wide scale, so the term has become completely subjective to folks outside of the healthcare fields. I don’t get to define what someone else’s emergency is. Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it is running out of a medication and not knowing what to do, or maybe it’s a dead cat; whatever it was, there was a reason.

There were, undoubtedly, many more frustrating calls than there were true medical emergencies. It wasn’t prestigious; benefits were practically nonexistent, and the pay was terrible. Then the Fight for 15 began, it became a contentious point in EMS: most people entering the field wouldn’t see a payrate like that for years, even though they are literally the first line of response in life-threatening situations. We weren’t in it for the money; some may have been for the glory, I suppose. It took a lot of work sometimes to remind myself that, as EMS professionals, were being given an honor by the public we served; there were times it took substantial effort to remember that we were being not only called, but invited in to people’s emergencies, their worst moments. We were the ones who showed up in the times when people were most vulnerable. We were the helpers.

I let my card lapse with absolutely no regrets. Since then I have happily remained in a non-clinical role. The decisions I have are not life and death; if I make a mistake, it needs to be fixed, but no soul hangs in the balance. This experience, sitting home while the virus creeps over the land, has made me realize I don’t know how to not be a helper. I know there are thousands upon thousands out there like me, feeling stymied, even as we are doing the best possible thing – staying home. Somehow I will have to find more of an actionable way to help; I just don’t know what yet.