EMS: Heroes or Adrenaline Junkies?

Chillin After Dinner at SARS Substation 

I am was no hero.

I want to make that totally, unabashedly, clear.

As a matter of fact, I'm possibly very selfish.

Being a paramedic gave me back more than I put into it.

It's not an untruth to say I was attracted to it because I wanted to help people.

But the real truth is, the rush I got from the adrenalin of pushing a needle into a vein, or delivering a shock to a fluttering heart, or snaking my way into the crushed metal of a car, was the main attraction to the job.

Every medic, every EMT, every firefighter (if being honest) would tell you they love to hear a report of a major pile up on the turnpike or a four alarm fire with entrapment. When the words "put the helicopter on standby" or "fly the bird" are broadcast over the radio, our veins constrict; our hearts pound, our pupils dilate.
Yeah, baby, this is good shit.
It's not that we want suffering in the world, it's that, if there's got to be some tragedy going down, we want to be there so we can witness it first hand, so we can patch up the holes, so we can save a life.

So we have stories to tell.

When the summer nights are long and the calls are slow and we sit in a semi circle on white plastic chairs smoking cigarettes under a full moon, we have this to say:
"Remember that Easter we got hit out for the accident on 309? When we pulled up to the scene there were three bodies lying on the road? And Darin almost ran right over one of the bodies?"
"Remember that water rescue? We spent two days searching for those teenagers and then it turns out it was just a prank? Lori broke up with me because I missed our anniversary dinner."
"Remember that car rescue in front of the bank? The one where that Hilltown firefighter smelled like booze so the cops kicked him off scene?"
"Remember how Martin and Shoppy got into a fist fight during that rescue in front of the motorcycle shop because Shoppy forgot to crib the car?"
We are not heroes.
We are junkies.
Adrenaline junkies.
Story junkies.

 Excerpt from Girl Medic: Confession of Chaos and Calamity Behind the Sirens.

Life By Accident - Excerpt From Girl Medic

 Life By Accident

"This cannot be accident: it must be design. I was kept for this job."
Winston Churchill

My life has not gone according to plan.
I'd had great plans for life after high school. There was going to be college and law school. There was going to be a minor in theater, and maybe, who knows, I might bypass law all together to become the next Julia Roberts. I wanted a life full of energy, I wanted to help people, whether that was in a courtroom or by becoming an entertainer, I wanted to leave some sort of mark on the world.
I'd always been a voracious reader and started writing stories as early as the second grade. My English teachers, my friends who I wrote stories for, told me I should become a writer. I scoffed at the thought. Writing is solitary. Lonely. There is no immediate feedback on your work. No instant knowledge of "yes, this is good stuff" or "this sucks, try again". So though I continued to write, I had no desire to make it my life's work.
After high school, I found myself pregnant by my boyfriend of two years. We had a horrible relationship but did what so many do, married and started a family. College was no longer an option because he felt my place was at home, raising our daughter. I'd lost my independence, coming to rely on him for money and shelter, and we had moved 1,200 miles away from friends and family. He was all I had. My dreams fell off the radar screen as I struggled to make an unhappy marriage work, figure out how to be a mother at such a young age, and try to salvage pieces of who I was and combine them with who I was becoming.
Two years into the marriage, I had another child. My husband still believed my place was in the house, but I was becoming desperate to do something with my life. I was in need of friends, I was depressed that my life had not worked out according to plan.
And then one night, a car accident in front of our house changed everything. I would spend the next 8 years of my life taking on challenges I never imagined. I became a volunteer for the local ambulance, then a career EMT, then a paramedic. I became an EMT and CPR instructor. I became a certified fire fighter and certified in rescue vehicle operations. I would make life long friends and enemies. I would get divorced and fall in and out of love many times, remarry leave EMS for what I thought was good when I was three months pregnant with my last child, only to return a second time, because once again, I needed to be rescued.
I've been unable to hold a steady job since leaving EMS. I'm still struggling to find something as challenging and rewarding. I've toyed with the idea of going back, and who knows, by the time you read this, I might be crawling into the back of a mangled car, trying to breathe life into an unconscious patient.
I've always believed everything in life happens for a reason.
My life did not go as I had planned, because perhaps, life had a plan of its own for me. I've seen the worst in people; I've seen the best. I've struggled to make sense of death and in doing so, have come to the realization that in order to understand death, first, I must understand life.
10-42 is the code we use to let the radio room know that our shift has ended; we're no longer in service. Though my shift ended a long time ago, I want to share the lessons I've learned from my front row seat in the arena of life and death.
My life didn't go according to plan, and for that, I'm grateful. And I know though I can assure you, if you feel  lost now, there is something for you around the corner.
The one thing I would like for you to remember is this quote:
"There's no such thing as chance:
And what to us seems merest accident
Springs from the deepest source of destiny." - Friedrich von Schiller

Excerpt from Girl Medic: Confession of Chaos and Calamity Behind the Sirens.

When EMS Crews Make Fun Of Their Patients

"Silence is the universal refuge,…our inviolable asylum, where no indignity can assail."
Henry David Thoreau


There is a good chance (75/25) that if an ambulance crew arrives to pick you up; they will make fun of you once you’ve been deposited safely at the ER.
           
It is not because we are cold hearted or cruel, it’s because we need an outlet to diffuse the stress and emotion that could easily kill us if we took every thing so seriously.
           
What might we say?
         
 “Was that mold growing on the dishes in the sink? What trailer park trash.”
         
 “Could he have been any fatter? Maybe if he lost 200 pounds he might be able to breathe.”
           
“Was it just me or did it seem as if the whole family was a bunch of hysterical hyenas slightly on the retarded side?”
         
 “Christ, what a WHINER. If I ever whine like that, throw me off the rig and run over me a million times.”
         
 There are those calls, however, that still our voices, that leave us speechless.
         
 We arrived in front of a sprawling house with an immaculate lawn. A State Police car was already parked at the curb.
           
She was pretty, a pink afghan wrapped around her shoulders even though it was the middle of summer. She was tall and blonde and walking up and down the driveway. “Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God.”
           
Ed, the senior medic, stopped to ask her if she was okay. Her teeth were chattering in between the OH MY GOD’s. Obviously, she was not okay.
           
The trooper met us at the door and led us upstairs to a bedroom.
           
As I always do, I pay close attention to the details of the house. This one was perfect, everything sparkling, clean, in its proper place. It was like walking into a show home.
         
 He was lying on the floor in the bedroom: The gun not far from his right hand. His face looked like it was made of wax and someone had grabbed the left side of his head and stretched it out as far as it could go. He looked like a disfigured comic book character. A villain in search of Batman and Robin. There was brain and bone spattered on the ceiling. I was fearful it would fall on me so for the most part, I stood in the doorway.
           
There was a bullet hole in the window.
         
 “Oh yeah,” said the veteran trooper, “a-lot of times they take a practice shot to make sure the gun is working.”
           
There were pictures of him and the hysterical woman all over the room. On their wedding day, on a boat, on a beach, under a Christmas tree. He was 29. He was Esquirish good looking.
He left a note that wasn’t very telling. He apologized to his family. To his wife. Sorry. I just couldn’t take it anymore. No matter what I do, I’ll never be good enough. I hope you forgive me for the embarrassment this will cause you.
           
We waited until the woman’s mother arrived to drive her away from this perfect house, with the nice cars, and the once handsome husband, and the crystal blue swimming pool in the perfectly green back yard.
         
 Ed had kept trying to calm her down but she just kept pacing, kept whispering “Oh My God”…but at one point she crossed the lawn to where I was standing and grabbed my arm with her cold, tiny, hand.
           
“Why? Why would he do this?”
           
Her eyes were wild, like a trapped animal, and when she had touched my arm, it was as if she had instantly transferred her pain into my heart and for a moment, I felt the shock of it all. The violence, the loss, the end of life as she knew it. I opened my mouth to say something but there was not a word to be found.
           
We drove back to the station in total silence. No jokes, no music, no questions.
           
So, if you ever have the unfortunate occasion to find yourself in the care of EMS, remember this: if you catch an eye roll or smirk out of the corner of your eye, be thankful: It’s the silence that you should worry about.

Excerpt from Girl Medic: Confession of Chaos and Calamity Behind the Sirens.