Jeff
29-07-07, 06:08 AM
Did you ever think about how much doctors and other health care professionals have to go through? And how much they have to give us besides just "good work"? Especially those who are frequently dealing with death.
I read this wonderful, beautiful, sad, fabulously written post--"Seeking Words of Balm"--on the Ambulance Driver Files blog and just had to share it with you. It's a true story, of course. The post is LONG: I'm just posting one piece of it. But read it if you can and then read the whole post, which has several stories. It might be painful, but it will be good for your soul:
Late Spring, 2005
Her face is misshapen, the blonde hair plastered to her skull, still wet with blood. Her tongue is bloated, her face purplish. She had run straight through the stop sign, striking a pine tree head-on. She lay slumped over the steering wheel, pinned between it and the seat, her blood pooling on the deflated air bag. Her shoulder restraint is still in place.
I play my flashlight around the wreckage of the car while Part-Time Partner rants and bangs on the roof of the car behind me. There is a formal dress still in its cellophane wrapper lying in the floorboard behind the front seats, and a garter hanging on the rear view mirror mount, still stuck to the shattered windshield.
This is how PTP deals with the senselessness of it all - he gets angry. He has daughters this age, and I know what he is thinking. There is no one here but me and the deputy to see him vent his fear and frustration. PTP keeps it in and seethes silently when we have an audience.
"Goddamned prom parties!" he shouts, gesturing to the pinkening sky behind us. "Why the f*ck else would she be out at this time of the morning?"
I say nothing, walking around the wreckage, playing my flashlight over the ground.
"Probably drunk off her ***," he continues, veins bulging in his neck, "seventeen Goddamn years old and now her life is over before it even started!"
"No alcohol evident in the vehicle," the deputy points out quietly. "You smell anything?"
"No," I answer.
Did you know you can smell the alcohol in someone's blood? You can.
"No skid marks, either," the deputy sighs, pointing his flashlight back up the road. "She never even hit the brakes. Besides, she was a responsible kid. I'm thinking she fell asleep at the wheel."
"You knew her? I asked.
"Yeah," he says sadly, his shoulders sagging. "My daughter's the same age. We go to church with her family." He clicks off his flashlight and places it back in the holder on his duty belt, looks absently back up the road. "Wrecker oughta be here in a few minutes, then I'm gonna have to go tell her Daddy. D*mn."
PTP looks at him for a moment, hands still clenching and unclenching, veins still bulging in his neck. Then he marches purposefully to the ambulance, opens the rear doors and climbs in. A moment later, he emerges carrying a folded sheet and carries it over to the wrecked Honda Accord. He unfolds the sheet and carefully, gently covers her body with it.
"Sun's coming up," he grunts in explanation and I nod my understanding. "I don't want people driving by and gawking at her."
As if on cue, a pair of headlights appears over the crest of a hill and grows steadily closer. The deputy removes the flashlight from his belt and signals the truck to go around us. As the pickup pulls abreast of the scene, passing just feet from the deputy, he freezes. The truck continues on for a few feet, and then skids to a stop with a screech of brakes.
A man and a woman bail out of the truck and run back toward the wreck. The deputy intercepts the man, and PTP and I are left to deal with the woman. I step in front of her and catch her before she reaches the car.
"That's my baby!" she screams frantically as I try, and fail, to wrap my arms around hers. "Let me GO! Let me see my baby!" she screams as she flails at me impotently. There is nothing I can say to her, so I lower my head and let the blows rain down. None of them do any damage anyway. She's not trying to hurt anyone. PTP moves behind her and tries to grab her hands.
I look over her shoulder and see the deputy with his hands on the father's shoulders, forehead to forehead, saying something I can't hear.
PTP and I manage to walk the mother over to the front of our rig, and she collapses in a heap, still crying and screaming "my baby!" hysterically. PTP's eyes are moist and his jaw muscles bunch as he kneels next to her, one hand laid gently on her shoulder as she wraps her arms around her chest, trembling violently.
I walk to the side door of my rig, open it and pull the drug box across the floor to me. I withdraw a 5 cc syringe, fish the Valium out of the narcotics pouch on my belt, and draw up a full ten milligrams.
By the time I walk back around to the front of the rig, the father was there, sitting with his back against the front bumper of my rig, cradling his sobbing wife in his arms. His eyes run with tears as he holds his wife's head to his shoulder, but he says nothing. The deputy and PTP stand there, watching mutely as I kneel next to her, lift the hem of her khaki shorts, and plunge the needle in her thigh. She doesn't even flinch.
The husband meets my eyes as I stand up. I say nothing to him. I don't have to. I just stand there quietly until the woman's sobs start to wane. It takes longer than I thought it would.
The sun is shining and the wrecker has arrived by the time I can help the husband to his feet. His wife just sits limply against the bumper of my rig, eyes vacant and moaning tonelessly. We try to help her to her feet, but her legs are too unsteady. Her husband picks her up and cradles her to his chest and walks to the back of the rig. He doesn't even wait for us to unload the stretcher, just climbs into the rig and gently deposits her on the cot.
I wipe the tears and snot from her face and brush back the wet hair plastered to her cheek, and spread a blanket over her as her husband sits on the bench seat and holds her hand, staring blankly at his reflection in the plexiglass cabinet doors.
"Where will you take her?" he asks, breaking the silence, his voice low, harsh and strained.
"She'll go to Bossier for an autopsy," I say softly. "It's required by law. After that, whatever funeral home you specify."
"I meant my wife."
I blush in shame and mentally kick myself.
"I'm sorry, Sir. We'll take her to Podunk, if that's all right with you. They'll keep her overnight, keep her sedated. I'll get you some contact info for some grief counselors, if you'd like."
He doesn't answer right away, just stares down at his wife. After an uncomfortable silence, he speaks again, still processing information from five minutes ago.
"An autopsy? Why do...I mean she's still in her...how do they get her..."
"We'll take you and your wife to the hospital, and another crew will get your daughter out of the car. The fire department will come, and they'll extricate her. Afterwards, one of our ambulances will take her to Bossier."
He nods silently, and I watch as his lips start to quiver. He squeezes his eyes shut, and huge tears roll down his cheeks in single file, and drop onto his knees one by one.
"I don't want strangers seeing her," he says pleadingly. "Will you ask Danny to stay with her?"
So that was the deputy's name. I can never remember.
"She won't be gawked at," I promise him. "The men that will get her out all have families, daughters of their own. They'll be gentle, I promise. And I'm sure Danny will supervise things."
"Insurance cards."
"Excuse me?"
"My insurance cards are in my wife's purse in the truck. You'll need those, right?"
"No, Sir."
You will never see a scrap of paper from our ambulance service to remind you of this day. I'll lose the run report entirely, if it comes to that. But it won't. The Boss understands things like this.
"Who is going to take my little girl to...Bossier, you said? Do you know who it will be?"
"If you'd like, I'll take her there once we get your wife settled in at the hospital," I offer. "I'll do it myself."
"Yeah," he sighs, wiping his eyes with his forearm, "I'd appreciate that."
And so I did, even though my shift had officially ended an hour before.
http://ambulancedriverfiles.blogspot.com/2007/07/seeking-words-of-balm.html
I read this wonderful, beautiful, sad, fabulously written post--"Seeking Words of Balm"--on the Ambulance Driver Files blog and just had to share it with you. It's a true story, of course. The post is LONG: I'm just posting one piece of it. But read it if you can and then read the whole post, which has several stories. It might be painful, but it will be good for your soul:
Late Spring, 2005
Her face is misshapen, the blonde hair plastered to her skull, still wet with blood. Her tongue is bloated, her face purplish. She had run straight through the stop sign, striking a pine tree head-on. She lay slumped over the steering wheel, pinned between it and the seat, her blood pooling on the deflated air bag. Her shoulder restraint is still in place.
I play my flashlight around the wreckage of the car while Part-Time Partner rants and bangs on the roof of the car behind me. There is a formal dress still in its cellophane wrapper lying in the floorboard behind the front seats, and a garter hanging on the rear view mirror mount, still stuck to the shattered windshield.
This is how PTP deals with the senselessness of it all - he gets angry. He has daughters this age, and I know what he is thinking. There is no one here but me and the deputy to see him vent his fear and frustration. PTP keeps it in and seethes silently when we have an audience.
"Goddamned prom parties!" he shouts, gesturing to the pinkening sky behind us. "Why the f*ck else would she be out at this time of the morning?"
I say nothing, walking around the wreckage, playing my flashlight over the ground.
"Probably drunk off her ***," he continues, veins bulging in his neck, "seventeen Goddamn years old and now her life is over before it even started!"
"No alcohol evident in the vehicle," the deputy points out quietly. "You smell anything?"
"No," I answer.
Did you know you can smell the alcohol in someone's blood? You can.
"No skid marks, either," the deputy sighs, pointing his flashlight back up the road. "She never even hit the brakes. Besides, she was a responsible kid. I'm thinking she fell asleep at the wheel."
"You knew her? I asked.
"Yeah," he says sadly, his shoulders sagging. "My daughter's the same age. We go to church with her family." He clicks off his flashlight and places it back in the holder on his duty belt, looks absently back up the road. "Wrecker oughta be here in a few minutes, then I'm gonna have to go tell her Daddy. D*mn."
PTP looks at him for a moment, hands still clenching and unclenching, veins still bulging in his neck. Then he marches purposefully to the ambulance, opens the rear doors and climbs in. A moment later, he emerges carrying a folded sheet and carries it over to the wrecked Honda Accord. He unfolds the sheet and carefully, gently covers her body with it.
"Sun's coming up," he grunts in explanation and I nod my understanding. "I don't want people driving by and gawking at her."
As if on cue, a pair of headlights appears over the crest of a hill and grows steadily closer. The deputy removes the flashlight from his belt and signals the truck to go around us. As the pickup pulls abreast of the scene, passing just feet from the deputy, he freezes. The truck continues on for a few feet, and then skids to a stop with a screech of brakes.
A man and a woman bail out of the truck and run back toward the wreck. The deputy intercepts the man, and PTP and I are left to deal with the woman. I step in front of her and catch her before she reaches the car.
"That's my baby!" she screams frantically as I try, and fail, to wrap my arms around hers. "Let me GO! Let me see my baby!" she screams as she flails at me impotently. There is nothing I can say to her, so I lower my head and let the blows rain down. None of them do any damage anyway. She's not trying to hurt anyone. PTP moves behind her and tries to grab her hands.
I look over her shoulder and see the deputy with his hands on the father's shoulders, forehead to forehead, saying something I can't hear.
PTP and I manage to walk the mother over to the front of our rig, and she collapses in a heap, still crying and screaming "my baby!" hysterically. PTP's eyes are moist and his jaw muscles bunch as he kneels next to her, one hand laid gently on her shoulder as she wraps her arms around her chest, trembling violently.
I walk to the side door of my rig, open it and pull the drug box across the floor to me. I withdraw a 5 cc syringe, fish the Valium out of the narcotics pouch on my belt, and draw up a full ten milligrams.
By the time I walk back around to the front of the rig, the father was there, sitting with his back against the front bumper of my rig, cradling his sobbing wife in his arms. His eyes run with tears as he holds his wife's head to his shoulder, but he says nothing. The deputy and PTP stand there, watching mutely as I kneel next to her, lift the hem of her khaki shorts, and plunge the needle in her thigh. She doesn't even flinch.
The husband meets my eyes as I stand up. I say nothing to him. I don't have to. I just stand there quietly until the woman's sobs start to wane. It takes longer than I thought it would.
The sun is shining and the wrecker has arrived by the time I can help the husband to his feet. His wife just sits limply against the bumper of my rig, eyes vacant and moaning tonelessly. We try to help her to her feet, but her legs are too unsteady. Her husband picks her up and cradles her to his chest and walks to the back of the rig. He doesn't even wait for us to unload the stretcher, just climbs into the rig and gently deposits her on the cot.
I wipe the tears and snot from her face and brush back the wet hair plastered to her cheek, and spread a blanket over her as her husband sits on the bench seat and holds her hand, staring blankly at his reflection in the plexiglass cabinet doors.
"Where will you take her?" he asks, breaking the silence, his voice low, harsh and strained.
"She'll go to Bossier for an autopsy," I say softly. "It's required by law. After that, whatever funeral home you specify."
"I meant my wife."
I blush in shame and mentally kick myself.
"I'm sorry, Sir. We'll take her to Podunk, if that's all right with you. They'll keep her overnight, keep her sedated. I'll get you some contact info for some grief counselors, if you'd like."
He doesn't answer right away, just stares down at his wife. After an uncomfortable silence, he speaks again, still processing information from five minutes ago.
"An autopsy? Why do...I mean she's still in her...how do they get her..."
"We'll take you and your wife to the hospital, and another crew will get your daughter out of the car. The fire department will come, and they'll extricate her. Afterwards, one of our ambulances will take her to Bossier."
He nods silently, and I watch as his lips start to quiver. He squeezes his eyes shut, and huge tears roll down his cheeks in single file, and drop onto his knees one by one.
"I don't want strangers seeing her," he says pleadingly. "Will you ask Danny to stay with her?"
So that was the deputy's name. I can never remember.
"She won't be gawked at," I promise him. "The men that will get her out all have families, daughters of their own. They'll be gentle, I promise. And I'm sure Danny will supervise things."
"Insurance cards."
"Excuse me?"
"My insurance cards are in my wife's purse in the truck. You'll need those, right?"
"No, Sir."
You will never see a scrap of paper from our ambulance service to remind you of this day. I'll lose the run report entirely, if it comes to that. But it won't. The Boss understands things like this.
"Who is going to take my little girl to...Bossier, you said? Do you know who it will be?"
"If you'd like, I'll take her there once we get your wife settled in at the hospital," I offer. "I'll do it myself."
"Yeah," he sighs, wiping his eyes with his forearm, "I'd appreciate that."
And so I did, even though my shift had officially ended an hour before.
http://ambulancedriverfiles.blogspot.com/2007/07/seeking-words-of-balm.html