The background music in the gym is interrupted by the front desk with an announcement.
“Medic 40, copy code three, 1055 Main Street for a 62 year old male; chest pain.” I trip on the stair climber and fall back catching my hand on the rail…
Lying on the bench in the back of the rig, “non-breather” on my face, my respirations have returned to normal and my fingers have stopped being numb and rigid. Still in a tormented dream state I’m recalling the telephone conversation with my soon to be ex-wife. She moved a few hundred miles away and just told me that she was pursuing a relationship with a colleague whom she met on a business trip last year and presumably met again this year. It seems that was the inception of her decision to end the marriage.
As the reality of the situation sinks in I’m even more determined to follow my desire to become a Firefighter/Paramedic and help people for a living. I’ll use this as a galvanizing experience to help me focus during my studies.
My original premise stands true; there was no miscalculation, although my emphasis has changed a little. Contributing to the human condition and helping people does make me feel good and increases the quality of my own life. My initial exposure to this world came from the desire to go into the fire service. I owe a debt of gratitude to the people who were on duty and working out that day when I happened to be at the gym.
Yet over the last two years I’ve gravitated to EMS and wanting to function as a Paramedic on an ambulance. I love the pre-hospital medical aspect of EMS, and that’s not available to fire medics. It’s a new field that’s growing and changing every year and as the profession matures it’s going to need the help of dedicated, intelligent people who are here by choice, not as a fallback position.
From the radio in the front of the rig I hear the dispatcher giving out a call. “Medic 40, copy code three, 1055 Main Street for a 62 year old male; chest pain.” I’m startled awake and nearly roll off the bench, catching myself on the gurney…
I slowly open my eyes to see the rain drops on the windshield, tinted brown by my sunglasses. I smell the grapes from the last call as I reach for the mic on the dashboard.
“Dispatch, Medic 40. We’re en route.”