Hurts to Love You
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Sitting alone on a chair at the edge of the street. It was a good place to be. The ambulance was parked at the curb, and one of the engines was parked slightly askew of the garage; waiting to be cleaned, but left neglected. Doc could hear a radio playing somewhere in the back of the station, it's rhythm bathed by the white noise of the city.
The mosaic of New York; the silence of it's destiny, the aches of it's defeat and pleasure of it's rapture were almost tangible. It could be absorbed into the skin and fill a person with vitality or sorrow, depending on the persons disposition. And if cupid and his little arrow were in town, life could be remarkable.
It was a sense of clarity that only came around every so often, but when it did, Doc enjoyed it's company. He felt a little dramatic, taking to solitude outside the station as it washed over him, but he breathed in the city air and let it envelope his senses regardless. Today the paramedic would just let himself, be.
Life went on around him. It walked by in a red sweater on it's way to school. It drove past in a brand new vehicle out for a test drive. It carried on in a conversation between two friends sipping coffee as they strolled past him.
"I'm so serious. He said that," said one friend, her eyes full of surprise.
"I told you he was that way," Doc heard the other reply. It was only a snippet of a conversation, but he could imagine it's origin, and possibly postulate it's conclusion. It sent his mind wondering in tangents, finally reeling him back to the other day.
"How could you have known, Carlos?" Doc had said, shaking his head at his partner in the passenger seat of the ambulance.
"I told you it was going to be that way," Carlos had replied. "They know we have to take them if they wanna go. We're like a taxi for some of these dead-beats when the welfare checks come out." Carlos had paused, shook his head in mock amusement. "We should change our designation to Cabulance."
Doc smiled, remembering the call and the conversation back to the station. He liked his partner. He couldn't say Carlos was the best he'd ever had, but Doc did genuinely like him. The things that sometimes came out of Carlos' mouth could be shocking, bordering on ignorant, but they certainly offered a flipside for Doc to think about. It was just another unpredictable aspect of the job that Doc looked forward to each shift.
"Hey, I'm gonna run across the street for coffee," interrupted Carlos, stepping out of the station to invade Doc's solitude. "You want anything?"
"Isn't there any upstairs?"
Carlos smiled wryly. "Yeah, but upstairs a hot chick with blonde hair doesn't serve it to you with a smile."
Doc shook his head and waved his partner away. Carlos took the hint and strolled across the street, skidding through traffic to get to the 'mom and pop' coffee shop next to the precinct.
Doc watched; eyeing the uniform. It was blue. A bold colour that illicited authority. The big, bright flashes on the shoulders commanded respect. And the medical tools and paraphernalia strapped around the belt just seemed to have a coolness about them that Doc couldn't explain. They were like weapons of power. A person felt secure and substantial arraying these objects.
But knowing how to use them, and use them skillfully was where the real power existed.
Doc figured, as he watched his partner enter the coffee shop, that one day Carlos would learn to appreciate them for more than just tools they are. His partner would soon be able to recognize his own pen light in the dark by mere touch alone. He would be able to hear the subtle differences in reception through his own stethoscope compared to someone else's.
And when Carlos started to feel these things, he too would learn to love being a paramedic, and stop using it as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. As far a Doc was concerned, there was nothing bigger and better than being on the front lines of life- good or bad.
He reached down with his hand and adjusted the radio around his belt with a smile. He turned the volume up, listened to the static, then turned it back down. It had meant and accomplished nothing, but Doc liked the way it had felt. The motions had purpose, therefore, Doc felt purpose.
It was a righteous feeling.
Doc remembered the first time he had experienced this feeling. It had been the morning of his first shift as a paramedic. He had felt good as a student, wearing the mock-up uniform, and he had felt good on graduation. But when he put on the official uniform of the New York Paramedic for the first time and walked into his first station assignment, it was like corporeal power, bordering on self-adulation. Doc had never felt pride quite so strong before.
He thought back to his first partner; Bruce Willow. He had been sitting at a table with another veteran paramedic when Doc had walked in for his first day of work. Doc had thrown his bag on the floor and extended his hand in greeting to both men. And over the next few seconds, Doc had lost all sense of power and self-importance.
"Do you prefer half and half, or call for call?" Bruce had asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Doc had stared back blankly. "I'm not sure what you mean?"
"Driving," replied Bruce. "You drive for the first half of the shift, then I drive for the last half. Or, we change after every call."
Trying for the role of obedient recruit, Doc had smiled. "Whatever's easier," he had said. "So, I guess call for call."
"Okay, but no patient carried does not account for a call," continued Bruce. "But two in a row does count as one."
"But if paper work was required on a no patient carried, then it counts," added the other veteran. "And if there's two or more patients on scene, then they cancel themselves out and you're at the beginning again with the first driver."
"But if one cancels, and you do paper work for both, then you change drivers-"
At this point Doc had interrupted. "Hold on," he had said hesitantly. "I take it back. Maybe half and half would be easier."
"All right then," Bruce had nodded with a smile- as he ran down the rules of the half and half. "But if the morning driver is hit with high priority calls then the afternoon driver has-"
It had only taken a few short moments for Doc to realize he knew nothing. Anyone could pick up a medical text and learn the job, but it was going to take a love of paramedicine to learn the ropes. And so far, Doc had cherished every rope burn he had procured.
He looked up from his callused hands and let his eyes rest on the rig sitting lonely by the street curb. It's lines were sharp, it's colours bright and attracting. There was capacity to the rig that made vehicles veer to the right, and pedestrians to gawk in wonder- dying to know the secret of it's journey.
It was like a second home to Doc. Some would say the station was wear the heart was, but to Doc it was the ambulance. He liked the feeling of sitting behind the wheel, sirens blaring, while he hung an arm out the window and raced to the call while chatting about an up coming Giants game.
He liked being bounced around the back while trying to intubate a combative patient. Usually he would scream at Carlos to tame his driving, but that was just part of the overall rush. Doc had feared for his life on a few risky turns, but at the end of the day he had great memories to store and stories to tell.
Of course, some stories weren't meant for untrained ears. Some stories would not be shared, or told at parties for entertaining the civilians. But they would be remembered.
Doc had always thought it would be a nice sentiment to remember each patient lost; possibly write their names somewhere, or light a candle. But those sorts of things were meant for television. As sad as it was for Doc, a large portion of patients had been forgotten by the start of the next call. He tried not to think about it, it made him feel callous. So every once in awhile Doc would take a moment to embrace all those that had escaped him. And in one giant mental memorial he would say good-bye and thank them for the experience they had given him.
It wasn't much, but it was all Doc could afford to give. Anymore, and he would have lost his senses a long time ago. Or even worse, his love of the job.
Doc leaned back in his chair, letting the front legs come off the ground as his shoulders rested against the cold brick of the station. After today, he would have five days off. It was nice to have them, but there was always something missing during their interim. He could be watching a movie, or taking his morning run- thinking about what lottery numbers to pick this week, but somehow there was always a little part of him missing.
A piece of him was always working. If not literally, figuratively. He missed work when he wasn't there, almost enough to stop, close his eyes and imagine himself on a call.
Doc loved his job. And sometimes, it even hurt.
~ The End ~
**Author's Note: Is it just me, or do other people love their jobs as much as I do? But then how could I not- I'm a paramedic.**
I've got an image, but I'm not sure if I'm just making it up. Pride came and went like the drop of a hat, but self respect lasted a long time. Doc loved his job, and sometimes it even hurt.