Hitting the Wall
Chapter 8.
"Well, as you may have guessed, I'm Bill Pritchard." Dr. Pritchard, just as Cap had done, offered Roy a lefty handshake. "Please, come in, Mr. DeSoto. Have a seat." Pritchard motioned Roy to a comfortable armchair, while Pritchard himself took a seat on the couch across from the chair.
"Thanks," said Roy.
Pritchard inspected Roy for a few seconds, then said, "Well, Mr. DeSoto, let's just jump right into it."
Roy was relieved that Pritchard knew what to do, because he sure didn't. "Okay. But please call me Roy—Mr. DeSoto makes me feel old, and I don't really need that right now."
"Fair enough," said Dr. Pritchard, "as long as you're willing to call me Bill."
"Okay, I'll try," said Roy. "You're the boss."
Pritchard frowned mildly. "Well, no, Roy; actually, you're the boss. Our work together here is about helping you figure out what's going on, so you can take the steps you find are necessary to get back on track. I'm just the guide, to help you get onto and stay on your path. Sure, I'm the one that has to sign the return-to-duty form, but you're the one who's gonna be doing the work to get there."
Roy was surprised at this—he thought this was going to be yet another departmental power game. But possibly, just possibly, this business might turn out to be useful.
"All right," said Roy. "I guess that makes sense. It's just not what I'm used to from doctors. All the ones I know, they kinda like to be in charge and to be right all the time—no offense."
"None taken. All physicians are in their field to help people, but I think the kind of people that are drawn to emergency and trauma medicine tend to have, well, different personalities from those drawn to psychiatry."
Roy nodded. "I can buy that—just like after spending a few years as regular firefighters, some guys want to be engineers, some guys go for rescue training, some guys go for EMS, and some guys go in for things like arson investigation or fire police."
"Exactly. It takes all kinds," Pritchard said reasonably.
They were silent for a moment, then Pritchard continued. "So, Roy, tell me a bit about why you're here. Not what it says on your paperwork—I have that already—but what you think is going on."
Roy had anticipated this question. "Well, first of all, I guess the obvious thing." He raised his cast. "Punching a hole in the wall got me a ticket to see you, but you know that already. I guess the real issue is what's behind why I cracked. I mean, my partner and I see and do things every shift that would give you nightmares, Doc. So why did I crack two days ago, and not two years ago, or two weeks from now?"
Pritchard nodded. "That's a good start, Roy. What do you think some reasons might be?"
Roy was ready for this one, too. "In a nutshell? I think I'm just burned out. I keep on going, because what choice do I have, really. But I'm tired. Tired of the misery, tired of the shifts where we have eighteen runs in a row, tired of the shifts where we just sit around and wait for the misery to call us out, tired of the stupid things people do to themselves and others. Just … tired."
"Are you thinking of leaving the paramedic field?"
"I have no idea what I'm thinking these days. And that's the heart of the matter, Doc. I can't keep doing what I'm doing, but there's nothing else I want to do either."
Pritchard waited for him to continue. When Roy didn't say anything more, Pritchard gave him a cue. "What do you think you want, Roy?"
Roy sighed. "I guess what I really want? It's, well, I want to want to do my job again. Not just do it, not just get through it, but … aw, I dunno …"
"It sounds like maybe you've lost the drive, but not the interest, if that makes sense," said Pritchard.
Roy considered that evaluation. "Yeah, I suppose so. Intellectually, I know exactly what I want to do in life. But, in reality, it's like all the feeling is gone. Everything's just … flat. Which is bizarre—I oughta feel something if we have a great save, or a bad run—and I don't."
"Are there emotions that you do continue to feel?"
"I get mad. Frustrated. I'm impatient with the kids, snap at my wife, and pretty much ignore the guys at the station. I even pretty much ignore my partner, and let me tell you, he makes himself pretty darned hard to ignore."
"What were you feeling when you punched the wall?" asked Pritchard.
Roy laughed hollowly. "Oh, that's an easy one. You know the expression 'seeing red?' Well, I never really thought it was real, but take it from me, it is. All I could feel was mad, mad, mad, and all I could see was red."
"And what did you feel after you hit that wall?"
"Now that's the funny thing," said Roy. "It hurt like heck, but I was glad to just feel something other than rage. I almost did it again just to feel it again, but Johnny stopped me. I think."
Pritchard nodded. "Johnny—this is John Gage, your hard-to-ignore partner?"
"Yeah," said Roy. "That's my partner."
"But go on, Roy. Tell me some more about after you hit the wall."
"Well, Johnny pretty much said I was acting like a nut case, which is a fine thing coming from him, let me tell you."
"Why do you suppose he was thinking that? Other than the fact that you had acted uncharacteristically, that is."
Roy snorted. "Well, for one thing, I wouldn't let them give me any pain meds. It was almost like, I don't know, I was finally feeling something, after weeks and weeks of nothing, and I didn't want anyone to take that away from me."
"Okay," said Pritchard. "What else?"
"Oh yeah, and I said something really crazy to him, sort of like I was looking forward to getting the bone set," Roy admitted sheepishly.
"Why do you think you said that?"
Roy had to think about whether he wanted to admit what he'd really felt and said. He wrestled with himself for a few moments, while Pritchard waited silently. "What I actually said, Doc, was something totally insane—like it wasn't hurting as much as I really deserved, and maybe when they set it, it would hurt enough to make me feel better." Roy practically whispered this last part.
Pritchard didn't say anything for a minute or two; not until Roy looked up again. "What I think I'm hearing, and correct me if I'm wrong, is that you're down on everything, yourself included."
Roy nodded, not looking at Pritchard.
"And you're seeking out any feeling, even if it's pain, just so you can feel something other than anger."
Another nod.
"The other thing I'm hearing is that you seem to have thought a lot already about what's going on. And, you're willing to put it out there between us on the table. And that's really, really good. That's probably the most important thing you can do right now, Roy."
"Okay," Roy said quietly.
Pritchard gave Roy a minute to collect himself.
"Now, I'd also like you to tell me about what happened on your shift before you hit the wall. Anything at all that you feel like saying, even if you don't feel like it has anything to do with what happened later."
So Roy explained about the LAPD welfare check assist, and the three-days-gone body they found. He told Pritchard about being called immediately from that run to the MVA with the severely brain-injured patient. He told Pritchard his feelings about the public dangers of a high-speed transport of someone in that condition. He described the way Brackett had publicly and bluntly informed the man's family of his death. And finally, he described all the ways he'd ever envisioned Joanne getting that kind of news someday, and his feelings of guilt for being in a profession that was far more likely to leave her a widow than other professions were.
He talked for almost fifteen minutes straight. Pritchard didn't interrupt him at all—just let him talk.
Finally, Roy was out of things to say. Just plain out. And the problem was, he'd told Pritchard absolutely everything—drained his soul dry—and he didn't feel one bit better. Not one iota. He just felt exposed, and scared.
"And Doc, I gotta tell you, I don't know what's gonna fix any of this."
Pritchard looked Roy in the eye. "One thing you need for sure, is time. Think of it this way: the damage, if you can call it that, to your emotional balance, has happened over a long period of time, with many factors contributing to it. So repairing the damage—it won't be instant.
"But one thing I can tell you for sure: your ability to size up what's going on inside your head—your self awareness—you just showed me that is a huge strength for you to build on. I can't tell you how many men come in here and give me monosyllables, or tell me nonsense about how everything's just fine. For a lot of men, it takes weeks to get where you got just now: recognizing that something has gone wrong, and having some ideas about what has happened."
Roy listened carefully. "But how do I get out of this rut, Doc?" he asked, when he thought Pritchard was done talking.
"Well, that's not an easy question, Roy. What you and I will do over the next few weeks is answer that question. We'll build you a tool kit, if you'll pardon the metaphor, for dealing with the problems that are holding you back right now. We'll get to the root of where the anger is coming from, and why that's the only thing you seem to be able to feel now. And you'll get to a point where you can make a good decision about where you want to go with your career—a decision based on how you feel in a few weeks, not how you feel today."
"Hmpf. Yeah, pretty much any decision I might make about anything today would be bad," said Roy. "I should even let Joanne pick my clothes in the morning these days, or I'll end up wearing nothing but black."
Pritchard laughed. "Glad to see you still have your sense of humor—even if it is a bit dark at the moment." Pritchard glanced at the clock. "Roy, I have another guy coming in soon, so we need to wrap up."
"Okay," agreed Roy. "What next?"
"Well, I'd like you to come in again tomorrow, but I understand you've been assigned to Rampart to do some work there with Dr. Brackett. How does that sit with you, by the way?" asked Pritchard, aware that Roy had directed a fair amount of his recent anger at Brackett.
"Actually," said Roy, "his request for an experienced paramedic to do this assignment—especially since he knew I'd be on desk work—was about as close to an apology from him as anyone has ever heard. So actually, Doc, it sits just fine." Roy rubbed his brow. "Though I sure owe him a really huge apology too. I stepped way out of line with him the other day, even if I was right. Which I was."
"That sounds like a good idea—you'll probably feel better, and maybe he'll learn a thing or two about apologies himself."
Roy raised his eyebrows.
"Or maybe not," amended Pritchard. "But you might just be surprised. In any case, I'd like you to come in every day for the next while. I'll call Dr. Brackett to let him know that the department requires this, and leave it to the two of you to work out timing."
"I can tell you one thing, Doc—Brackett's no early bird, so first thing is probably easiest," said Roy.
Pritchard went to his desk and checked his calendar. "Why don't I pencil you in for eight o'clock for the rest of the week, if that's not too early."
Roy chuckled. "Doc, I'm a fireman. 0800 is fine. I'll make sure that's okay with Dr. Brackett, but I think it'll be safe to assume that will work for him."
"Good," said Pritchard. "One more thing—I don't know Kel Brackett too well personally, but I suspect that his reputation as a supervisor of interns and such suggests that he may try to keep you till all hours. And that is not what I want to see happening at this point." He started scribbling on a pad of paper. "So, I'm writing this on my prescription pad, here: forty hours a week, period. The timing of the hours may be determined by him, but the forty hours? That's an order from the department. You're being paid by us, not him, and overloading you is not in anyone's interests at this point." He handed Roy the "prescription."
"So, tomorrow at 0800, right Doc?"
"Yep—see you then."
Roy stood at the door for a second before letting himself out. "Doc? Thanks. I mean it."
Pritchard smiled back. "My pleasure, Roy. See you tomorrow."
Roy let himself out into the hallway, and let out a breath that felt like he'd been holding it for three days. His hand was pounding to the beat of his heart, but the rhythm was noticeably slower and calmer than it had been before he walked into the HQ building that morning.
TBC
