“I’m scared.”
We’re standing in a downpour. Rain is cascading down. Down my hair, down my face, down the back of my turnout jacket, down my hands and off the tips of my gloves. The rain is even flowing upwards, up from the puddle I am standing in and into my shoes.
The lights of the ambulance, my ambulance, are reflecting off the windshield. Off the puddles. And in my patient’s eyes.
All of New England is being slammed by a Nor’ Easter. The coast is enduring massive waves and wind. Inland we are being drenched by rain, inches falling in just a few hours. And the calls have been rolling in as fast as the the rain clouds.
“I’m scared.”
We run two ambulances like most small services. Our primary truck has been out three times today alone, and is out on a fourth call. I’m not on tonight, but as I live so close to the station, I am part of the second crew if one is needed. I’m coming off an overnight shift that was quiet, coming off a week that was quiet. The quiet before the storm, in more ways than one.
I’ve been listening to the calls increase as the rain picks up. My radio picks up a dozen local rescue stations, a few dozen fire stations. I like to listen for two reasons – so I can get a bit more comfortable with radio etiquette, and so I can find my socks if all hell breaks lose.
I’m playing on Pogo (if you join, I’m WannabeGeek there) when I hear the tones for the first call. I consider going as a third, but Hayes is cooking dinner, and the crew is gone before I can find a pair of socks. For some reason, finding socks is my Achilles Heel (pun not intended, but it works) – I must have 50 pairs, but I seem to kick them under the bed or behind the bookcase rather than in the hamper. By the time I locate a pair, the crew is en route. Although I’m already in my pjs and the truck has gone, I get dressed anyway… I just spent 6 minutes finding the socks, might as well put them on.
“I’m scared.”
The tones go off, 1055, 2 car MVA. Before the first tone is done, I’m running down the stairs, asking Hayes to MapQuest the road, looking for my shirt, my shoes. The repeat tone sounds, Hayes gives me directions. I find shoes under the tv stand. I pull my shirt on, call in “123 en route to station,” run through the rain to the car, drive in – My first trauma! My first 1055! My first time at the helm! I hear others call in, the numbers in the driver’s range, I’m the only EMT, this is my call, all mine! Cool! And also, shit!
Down the road, around the corner, pull into the lot, truck 2 is waiting, my driver sits waiting for someone, me. I grab my coat, my keys, run again through the rain. We pull out. Introductions, radio calls, the map book, my finger on the siren button as we fly past other cars, intersections. Cursing my lack of a pen and I can’t find paper to note times. Fire is on scene. My hands are actually dry as I grab some gloves. I’m still a little scared, but the feeling of being ready is the stronger emotion.
And then we get there. And they are all looking at me.
A brief moment of panic sets in. I look over the scene, grab the jump bag, take a few deep breaths. The panic doesn’t go away as much as it is shoved aside… there is no one else there who can do this. Time to shut the hell up and just do it kiddo. My head is held high, my steps do not falter, I can even feel a touch of a smile as the Red Light Rush comes on while walking into the scene. I only pray that no one sees my knuckles are white on the bag.
“I’m scared.”
It all goes by in a blur. I’m still getting used to the speed of things, still feel like I am half a step behind even though I know what to do. Almost like my body can’t keep time with my mind. I slow my step, looking around, note the damage to the cars, the other people, the firemen and the police. They all step back as I approach, giving me access to the patient. My patient. Wow. Wow.
I take a look around in the cab, take his hand, introduce myself. Ask the questions I have to, look for the things I should, feel for anything I am not expecting. My first impression is clear; I look over my shoulder and ask for a radio, tell my driver to call for backup. Help is there, the primary crew has arrived. I realize I forgot one thing, something big. I’m not allowed to back down, not allowed to hand over control to the other EMT. He makes sure I keep my head, and I later thank him for it.
I call for this and that. I’m holding my patient’s hand the whole time. He looks me in the eye, and says “I’m scared.” His hand shakes under mine. There are tears building. I smile a little, squeeze his hand. “It’s ok to be scared, I know there’s a lot going on all at once right now. But we’re here to help, and we’ve done this before, and I’m going to hold on the whole time.” He take a breath. Tries to nod. Gets reprimanded for trying to move his neck before we can get the collar on. Offers up a small laugh, sounding more of relief than humor.
“i’m scared,” he said. And for the first time, I can’t say the same.
