Anyone who knows me, knows all too well that I begin most conversations with “I used to be an EMT and…” Then I try to relate it to whatever conversation we are having. It doesn’t matter if we are talking about scone recipes, I have a way of tying it into being an EMT.
This is very much in line with my life’s philosophy of “The older I get, the better I used to be.” For those that know me, the conversation usually ends there as most of them have already left the table: “Oh no, here he goes again remembering the good ol’ days.” But occaisionally, read that as twice, I get someone who truly gives a crap about my tales of guts and glory. They even go so far as to ask me the usual array of questions; “What was the grossest thing you ever saw?” being the number one item on my EMTFAQ.
I have no problems bringing up tales of body parts and putrefaction; gunshots and stabbings; man’s capacity for violence. But the reality is that when I reflect in my own head about some of my calls, it is not blood and guts that stick out in my mind. It is never funny tales of people needing medical attention while having sex. It is never lurid stories of naked coeds at BU drunk for the first time, passed out in their bathtubs (actually….).
What I think about the most; the story that has stayed in my brain, my heart and deep in my gut was a call I got on Thanksgiving day. We got the call as a man with chest pain. We were basic EMTs so I knew we simply had to do the usual treatment of “O2 and screw.” When we arrived on scene, we could smell the Thanksgiving feast from outside. The kitchen looked like every kitchen in your mind’s eye. It was a kitchen that had good memories absorbed into the walls. This was a kitchen where love permeated the curtains as much as the smell of dinner.
But we weren’t here to look at drapes. At the kitchen table, there was a man, a giant of a man. In front of him was a plate, maybe a platter of food with all the Thanksgiving fixings partially eaten. The man clearly wasn’t thinking about the cranberry sauce. He was clutching his chest, his skin was pale and he was sweating. He was not happy.
This was exactly like the fifty other calls we got that week for fat guys with chest pain. But this one was different. This man was surrounded by the typical screaming wife. His beautiful daughter was obviously distraught but she kept going back to the stove to make sure nothing was burning. They obviously loved and cared for this man. His son was also in the room. This boy was about sixteen years old and he clearly had his father’s big-bone genes. He was wearing a baseball cap and looked like every other athletic kid.
This boy just sat there staring into his father’s eyes. His mouth was open and he said little. I bet he still held the fork in his hand. It was at this point that I felt something unique. Instead of the adrenaline rush following trauma or the feeling of nausea just thinking about how badly people can smell, I felt pure empathy for this boy. Here he was, simply stunned that his dad was in pain. This was the man who was supposed to be immortal. I imagined that they were on the front lawn earlier that morning throwing a football. I imagined they had a heart-to-heart and discussed the boy’s plan for college and career choice. I imagined this boy looked up to his father and absorbed his politics and outlook. This was the man he dreamed he would grow up to be. Now the boy was faced with his father’s mortality for the first time. Now, it was his father that needed help. His father was not superman and he was not invincible. Now, his father was fragile and vulnerable. He will probably live with the usual dire wanring from the doctor to lose weight and exercise and hopefully he heeds those warnings. But to this boy, everything has changed. He will probably have to help his dad to the bathroom following cardiac surgery. He will need to walk with him to get exercise and pretend nothing is wrong as they talk about the Patriots. On Sundays, instead of the buffalo wings and chile, I see them eating come crudite and the dad abstaining from the dip while the son shovels it into his mouth. Everything is different now and no one knows it yet.
This is not a very coherent story, i realize, but it was in my head so here it is.
Thanks for listening.