Skip to main content

I am Allowed to Say How I Feel

I have had a long couple of weeks. I have been sick and exhausted and lacking patience. I have been in serious need of a vacation. I haven't been in a very good mood. And I have figured out that I can't be an ambulance driver for much longer. Certainly not for the rest of my life.

Don't get me wrong, I like driving, I like running hot. There is something quite nice about merging onto the highway, flooring the gas pedal, alternating the sirens, and cutting through traffic in a big ass truck with a giant box on the back. There isn't a whole lot in this world like it. Yes, it's fun. But, driving every day, five days a week, twelve hours a day, everywhere we go...
We finally make it to post and I am feeling the serious need to shut my eyes for ten minutes, that's when the hour changes and we have to put it in gear again. And every patient that wants a trip to the hospital. In our system, I can't take over a BLS call and chill in the back with my probably-not-sick patient. I have to trudge around to the cab and get our asses to the hospital. Every time.
Lately, I have been missing turns. Not exiting at Yale when we are going to St. Francis. Completely oblivious to which street we are approaching until I am already passing 21st in the left lane when I needed to execute a right turn toward Johns. I'm out of it. I am wasted on exhaustion. I am tired of always taking the wheel. All I want is to sit comfortably in the passenger seat and give someone else condescending directions for once. (I can get us pretty much there. It is my job to know and look like I know where I am going. But that does not mean, a, You should completely assume I can get us to the exact house in the exact neighborhood or, b, You should tell me how from the moment I light it up, and do so with a snarky, hateful attitude as if I were a child; as if my pointing us in the right direction were a fluke. Treat me like an adult, people.)
I can't look at the world from the driver's seat anymore. If I really wanted to drive a truck sixty hours a week, I'd have gotten my training in semis. At least then I would have union benefits.
Yes, there are some perks to working on an ambulance over a big rig, sure. Patient care for one. I do actually get to do somethings here and there. Maybe I get to be part of something good, do something important once in a while. But does it make up for it? Essentially, no matter what your medic says or how the company spins it, all you are is the driver. The chauffeur to the big, bad hospital where all the more important people are waiting to talk to the more important para all about the person on your cot. You're the driver. But, if you're lucky, they will treat you like you're their personal servant, instead of their personal chauffeur. (I didn't realize my blue and white patch said house wife on it under EMT.)
The only way I will get out of this lifestyle, out of being treated like I am someone's personal shit-taker, doormat extraordinaire, driver to the stars, will be to get a higher level of certification. But, quite honestly, I don't want to do that here. This company, this business is in the habit of eating their own, and I don't want to be a part of that.
But, I also can't drive an ambulance for much longer. I wasn't cut out for this. The long hours are fine. The belligerent patients are funny. The work is fantastic, once you're actually doing something important to the call. I love those pieces of my job, but they are just pieces. The driving, the hours spent at the wheel, the hours spent putting up with arrogant paras, the constant expectation to make your partner look good all the while he turns around and throws more shit your way...I can't do this. Not here, in this suck of a town. Not for this pay. Not for all the good days ahead. I am not your puppet, your personal punching bag, your full time servant. And I am not your fucking chauffeur. I am not an ambulance driver.

I haven't found out about scrub school. If I get wait-listed, I'll go for para, but I am truly just looking for more; to give me hope that there is something out there that makes me feel better. Because, today, this week, I don't feel like anything. Like anybody. I feel useless.

These Days I'm Not Feeling Much

Comments

  1. Sounds like you've had a rough go lately. But I know you. You're determined, smart and resourceful. You will definitely go on to something bigger and better. I am now going to have a cup of coffee in your honor.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Aww, thanks girl. It has been a long couple of weeks, but I am feeling better and in a much better mood than I was, so that's something.
      Thanks for reading. We should have coffee some day, when you're available. :) Enjoy your cup today.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I-5

On a chilly Sunday evening in mid-January, two young women rolled up to the TransAmerica Title Building on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon, just off Interstate 5, to clean the office. It was their usual Sunday job, though today they had gotten a bit of a late start, having to shower and stop for gas, so they didn't arrive to the business complex until after nine p.m. The office had wide, welcoming windows on every wall and, with the bright florescent lights flipped on, the effect was to create a fishbowl-like scene, the women bustling around in their duties like two busy, little fish. They'd left the door unlocked and entertained themselves by chatting to each other, the two of them best friends. They were Shari Hull, twenty-years-old and the daughter of the owner of the housekeeping company with which they were both employed, and Beth Wilmot, also twenty and a fairly recent transplant to Salem from Spokane, Washington. She'd come for work, and along with steady pay, she

By the Barrel of a Silver Gun (I-5 Part Two)

In early February of 1981, authorities from Salem flew down the Interstate 5 corridor and assembled with detectives and law officials from northern California and southern Oregon. Each detective had a crime, or two, in their jurisdiction matching a particular modus operandi , and the list of incidents just kept growing. When they gathered, they had no idea the scope of the mystery they were unraveling or just far it was going to reach. It started with a robbery. On December 9, 1980, in Vancouver, Washington, a gas station was held up at gun point, the female attendant left alone in the store. A man entered wearing a brown coat and a fake beard. He demanded cash and brandished a small, silver gun to prove he was serious. The cashier obliged.  A few days later, in Eugene, Oregon, on December thirteenth, a Baskin-Robbins was robbed by a man holding a silver gun and wearing a fake beard and a band aid across his nose.  In Albany, Oregon, a drive-in was hit on December fou

Wah Mee Massacre

On a chilly February night, five days after the start of the Chinese New Year, 1983, three young men walked into one of the most renowned, high-stakes gambling dens in the heart of Seattle's Chinatown International District and walked away with thousands of dollars of cash in their pockets and fourteen lives hanging in the balance in their wake.  The club was the Wah Mee, a sixty-year-old casino and bar that catered exclusively to Chinese clientele and hosted the highest-stakes illegal gambling in the Pacific Northwest. The men were 22-year-old Kwan Fai "Willie" Mak, 20-year-old Benjamin Ng, and 25-year-old Wai Chiu "Tony" Ng.  Willie Mak was born in Kwangtung Province in mainland China and immigrated to the US with his family in 1975 when he was fifteen. By 22, Willie was a high school drop out, working various jobs in and around Seattle, and had a penchant for gambling. He was well-known in the International District gambling clubs, including the Wah Me