That Bloody Girl

I'm sitting at Post 15 and all I want to do is close my eyes and day dream. Unfortunately, if I do that, I inevitably fall asleep. Which, in itself isn't terrible, because sleeping is great, but I always feel kind of guilty for doing it at work--even though, like, EVERYONE does it. And I mean everyone, as in: everyone in EMS ever. It's really hard not to. If you're not sitting in a truck for hours at post, you're stationed somewhere, probably with couches, until the next emergency drops. How can you resist the temptation to shut your eyes and drift off? Answer: you can't. No, seriously, you really can't. (And if we aren't sitting around waiting for that next emergency and fighting Mr. Sandman, we're running our tails off nonstop for twelve hours. That, friends, is another kind of hell and another story for another time.) Other than feeling guilty for sleeping at work--you know, doctors sleep at work--it's kind of a weird thing to actually do

We get a lot of deaths around this time of day. People wake up and realize that their loved ones who were "fine" yesterday have died sometime during the night. And there is absolutely nothing anyone can do. I'd like to make some grand metaphor out of this, but I don't know how. People die. They are sick and they die. They get hurt and they die. Signal 48; signal 30. Non-traumatic; traumatic. Natural; unnatural. Most people, it seems, go to bed and, in their sleep, they die. I had a weird dream last night (worst segway ever!) It was essentially about waiting around for something to happen, but the waiting was INTENSE. Very on-the-edge-of-your-seat. And then the earth stopped spinning. And then I went to bed. Seriously, the earth stopped spinning and me, I just go to bed. Throughout the dream I had been talking to a friend I haven't spoken to in a while. In fact, I'd say we're probably not friends anymore. Anyway, we were speaking again, but not i

I'm mad at my friend with cancer. What kind of heinous-fucking-bitch move is that? The thing is: I can't be the kind of friend everyone wants me to be. I am not sweet and I am often not kind. Sorry, I'm just not a very nice girl all of the time. It isn't because I am inherently evil--as a few people I know would have you believe--it is because I am inherently broken. I've felt like, for the majority of my life and all of my adulthood, that I have this gaping gash somewhere inside me, from all the pieces this life has taken from me. At some point in high school, I think I broke and I never granted myself the opportunity to properly heal. So, I've got this gash, all scarred over, this thick and immobile scar tissue tacking-up my insides. And then everything little thing hurts me. Everything hurts me, all the time, always. Because I got broke like Humpty Dumpty, who'd been drinking too much and just couldn't keep his balance.  And, somehow, because

Backboards suck. They are confining, uncomfortable, hard and cruel and we put you on them because we hate you. Or so you feel, once you're strapped to one. Per protocol, we have to immobilize your spine. It's supposed to prevent any further injury, if you've sustained any trauma to your back. Of course, most of the MVCs we respond to are minor. So minor, in fact, that most patients can walk away, go on home, and take two Tylenol when they feel like crap in the morning. But most passengers strongly disagree. Most want to go to the hospital, because most want to get checked out and honestly, someone else's insurance is going to pay for it anyway, right?  Because you tell us that you hurt, we tell you we'll have to strap you to a hard board and drive you down a bumpy road. And because you feel pain, and because you feel wronged, you agree to immobilization. And then you spend the entire trip to the hospital whining and bitching and crying like a five-year-old for