Connected

The old lady on the stretcher slipped in and out of consciousness as we rode toward the hospital. Her daughter leaned over from the bench seat, stroking her mother’s forhead and holding her hand. I felt like an intruder, sitting behind them in the Captain’s seat, filling out the report but they didn’t seem to mind my presence, their bond stronger than anything I ever felt.

The lady in the stretcher was nearing the end of her life, eighty-one years old and not in the best of health. This would be her third trip to the hospital this month, she has been passing out and falling for no reason. Her daughter looked intently into her mothers eyes as we rode. Letting a parent go is never easy, my own mother suffered a major stroke at age fifty-six and lingered for another nine years in a nursing home, never regaining her sense of self.

I stopped writing and watched the two interact. It occurred to me that the twenty-five or so years that were stolen from my mother and me could have been time to heal old wounds, get to know each other and enter into a more adult relationship. I envied the opportunity these two had but was happy for them as well.

An hour earlier I took another elderly person from his home, also accompanied by a daughter. They too had that special bond. She helped him walk to the rescue; he insisted even though his weakend legs barely held him up. The daughter was able to take care of the father now, and he let her, grateful for the assistance.

My own father died when I was twenty-eight. I had barely grown up, tried to be there for him during his year long battle with cancer, and did the best I could, but I now know that at twenty-eight the best I could do wasn’t nearly as good as I could do now that I’ve lived and experienced life for twenty more years. Father and daughter rode together in my truck, comfortable in each other’s presence as I sat alone behind them.

Funny what runs through your mind when you least expect it. Although fall is my favorite time of year the evidence of our mortality must sink in to my subconscious mind as flowers die, leaves get tired and days get shorter. It isn’t a bad thing, it actually makes me appreciate the time I have here and now and puts a little urguncy in the way I handle my relationships with the people who mean the world to me.

Zack just called, somebody got murdered in front of Crossroads. Nothing he could do this time, just declare the man dead and move on to the next one. The city had been quiet for an hour or two, then something happened. I swear a pulse or something unseen permeates the atmosphere at times and drives people to do insane things. As Zack leaned over a man who had his head split open with a machete’ I sat in the back of Rescue 1 on the way to Miriam with a man who had just tried to kill himself with a knife and Theresa and John at Rescue 5 treated another suicidal knife weilding patient.

Six hours to go. Except for a few hours I’ve been here since Friday, dozens of calls, a few emergencies, little sleep.

As always, thanks for reading, see you in a couple of days.