Sitting in the ambulance, I read and reread the tone on my alphanumeric pager.
A Resp 80 YOF 22048 West LaneI’ve been to this house before, but not as an EMT. A means Advanced Life Support. A means someone will die if we don’t hurry. An 80-year-old female awaits. She cannot breathe.
I’ve been to this house before, but only to carry the equipment, the medical bag, the defibrillator, the oxygen tank. I’ve watched the paramedics talk with her before about her illness. Take her pulse. Listen to the sounds in her chest. I’ve retrieved her little brown vials from the bathroom, eager to be told what to do by people who know. Her husband always sits next to her quietly. He’s the same age as she, but he always looks much younger. He always holds her hand. He has a deep crease between his eyebrows.
I’ve been waiting in the ambulance with the lights running. I look up both directions of Bald Hills Road waiting for one more volunteer. I cannot go alone.
She’s not breathing.
September 2001: A Birth In the Field
Alex rolls her eyes as the pager chirps the tone for my district. She knows that once again, she’ll watch the movie credits by herself. I pick up my gear by the door and read the code in the car, steering the wheel with my knees, one hand desperately trying to buckle the seatbelt, the other keeping the red button pressed on my pager so the light will stay on.
A Preg 38 YOF 21718 Thorn Bird LaneI’m driving at least 70 along the two-lane country road that links my house to the fire station, but a truck passes me doing 80. It’s one of the other EMTs. Within moments, he has the ambulance out of the bay and is yelling at me to hurry up.
"Have you ever delivered a baby before?"
October 31, 2004: Halloween
Tristan walks up to the house and rings the doorbell at 22048 West Lane. I’ve been to this house before. An old widower opens the door and my son yells, ‘Trick or Treat’! The man smiles and turns inside to grab a tray of candy. Tristan steps into the house, as he usually does, but this time I don’t stop him. I step to the door and look inside at the living room.
He doesn’t remember me.
May 2001: A Death in the Field
We reach 22048 West Lane. The other volunteer has been on the department much longer than I, but he’s not an EMT. So I have to give him directions. ‘Grab the jump kit and the O2. No, wait! Grab the defib. I’ll get the jump kit.’ I forget to call us in to dispatch. The volunteer gives me the radio and reminds me. I’m in charge.
"Capitol: Aid 17-1 on scene."
I shoulder the orange bag, removing the stethoscope and draping it around my neck. The front door at 22048 West Lane is locked. When I peek inside the window, I see the old man trying to breathe into her mouth. Her skin is a kind of blue without a name. A color that Crayola left on the drawing board. Somewhere between Purple Mountain Majesty and Indigo. A crayon best called cyanotic.
She’s not breathing.
September 2001: A Birth In the Field
Even the high beams don’t seem to illuminate this part of the county well enough to see. We drive along a dirt road, across a wooden bridge, through a pasture where Roosevelt Elk cross to reach the Cascade foothills. Gravel dust forces us back to low beams. We are looking for a 5th wheel trailer behind an unmarked mobile home. We’ve been this way before, and we find it once again.
A shirtless man waits for us as we open our doors. Even in the scant moonlight, I can see his pupils are constricted, which only makes sense among meth addicts. He tells us she’s is in the back. We make our way in the pitch black past the sounds of rustling chains and growling dogs we never see.
She’s breathing.
May 2001: A Death in the Field
After the old man unlocks the door, he collapses onto a chair. I kneel next to his wife, and shake her shoulders, out of habit, not purpose. I check her pulse, and think I feel something. Maybe something. But what I’ve been taught doesn’t make sense to me anymore, so I ask the volunteer to hand me the bag valve mask. I position her head and neck and hold the mask to her face. I press the blue bulb against my leg, as it’s too large to simply squeeze with my hand. I count. I squeeze. I count. I squeeze.
She’s not breathing.
September 2001: A Birth In the Field
She’s already delivered the baby by herself. A lit cigarette burns in the ashtray. She can’t possibly be the mother, because she looks no more than 110 pounds. The baby is still attached to her by the umbilical cord, and the two of them rock gently against the wall of the trailer. The other EMT clamps the cord and cuts. Takes the newborn and gives it its first test. Appearance. 1. Pulse. 1 Grimace 1. Activity 1. Rate. 1. An APGAR of 5. She’s not doing well.
But she’s breathing.
October 31, 2004: Halloween
The old man laughs at Tristan’s costume and lets him take as much candy as he wants. I stare at the couch.
May 2001: A Death in the Field
The paramedics arrive and immediately remove the old man from the couch. They throw it to the side to give themselves room to work.
October 31, 2004: Halloween
Tristan says ‘thank you’ and walks past me. On to the next house. I look at the floor.
May 2001: A Life in the Field
I’m sitting on the floor with the old woman. I’ve been pumping away at the bag valve mask for as long as I can remember. The paramedic puts his hand on my shoulder and asks me to step aside. "Good job," he says.
I look down at the woman.
She’s breathing.
September 2001: A Birth In the Field
I stay with her in the trailer while the other EMT takes the baby to the ambulance for warmth and oxygen. I deliver her placenta, while she stares at a barely visible image on a 13-inch television set. When it’s over, I tell her that the paramedics will be here soon, that her baby is doing fine. She shrugs.
Outside, though it’s past 11, I hear the sound of children playing in the yard. ‘Those your kids?’ I ask. She nods. There are at least 5 voices among the barking dogs.
October 31, 2004: Halloween
I’m about to thank him for the Halloween candy, but he reaches out a hand first and I take it.
"Thank you."
He remembers.
June 2001: St. Peter’s Hospital
He holds the same hand he’s known for 50 years. One more week might just be everything he ever wanted.
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