Moments (IV)

We drive east, in the darkness and rain, bluegrass and crackling radio traffic in our ears.

Thirty minutes ago, we were giving report to nurses and a doctor, swapping the O2 over, 1-2-3 lift, there we go, no allergies, had three neb treatments, what else can we tell you?

Forty minutes ago, I watch my partner rip out a BVM, in the rear view mirror, and my fingers are resting lightly on the EMERG MASTER switch before he even gives me the nod. Yeah. Blinkies and woo-woos now.

An hour ago, we load a little old lady in the back of the car. She doesn't look great, but her sats perked up nicely on the neb, and she doesn't look awful or anything.

Eighty minutes ago, a firefighter is telling my partner what he knows, as I try to tease information out of an anxious son, carefully as any detective handling a skittish murder witness, firm but kind.

One hundred minutes ago, I was on the phone with my wife. Wait a sec, I said, as tones started whistling on county dispatch. Whoops. That's us. Gotta go. See you in the morning.

Love you.


Twenty minutes ago, through the hospital curtain, I heard a son, talking to a mother who might not have even been able to hear him. I'm here. We're here. Be strong.

Love you.