So it turns out, I have a big burly emergency services worker, trapped inside my book-reading, heel-wearing 28 year-old female body. For years, my worker-boot clad parasite has been forcing me to watch shows (with the disclaimer unique to channels like National Geographic and Discovery Health, Warning: Due to the graphic nature of the following program, viewer discretion is advised) like Paramedics, Dr. G: Medical Examiner, and even hour-long specials of Mystery Diagnosis. I have scared away both roommates and boyfriends, with my incessant thirst for new medical shows that would make a cheerleader squeal with horror.
And so, in an attempt, to release this burly lumberjack of a demon (who leaves his uniform in a smelly heap in the corner, and never puts the toilet seat down), I turned to the exorcism team at New York Presbyterian Hospital: Emergency Medical Services. If I couldn't beat the demon, I was gonna join him.
I was a bundle of nerves on the first day of class. The crudely drawn map, directing me to the EMT training center, consisted of a few lines and squares, loosely indicating the Emergency Department, somewhere between 68th and 71st streets. "Hi. I'm taking an EMT course here and can't seem to find the classroom," I asked one of 4 information booth attendants. "Not sure what to tell you," she retorted, as I sheepishly presented my failure of a map, "but I can direct you to the Emergency Department. Down this hall, make a left. Through the double doors, 2nd right, then up one flight, another right, 2 lefts, down a hall..." I suddenly felt light headed. Damnit! I was going to be late to my first class. I had it planned oh so well; had even had my yellow pages-like textbook sent to me, in nerd-like fashion, a week before class. After navigating past surgeons in green cotton shoe coverings (who, I should mention, eyed my bacteria-laden civilian clothing suspiciously), and long white corridors with names like Wing F8gX, and Bldg 6A-1.5, I found myself outside again, in the cold air, on the other side of the building. How can this be so complicated? Just as I began to hear the demon cackling, I was hit by the comforting non-organic light of the glowing "EMERGENCY" sign. Alas, I had made it to freedom.
The ambulance bay.
Three weeks later, during our first hands-on practical, I was foolish to believe that with, what I thought were my sculpted biceps and defined deltoids, I could lift the back end of a 150 pound stretcher, while pulling the levers to collapse the hydraulic wheel barrels, into the back of the ambulance, with a [pretend] patient strapped in, and once safely in the vehicle, giving the cold steel bed the needed tug-slide-pull necessary to click it into its safety lock. (I can just hear the prosecutor now, "Did you or did you not suffer from delusions when you hastily attempted to lift Mrs. Brown into the back of the ambulance, whereupon your failure to activate the lever with your right hand, while tying a safety knot with your left, while securing a nonrebreather mask, caused the stretcher to fall to the ground, inflicting unnecessary blunt force trauma to the patient's internal organs? Members of the jury, this is a clear case of delusional, faulty weight training, negligence.") Seems the demon did not prepare me for heavy lifting.
Ah but, three months into training, nightmares of courtroom accusations and being swallowed by long sterile corridors of the hospital maze are merely a glimmer of the past. Knowledge is power, my friends. I have grown to love the sound of an idling 32-valve, V-8 ambulance engine, the cold bell of a stethoscope, my scoliosis-inducing book of state protocols, and obscenely expensive highlighters with fancy little post-it dispensers. I practice my Spanish with the corner deli coffee man. EMS Dispatch staff waves to me when I walk through the Ambulance bay. We students are now allowed to call Craig, one of the Paramedics, by his nickname, Biscuit.
(Cue cheesy montage music). Mine is a tale that would warm even the heart of a prison warden.
You best start running, demon.
And so, in an attempt, to release this burly lumberjack of a demon (who leaves his uniform in a smelly heap in the corner, and never puts the toilet seat down), I turned to the exorcism team at New York Presbyterian Hospital: Emergency Medical Services. If I couldn't beat the demon, I was gonna join him.
I was a bundle of nerves on the first day of class. The crudely drawn map, directing me to the EMT training center, consisted of a few lines and squares, loosely indicating the Emergency Department, somewhere between 68th and 71st streets. "Hi. I'm taking an EMT course here and can't seem to find the classroom," I asked one of 4 information booth attendants. "Not sure what to tell you," she retorted, as I sheepishly presented my failure of a map, "but I can direct you to the Emergency Department. Down this hall, make a left. Through the double doors, 2nd right, then up one flight, another right, 2 lefts, down a hall..." I suddenly felt light headed. Damnit! I was going to be late to my first class. I had it planned oh so well; had even had my yellow pages-like textbook sent to me, in nerd-like fashion, a week before class. After navigating past surgeons in green cotton shoe coverings (who, I should mention, eyed my bacteria-laden civilian clothing suspiciously), and long white corridors with names like Wing F8gX, and Bldg 6A-1.5, I found myself outside again, in the cold air, on the other side of the building. How can this be so complicated? Just as I began to hear the demon cackling, I was hit by the comforting non-organic light of the glowing "EMERGENCY" sign. Alas, I had made it to freedom.The ambulance bay.
Three weeks later, during our first hands-on practical, I was foolish to believe that with, what I thought were my sculpted biceps and defined deltoids, I could lift the back end of a 150 pound stretcher, while pulling the levers to collapse the hydraulic wheel barrels, into the back of the ambulance, with a [pretend] patient strapped in, and once safely in the vehicle, giving the cold steel bed the needed tug-slide-pull necessary to click it into its safety lock. (I can just hear the prosecutor now, "Did you or did you not suffer from delusions when you hastily attempted to lift Mrs. Brown into the back of the ambulance, whereupon your failure to activate the lever with your right hand, while tying a safety knot with your left, while securing a nonrebreather mask, caused the stretcher to fall to the ground, inflicting unnecessary blunt force trauma to the patient's internal organs? Members of the jury, this is a clear case of delusional, faulty weight training, negligence.") Seems the demon did not prepare me for heavy lifting.
Ah but, three months into training, nightmares of courtroom accusations and being swallowed by long sterile corridors of the hospital maze are merely a glimmer of the past. Knowledge is power, my friends. I have grown to love the sound of an idling 32-valve, V-8 ambulance engine, the cold bell of a stethoscope, my scoliosis-inducing book of state protocols, and obscenely expensive highlighters with fancy little post-it dispensers. I practice my Spanish with the corner deli coffee man. EMS Dispatch staff waves to me when I walk through the Ambulance bay. We students are now allowed to call Craig, one of the Paramedics, by his nickname, Biscuit.
(Cue cheesy montage music). Mine is a tale that would warm even the heart of a prison warden.
You best start running, demon.
2 comments:
To my dearest little writer:
I must admit, this tale did warm my heart and bring a tear to my eye. As I wiped it clean with my hankie, I continued reading your delightful essay. SO good! Your writing is pleasant to read and very flowing on the eyes. Keep up the good work, friend, and continue to go where your thoughts take you. Whether it's a novel or series, keep at it, mate!
MRK--this muffit chick looks eerily like your little sis, honest Abe. It's almost freaky that she looks like her, and she randomly commented on your blog. Whoa.
Post a Comment