Over time, various folk have contacted me asking for advice on starting their career as a Paramedic. I always find this odd. I would have thought by my mad ramblings laid down in previous blogs, it was obvious that I’m a bumbling, kak-handed, accident prone disaster movie just waiting to happen. Why on earth folk would expect me to be able to dish out sound advice is beyond comprehension.
However, advice people have asked for and advice has been given. I’m never too sure it was the sort of advice folk wanted but I gave it a go. Anyway, someone recently suggested it a good idea to write a blog on it – so I have. But only a short one. With not much advice. More a statement. Or a warning. You decide . . .
Young-drunk-man-in-a-suit continued to hold his cracked, soon-to-be-dead phone up to my face. In his drunken sway, with eyes barely focussed, his demeanour switched suddenly from startlingly desperate to that of a damp and pathetic dog.
“You see . . .” he snivelled, “I love her. I know I’ve only known her for one date, but, she’s . . . she’s . . . I love her -”
And, before I could Judo-chop myself away to safety, young-drunk-man-in-a-suit flopped his head forward onto my chest and started to cry.
With hundreds of drunken revellers staggering about me in various states of inebriation, I continued to stand there, handset radio held to my ear waiting for a response from the police . . .
This is a little poem that’s been sitting on the back burner for quite a while now – thought it about time to get it finished and put out there. Dedicated to all those starting out who might think it’s all too easy . . . don’t be overconfident, be humble always.
Like a soulless zombie, I stumbled in from work and collapsed onto the sofa. Catatonic, I stared at the wall in front of me, eyes focused somewhere a thousand yards ahead. My wife had seen this look before – she knew it all too well. Horrors of a traumatic shift catching up to prey on a weary mind. In bed, all thoughts of a peaceful slumber, snatched away. In its place, a tortuous and endless eternity of painful memories. My wife knew that something bad had happened so, she sat down carefully by my side and took my hand in hers.
“Oh my love, what’s happened? You can tell me”
My lip quivered as tears welled in my eyes. After a long pause I explained . . .
“I . . . I had to pick up a patient’s poo today!”
I’m a day dreamer and a doodler. Generally, any piece of paper placed in front of me will end up scrawled all over with a barrage of hieroglyphics, twiddles, cubes, spirals, calligraphy and occasionally – a picture. An old friend from donkey years back still doesn’t talk to me ever since I inadvertently drew boobs and penises over his dad’s death certificate whilst at his funeral wake. The speeches were a little dull. Continue reading
The seriousness of most illnesses can be determined by the global demeanour of those gathered round the patient. When you enter someone’s home and are greeted by a smiley happy chirpy face of a relative mid throws in the process of making a pot of tea, I think it’s a safe bet that the patient you’ve come to see will not be dead or dying.
I stood at the foot of a bed where my patient lay and unperturbed, repeated his proclamation.
“You can’t move”
The patient’s wife stood in the kitchen. A smiley happy chirpy face befit her as she made a pot of tea. Continue reading