About four-and-a-half years ago now, I nervously sat on the smooth, gray bench seat. The smell of Cavi-wipes and plastic saturated the stuffy air. Our pediatric patient slept comfortably in his car seat while Mom dabbed tears away with a washcloth my preceptor had fished out of our linen cabinet. He consoled her throughout this 90-minute trip, reassuring her that all would be well. And I sat there, almost too stunned and nervous to speak. My brain was a mash of nervousness, empathy, and excitement. I was finally riding along on my very first ambulance ride—and I was hooked.

Not too long ago, I sprawled out on that smooth, gray bench seat. The air hung heavy with the metallic smell of blood. The patient was forced into a dreamless sleep with medications, and I wondered if he would ever wake up. Having nothing else left to do on this 90-minute ride, I dabbed a moistened washcloth at the dried blood and vomit at the corners of his mouth. The paramedic and I chatted quietly, discussing the patient’s health, vital signs, medication dosing, ventilator settings…and what places might be open for a quick bite at this hour. My mind buzzed with hunger, fatigue, and a curiosity about our unfortunate patient. I didn’t realize it at the moment, but I was on my last call as a full-fledged member of this department.

I found myself in the backs of those trucks. I knew so little then…about medicine, about my future, about life, about myself. I worked alongside some of the most incredible firefighters, EMT’s, paramedics, and human beings. I made some amazing friends. Sure, I’ve cried, considered throwing in the towel, and been angry with coworkers, with this department, with this profession. But I always came back for more. I truly felt at home in that brick building, in that red truck. Those people I worked with? Broke bread with, laughed with, argued with, cried with, goofed off with, learned with, grew with? They’re my family. God, or whatever is out there, did not see fit to provide me with any biological male siblings. But I was blessed with 40 brothers, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

And yet…it feels like I am.

Within the past month or so, I have accepted a position as an ER nurse. The job hunt for new grad nurses is excruciating in my corner of the world. To be offered any job—especially an ER job—was completely mind-blowing. So, even though it was far away from home, I had to take it. I packed up my few belongings and moved out of my parents’ house for the first time. I found myself in an apartment in the heart of a small town in a different state. I know nothing and nobody for an hour in any direction. I work a full-time job, with a bigger paycheck that has chunks removed from it for important and adult sounding things like “403b.” I wear scrubs in styles and colors of my choosing, and I don’t have to put on those God awful white clogs anymore.

But my new rotating schedule forbids me to work my regular nights in that ambulance that I grew up in. It is getting harder and harder for me to justify spending so much time and money to drive all the way back home to work on an ambulance for a day, and then drive all the way back to my apartment.

“We knew this day was coming,” A lieutenant told me. “Why don’t we bump you down to per diem status?”

And it was in that statement that I realized that no, I can’t have it all. I am slowly being peeled away from the department and field I loved so much. Going to per diem status may not seem like much. But it means giving up my regular schedule. It means giving up my time with those people I love, doing what I love.

Suddenly, I find myself asking, “Is this really what you want to do?” The decision is somewhat already made for me…I am an ER nurse now. I live in another state. I have been doggedly pursuing this for years. I worked so hard for this. Yet I find myself missing the confidence of being in a truck. I miss the synchronization of working with a good partner. I miss EMS, and the home and family that taught me so much.

“We really are a family,” The weathered nurses tell me at the nurses’ station. I smile and nod while my heart breaks a little. They very well may be a family…but my EMS family is going to be pretty hard to compete with.

I had to take a Medical Terminology class to fulfill the requirements for my degree. I thought it was kind of silly and somewhat of a waste of time, but, hey, I can’t argue with an easy A.

My class was online. However, we had to call the instructor once per week to read medical words from a vocabulary list she’d emailed to us. When I called her for the first time, she went off on this huge tangent about how she has all this experience in the medical field, but she never specifically discussed what job(s) she held.

One day, I called her to complete this assignment. I was reading down the list, not thinking much of it.

“Hypoglycemia,” I’d announce.

“Good.”

“Humerus.”

“Good.”

“Dyspnea.”

“Um….try that again.”

 

I was kind of surprised. I didn’t think I’d mispronounced anything.

“Disp-nee-uh,” I tried a little slower.

“No. Minus 5 points. It’s pronounced dis-pee-nee-uh. You need to pronounce the ‘P’. Next.”

Huh?

“Um…ok…orthopnea.” (Orth-op-nee-uh)

“Again, pronounce the ‘P’. Minus Five again. Orth-o-pee-nee-uh. Next.”

“………….Eupnea.”

“Pronounce. The. P. Ee-you-pee-nya.”

“Interesting,” I said, carefully choosing my words. “I’ve never heard it pronounced like that before.”

“Well, when you’re in the business for a long time, you pick up on these things.”

“I see.”

 

Maybe I–and everyone I’ve ever worked with or been exposed to in the medical field–is wrong? But I’m willing to bet you all (y’all, yous guys, etc.) pronounce it the same as I do, despite the differences in our colloquialisms. That’s just me though. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. Because she definitely did. 15 points worth of it, actually.

Patient: “Oh! Look what we have here! Are you the good doctor?”

Doctor: “Well, I’m not the bad one…”

Working in a small town provides a glimpse at some truly beautiful, near-poetic things. There are the smiles and friendly waves of townspeople as you walk around downtown in your uniform. There’s the warm food, donated by generous local restaurants that volunteered to open in the middle of cold, brutal nights; provided to the victims and responders of a local tragedy. There are the “Thank you” cards that are proudly and thoughtfully tacked to the station cork boards. There’s that pristine hour after clearing an end-of-shift call, where new morning sun filters through the mist, and reflects softly off still ponds. There’s the privilege of being allowed inside of those small, sleepy townhouses and cabins; the same ones that seep curly plumes of sweet woodsmoke into crisp morning air. There’s the sanctity of caring for the people we see every day; those we grew up with and know well, and those who are familiar strangers.

That familiarity–that close-knit bond unique to those who work and live in a small town–can provide for the most inspiring, speechless joy; and unfortunately brilliant sorrow. Sometimes, you are called into those small, sleepy townhouses and cabins, and you witness and participate in the recovery of not just an illness, but a life that weaves frequently into yours within this little town. Other times, you are called around the stoves’ hearths that seep those curly plumes of sweet woodsmoke, and you are asked, demanded, begged to fix something that cannot be fixed; cure something that cannot be cured. Then, that particular thread of life is missing from the usual, comfortable tapestry of every day.

It’s hard to tell a family, “I’m sorry, but she’s passed away.” It’s hard to stop pushing on the chest of someone you’d known, either close or from afar. It’s hard when a family member cries into your uniform as you try to console them with a hug. It’s hard when they watch you pick up the trash, pack up the equipment; and leave them with their sorrow, the whirlwind of funeral directors and arrangements, and the shell of their loved one. What’s harder is when you can’t put the call to the back of your mind, filed away somewhere along with the other codes and unfortunate calls you’d been a part of–when you are forced to face the aftermath of what you couldn’t help. When you are required to attend this person’s funeral.

I was uncomfortable as we waited for the services to start. I kept my head down, chin tucked against the lump in my throat. Part of me hoped I wouldn’t be recognized by the survived who were there on that day my partner and I were called to try. I prayed I wouldn’t be asked once again by a distraught family member, “Why didn’t you save her?” Because it was too late. Because the odds were astronomical. Because it was her time. Because I couldn’t. I would never say those out loud. They wouldn’t alleviate the pain. What’s more, it doesn’t answer question they really want answered: Why did she have to go now?

I focused so intently on trying to find comfort in this awkward, sad situation; trying to be both present and invisible. I was focused so intently, I almost didn’t recognize the man who had taken the seat beside me. He turned and chatted with a friend and coworker of mine. Then, my shoulder was tapped.

“Do you remember that code a while back?” My friend started. I squinted my eyes and thought as he described the house, the room, the circumstances. It all flooded back to me, back from the corner of my mind where the code that resulted in this funeral should be. I nodded. “This is him. This was your patient.”

I looked into those bright, sea-glass green eyes. The last time I looked into them, I was breathing for him. He was cool, gray, limp. Now, his handshake was strong and warm. There was such a life about him. Every blink, every smile, every word out of his mouth seemed so completely miraculous and wonderful. I wanted to talk to him all day, if for no other reason that to truly be in awe of life and every little thing we take for granted.

We sat next to each other during the ceremony. I sat beside a man whose life I helped save, whose thread I helped preserve; while mourning the loss of a life I couldn’t save, the newest uneasy void in our local community’s tapestry. The juxtaposition was beautifully, inspiringly, sadly, uniquely poetic; leaving me with a deeper, greater appreciation for my life and work in this small town.

It all began with a plain piece of 8.5 x 11 paper. A little more than two years ago, a lump sat decidedly in my throat as I nervously opened an envelope from a school. My eyes searched that simple sheet of paper, finding the only words that mattered: “Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into our nursing program.” That summer seemed to crawl by as I anxiously awaited the beginning of my nursing career.

On a late spring evening in 2014, I sported a traditional white scrub dress and goofy-looking cap, as my mother pinned the hard-earned nursing school pin to my chest. I stood before my family, my closest friends, and my classmates as I lit my candle and recited the Nightingale Pledge. I promised to be the best nurse I could be, and to serve my patients above all.

The two years in between were the most difficult I’ve ever endured, and were fraught with more challenges than I’d ever imagined. There were unfair, condescending professors. There was the one instructor who looked me dead in the eye and said, “EMS is for people who aren’t smart enough to get through nursing school.” There were cut-throat classmates. There were absurd policies, forcing students to choose between missing a family member’s funeral or paying $850 to make up their schoolwork privately. There was the ever-looming threat of failure, made all too real by the steady loss of 62% of my classmates. Some friendships drifted apart–some probably irreparably so. There were brutal shifts on the ambulance. There were calls and incidents that shook me to my core and made me question things I was so ignorantly secure in. There was the loss of my only living grandparent–a loss that was unexpected, and occurred with a simultaneously shocking speed and a heartbreaking slowness. There was my father’s diagnosis of cancer. There were plenty of all-nighters, tears, and swearing I could not take another day in this program.

If that dark picture entirely described my two years of nursing school, there’s no way I would have made it. The nursing cap and pins on my bookshelf would never be there. There were people who gave me strength to give it just one more day, to try just one more time. There were professors who pulled me aside and told me I was going to be a great nurse. There were classmates who would vent with me, give me incredible words of wisdom, and drive to Chipotle for dinner while blasting music at an unreasonable level. There were instructors who tried to fight unfair policies that put students in unreasonable positions.  There were new friendships that were forged under the hot stress of school, and older friendships that were strengthened. There were shifts at work that were filled with camaraderie and fun, and were absolutely vital to keeping my sanity. The calls and incidents that had caused me so much pain are sewn into the fiber of my being, making me stronger and wiser than before. And there were calls that reminded me why I love taking care of people so much. The loss of my grandmother brought my family even closer. My father’s illness is allowing me to reorganize my priorities, to think less selfishly. I’m learning to look for the things I can change and help with. And, I’m learning to accept that some things are out of my control. Above all, the love, support, and compassion I’ve received has absolutely astounded me. All I can do is say “Thank you,” although words could never adequately express what these selfless kindnesses have done for me, and what they continue to do.

My nursing pin is a celebration of all that has happened, all I have pushed through, and everyone who was there along the way. It is for the bad as much as it is for the good.

And now, for better and worse, on to the next…

Firstly–Surprise! I’m still alive, functioning, and capable of writing (or what I’m trying to pass off as “writing”, anyway.) Between surviving school, trying to work, dealing with the stresses of caring for a very sick loved one, and other personal craziness, I’ve had pretty much zero time to write. I miss it dearly, and I hope to be writing with much more regularity soon!

But first, some big news! Late this evening, my final grades were posted. And with that, I am both relieved and pleased to report that I am now officially done with nursing school. I graduate and attend my pinning ceremony later this month. Hopefully, within a month or so, I will make the journey to our local testing center, and sit for my boards. And, with a lot of luck, I’ll be working as a nurse while pursuing my BSN this fall.

To describe my nursing school experience (especially this last semester), I’d have to quote a friend of mine. We stood out in the sharp, late-winter evening breeze. She puffed thoughtfully on a cigarette while I quickly vented about the latest school had thrown at me. She exhaled a stream of smoke into the frigid air, before delivering the smoothest verbal combination of wisdom, indestructibility, and indifferent bad-assery.

“When life–especially life with nursing school–punches you square in the face and knocks you flat on your back…you know what you need to do? You need to stand up tall, brush yourself off, spit out the blood and a few loose teeth, and tell Life-With-Nursing School, ‘You hit like a bitch.’ ”

I carried that funny, tough little mantra with me through every obstacle and pitfall. And, here I am. I’m a little worse for wear, but that experience has taught me and changed me so much.

Some of those changes were good. Some were bad. Others, unforeseen; and still more were long awaited for. But one thing that has not changed is my passion for EMS. If anything, working my way through nursing school has reaffirmed my passion for EMS, my drive to figure out that puzzle, and my desire to help people in whatever little way I can. Rest assured, I’ll be in this line of work for the long haul. This is where my heart truly lies. And I really look forward to sharing that with you guys again.

So, thank you so much for all of your patience and support! I’ll have some new things for you to read shortly. Stay safe out there!

“Huh, interesting,” I thought. I was being sent up to the ER to assist with a transfer to another, larger hospital. “Interesting, but not particularly rare or unusual.”

I’d seen this diagnosis numerous times. Hell, I’d seen this presentation for this diagnosis a couple times too. When asked if my assistance would be needed, the doctor sucked on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and finally said, “The patient will probably be alright. But, eh, it wouldn’t hurt to stack the deck.” And that’s how I became a second set of hands in the back of the truck. If you were superstitious, you might say I was sent with the intention of being more of a good luck charm than a second practitioner. If you weren’t, you might just say I was a poorly allocated resource.

Four-leaf clover or unnecessary weight in the back of the truck, I was happy to be going along on a transfer with a pretty sick patient. Even better, a pretty sick patient with an anticipated positive outcome. Sounded like I was going to go home that night content with the somewhat false knowledge that I helped a little bit today.

Our patient was a sweetheart. Polite, witty, intelligent, friendly, but definitely a bit nervous and frazzled. She had a dog that needed walking, a yoga class to get to, an upcoming vacation to pack for. This trip to the hospital was not planned in her tidy schedule. Her husband stood at the door, fidgeting with his jacket, occasionally taking a few paces forward and a few paces back.

We got her settled on our stretcher, and hooked her up to all of our equipment. Explanations were sprinkled with light jokes, which seemed to calm her somewhat. In short order, we were ready to load her into the ambulance and get on our merry way. I started for the door when I felt my partner pull back ever so lightly on the stretcher.

“Would you like to give her a kiss goodbye?” The paramedic offered gently and brightly. The husband sheepishly grinned, and shuffled over to his wife. He kissed her on the lips, then gently on the forehead. He smoothed back the stray, wavy locks that had sprung free from her braid.

“I’ll be over soon. I’m just going to go home, pack a few things, and call the boys. But I’ll be right there,” He promised.

“Take your time. Don’t worry. I won’t be going anywhere,” She dismissed with a smile and a squeeze of his hand.

It was a cute and tender exchange–one that softens my heart for a little whenever I see it. We whisked her away into the back of the ambulance and took off without much of another thought about it. After a few quiet minutes, her concern became evident.

“I never thought this could happen to me. I do everything right,” She said quietly, tears brimming in her eyes. The paramedic set down his paperwork, and fished around for the small box of cheap tissues. Our patient squeezed my hand lightly. I squeezed back.

I picked a line from my mental toolbox. I’d used it plenty of times before, and I meant it every single time.

“Hey. Look at me,” I started gently. When she lifted her eyes to meet mine, I offered a timid, crooked smile. I tried to let my eyes reflect the compassion and concern I had for this wonderful woman. “Do I look scared?” I ticked my head in the direction of the paramedic. “Does he look scared?”

“No.”

“Then it’s okay. We’re doing everything we can for you, and there is nothing about what’s going on right now that scares us, or is making us panic. You’re in great hands. We’re here to help.”

 

I will never use that line again.

 

She thought it over for a second, as a playful smile eased her worried brow. “So, when you guys start looking scared–then I should be scared?” She teased.

“Yes,” I laughed, “Then you can be scared.”

Her nervousness diminished some as she told us about her life. About how her childhood best friend grew up to be a nurse. About how she met her husband at the local lake one summer. About how she turned down his friend’s request for a date because she really wanted to date her future husband instead. About how she went on to be a teacher. About how she loves to make apple turnovers while singing, which she thought bothered her husband (although he never said anything). About how she loves going to yoga in the morning, and taking walks in the evenings. About her small house by the lake. About how the smell of daisies, pine, and pond water always seems to set things in perspective.

I could’ve listened to her forever. That might be my favorite thing about EMS–being granted the privilege to look through these snapshots of life with another person. But, soon enough, we arrived at our destination. We wove our stretcher through throngs of nurses, doctors, and families, we found our room assignment.

I turned to prepare our patient for the sheet transfer to the hospital bed. In a sickening, heart-dropping instant, everything had changed. That rare, potential complication that is listed when consent forms are signed…it was actually happening. It was no longer just words on paper. It was no longer something the doctors say to cover their ass. It was right there, and it was real. And there was nothing we could do about it.

The changes were subtle, but rapid. The next few minutes were a blur of gloved hands, quick assessments, urgent murmurs, and STAT tests. A frustrated doctor cursed in the hallway. Nurses were preparing to take our patient to other departments, other rooms; somehow heading simultaneously towards and away from hope. We all knew what the results were going to say, but we needed to see the physical, undeniable damage to permanently extinguish the ever-diminishing hope that maybe this won’t be so bad.

As we passed the stretcher to the staff, our patient grabbed my hand, nearly pulling me over from the momentum of the rolling gurney. Her glassy eyes searched my face. My eyes probably betrayed my fearful, worried interior that I tried to mask with a stoic, serious face.

Barely lucid, she mumbled, “I’m scared now.”

I squeezed her hand and swallowed hard. They took her away to care for her as best they could. Approximately ten minutes later, she was unconscious. She would never wake up again.

My crew and I cleaned the stretcher and ambulance, occasionally muttering something to reflect our disbelief. We stood in the ambulance bay, taking in the skyline of this foreign, distant place. On some street between here and home, is a husband driving over to check on his lovely wife of so many years. A bag is packed and sitting in the backseat. Maybe an apple turnover is sealed up in some Tupperware in there. Maybe a shirt from off the clothesline, saturated with the comforting scent of daisies, pine, and pond water. And as he sings softly along with the radio, he has no idea that he just kissed his wife goodbye for the last time.

We sighed. “I can’t believe…” We’d start. “It happened so fast…” We’d try. But in the end, we were left with nothing but the road noise and a quiet, sad shock.

“We can’t prevent everything. We can’t treat everything. Some things you just don’t see coming,” The paramedic said numbly. “But you can always let them say goodbye. You can always give them that minute. You just never know. It might be the last time.”

Working for an aeromedical transport team wasn’t always a goal of mine. It wasn’t something I’ve always wanted since I was little (although there is a picture of my 3-year-old self wearing a medic’s helmet and grinning broadly in a helicopter in a photo album somewhere). It wasn’t part of the reason I got into EMS. But my fascination and desire to earn my wings grew steadily over my short medical career.

The first time I ever saw a flight crew, they were coming to pick up our patient in the hospital. My preceptor tried not to smile when he saw the awestruck look on my face. They  were  calm, and collected. They walked with a swagger into our ER. They asked these questions with big, fancy words. And, okay, I’ll admit it, they looked so cool in those swanky flight suits. As they loaded up and prepared to head back to the helicopter, a nurse asked one of our paramedics if he could help carry some equipment back to the bird. He agreed, before handing a bag to me. He knew how badly I wanted to watch a helicopter take off, and that I’d never seen one before. I carried the bag with pride out to the helipad, and watched with total awe as they took off. When I got back to the ambulance, my preceptor chuckled at my obvious excitement. I told him I wanted to be just like them. Always supportive, he told me that one day I could be.

To this day, watching helicopters take off and land through my classroom’s window is a great tangible reminder as to why my butt is growing numb in those awful plastic seats. I can do this. I will do whatever it takes, and I will get there. It won’t matter how many all-nighters I pull, how many tears I shed, or how frustrated I get. I will get there, some day.

Just imagine my elation when my old preceptor handed me a ride-along application packet for a aeromedical critical care transport service. When I was accepted, I marked the date down on my calendar. It gave me something to look forward to, amongst the boring clinicals, personal problems, and seemingly impossible countdown until graduation. Soon, I would finally get to spend a few hours living the life I wanted so badly.

That day has come and past. The experience was a mixed bag.

I loved the crew I was with. Everyone was so friendly. There was such a camaraderie, and it was everything I could have hoped for. It just made me want to be a flight nurse or medic that much more. I was practically shaking with excitement went the helicopter was pulled out of the hangar. Everything inside me lit up with happiness as we lifted off.

The flight made me feel a little funny. I wasn’t exactly nauseous or dizzy. I just felt that familiar general strangeness I get whenever I fly in airplanes. It’s not uneasiness or sickness. Just this very subtle difference. When we landed, we piled into the back of an ambulance. It wasn’t anything like the ambulances back home, but it was oddly comforting to me nonetheless. I was standing in the ER, maybe a full three minutes after we’d landed, when it hit. I was overwhelmingly nauseous and dizzy. I leaned up against the wall, and tried to pay attention to what was going on. (I wasn’t allowed to engage in patient care–even to help lift–anyway, so I wasn’t missed terribly.) Now I started shaking with nerves. What was I going to do? Here I am, feeling absolutely awful, and I still have two more flights ahead of me? There’s no way…

Oddly, when we got back into the helicopter, I felt fine. The patient was hardly labor-intensive, to put it lightly. But the nausea and dizziness just evaporated. The flight was flawless. Again, maybe three minutes after we’d landed, I felt that disorientation, dizziness, and nausea creep back into my body. Nobody else seemed to notice, but then again, I wasn’t needed or asked to do anything. I continued to feel crummy for the flight back to the hangar. Although I started to feel better back at the hangar, my stomach didn’t fully recover for an hour or so afterwards.

There were so many things I loved about my opportunity to fly. But, it’s all dampened by this huge overwhelming fear: what if I can’t do this? What if I’m extremely prone to being airsick? This isn’t something that can be fixed with better grades, more studying, more experience, or more certifications. This is something I can’t control. To be stripped of this dream terrifies me. It has completely flipped everything around. It’s made me question and worry about so much. I hate to have this goal, this dream, this desire that has fueled so much, be completely snuffed out. All because of one glitch in my stupid body.

I’ve talked it over with a few people who have flown. Most have told me not to worry about it. I had literally scarfed down an entire Tupperware container of ravioli in three minutes before the mission because I could practically feel my blood sugar dropping. (I hadn’t eaten all day because I was so excited…don’t do that.) I had slept three hours the night before, worked the entire day before, and slept another three hours the night before that. It’s safe to say I was pretty sleep starved and running off of pure adrenaline, excitement, and caffeine. I’d also never flown in a helicopter like that.

I’ve been told that practically everyone feels airsick at some point in their flight career. That I’m willing to accept and take as it comes. My fear is that airsickness is my baseline, but I won’t really have any way of knowing right now. Is it possible that my sickness (which oddly only happened after I landed) was mostly due to the fatigue, overly full belly, and inexperience? If it turns out to be a more regular thing, is this something you can “train” yourself out of? Would frequently spending time in a small plane help accustom me to being in the air? Could medications be effective?

I’m so desperate for any answers that will tell me that my dream doesn’t have to disappear. I just want a glimmer of hope or good news that says I don’t have to give up and throw everything away. That is perhaps the most devastating part.

I’ve been told by many a good teacher that every interaction with a patient presents a learning opportunity. I really believe that’s true. Each individual allows you to refine your assessments, or practice interacting with people. But, I’m also learning that each patient has a chance to teach you something; give you something to think about.

I once had a very sick patient, going through some very challenging things physically, mentally, and socially. With everything going on and going wrong, one could only expect that he would throw his hands up and say, “Can I just have one thing go right? Can I just have one good day?” I’ve said that myself plenty of times over lesser events. I searched for words. I tried to verbalize my sympathy. I quietly noted aloud that all the gray, rainy days must be exhausting for him.

“But, you know,” He said calmly, looking away as if he were actually physically searching for words, “Even too much sunshine can get you burnt.”

The dull roar of road noise was the only thing that filled the silence as we absorbed his words. He sighed and nestled a little deeper into his pillow.

“Balance, dear. Life is about balance.”

Physically, the drive to Major Medical Center is a little easier when driving a car instead of an ambulance. There’s not nearly as much surface area for the wind to toss the vehicle around when I’m cruising down mountain roads in my car. The drive goes by a little faster when listening to loud music in the confines of my personal vehicle. Emotionally, however, this drive is a completely different story.

In the ambulance, I have protection. Occasionally, old memories start to stir in the back of my mind. But they’re easily buried beneath the more intense focus I have when driving this large vehicle. I can hide in the professionalism I put on with my uniform. I can drown it out when chatting with my partner. But in the car? I have none of those luxuries. It’s just me, the radio, and this long drive that does nothing but dig up old memories.

A year ago, almost to the day, I was making this same journey in this same small vehicle. The same jagged lines of mountains and valleys lay just beyond the metal guard rail. The same bare trees stood in the piles of dead, reddened leaves. The same enormous building sprawled out before me, patient windows glittering in the afternoon sun. The same road wound past the ambulance entrance, where I’d parked my truck many times before, and continued down to visitor parking. And an eerily similar sense of dread settled into my stomach when I put the car in park.

A year ago, I made that drive knowing that, once at my destination, I would play a part in making that ultimate decision for my grandmother: comfort measures only, or aggressive medical and physical therapies. I felt fleeting emotions in a numb, hollow space in my chest: fear, sorrow, grief, strength, anger. It was an awful experience I wouldn’t forget. I just didn’t realize that a year later, I’d be making this same journey.

This time, I’m driving up to go see my father. It was supposed to be a relatively simple surgery for a relatively simple problem. Instead of this quick, easy procedure and recovery, we were met with complications and phone calls, sleepless nights and unknowns, running nurses and worried doctors. A week-and-a-half later, time and progress feels as though it’s standing still.

Something about November, Major Medical Center, and my family. I hope with all my heart that we don’t have to make the same decision this year.

Please keep him in your thoughts. Thank you.