My alarm is the most annoying sound in the world- one of those repetitive Iphone marimba ringtones. It's still dark outside, and cold too. I roll over and my alarm must have woken up my husband, George, because his tired eyes glare back at me through the darkness.
"Good morning," he groans.
"Ugh," I say jokingly. George rolls over and falls back asleep almost immediately. He doesn't have to be at work until 8:00. I escape the grasp of my warm, fluffy blankets that don't want me to get up just yet. I take a warm shower- the only one I'll take for the next 24 hours. I really do love my job, and I don't mind working today. I only work two 24 hour shifts a week- Friday and Sunday- but don't get me wrong, it adds up. It just seems that most people hate everything at 5:30 in the morning, so here I am in the shower, thinking about quitting and curling up in my bed for the rest of my life.
When I get out of the shower I tip-toe to the closet to get my uniform. I put on my white collared shirt that smells of chlorine bleach, and stick my paramedic pins into it on the short-sleeve. Next, I pull on my blue, polyester pants that have about a million Velcro pockets on the sides of them. In the bathroom I dry my hair and put it into a ponytail. No makeup today- I'll just be dirty and sweaty anyway. I grab my backpack that I packed last night, my blanket and pillow for my bunk at the garage and my paratrooper boots, and kiss George goodbye. When I get downstairs I throw everything on the table and sit in one of the black dining room chairs. I proceed to untie my black boots. They have been through a lot more than one could imagine, but certainly don't appear that way. The two paratrooper boots have miles of black laces and reach a few inches higher than my ankle. They are made of squeaky black leather and have thick rubber bottoms. Their toes are steel, but this is concealed by sparkling, polished rubber. I slip them on and tie them up.
When I get to the garage I check in and put my stuff in my bunk room- it's almost 7:00. I greet my partner.
"Happy Friday, Rachel. How are you feeling?" This is Rachel's second week back from recovering from a back injury she got from lifting a heavy patient down a flight of stairs.
"Hey, Sarah. I'm great! Fully recovered!" She replies.
We go through our routine check list of all of the medicine and equipment in our ambulance, and then relax and wait for our first call. Normally we would be on a call from the moment we walked in to the moment we checked out, but Rachel and I have been with the company for a while and we have the lightest 911 shift there is- it is for the paramedics with the greatest seniority.
Then we get a call at around 8:30 in the morning. A woman in her late 50's is having a heart attack and we respond to her house with our lights and sirens. The police and fire department show up with us, and we carry the very stubborn, 350-pound woman down the flight of stairs in her apartment building. She is embarrassed that the police and fireman are there, and I tell her that they were only there to help carry her down the stairs. When we are in the ambulance heading to the hospital I explain to the woman that I need to give her four aspirin, start an IV morphine, and nitroglycerin. She tells me that I am not a doctor and she only needs me for a ride to he hospital. This annoys me because I am trying to save her life and I can do everything that a doctor can, but we take her to the hospital anyway.
We return to the garage and for the rest of the day we take naps and get some easy calls. I sleep through the night, and I get home at 7:00 AM the next day. I say hello to George, take off my tight, uncomfortable boots, and get in the shower.
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