Stephen D. Germain
From The Receiving End of Sirens
A new grandmother cries tears of joy for the birth of her new granddaughter as a fresh gurney rushes past with a nonresponsive patient. A gun shot wound, not that I receive any incoming emergency calls at my desk, but after fifteen years working this job you can smell a gun shot victim before the ambulance even reaches the horseshoe shaped receiving drive. Behind a slide-frame glass window my desk positions me near the door, the perfect roost to witness all of the happenings both behind the glass, as well as in front of it. Aside from the eventless time consuming visual description of a four cornered white wall room, the smell of gunpowder burnt flesh permeates the air. The other people in this room dont seem to notice it, possibly because they are more concerned with the events in their own lives that brought them here. Another possibility would suggest that they do not frequent this particular establishment, therefore would not notice the uncommon, temporary odor. I on the other hand, recognize it quickly. I notice the faint sent of barbeque burnt hot dogs overpowered by that dry odor of burnt gunpowder. The way your swim trunks would smell after a long summer night of lighting off fire-works and eating poorly cooked food in celebration of our nations forcefully acquired freedom.
I see a middle aged mother running through the doors screaming incomprehensible phrases at the top of her lungs. She collapses in tears as an emergency-tech positioned perfectly in her way informs her of the terrible news. Despite all the uplifting displays of resilience and medical ingenuity that accompany the occasional survivor, the room reeks of loss and despair. The gunpowder scent of the patient we lost tonight will saturate the thoughts of the staff for the remainder of the shift. From the doctors on down to the custodial staff no one will be able to shake their focus from the patient we lost tonight.
During the drive home I find my peace, I watch the overflow of traffic leaving the suburbs scrapping to make it downtown to punch a clock by 9 am. I thank my lucky stars I do not have to wake up with the sun just to fight traffic congestion on I-94 west. One thing I have always been envious of, is the fact that they will be rushing out of their corporate parking garages on their paid lunch hour the same time I finally sit down. Only after cleaning the rooms of my four children and setting some meat in the sink to thaw, can I sit down to rest.
After a brief sleep, only about 5 hours, I begin cracking open the cupboards in search for the rest of the ingredients required to make meatloaf for dinner. As always my plans for a surprise ice-cream desert are dashed, as the kids seem to have discovered the half-gallon and devoured it all before they left for school this morning.
In due time everyone arrives, eats, and goes to bed to wake up for their school day in the coming morning. This is when I leave for work locking the door behind me, only to despise every patient begging God for mercy, just as much as I resent every doctor rubbing his higher education in my face. The entire drive down I-94 east I, just live every patient waiting on EMS will utter the same desperate prayer for salvation from the receiving end of sirens.
From The Receiving End of Sirens
A new grandmother cries tears of joy for the birth of her new granddaughter as a fresh gurney rushes past with a nonresponsive patient. A gun shot wound, not that I receive any incoming emergency calls at my desk, but after fifteen years working this job you can smell a gun shot victim before the ambulance even reaches the horseshoe shaped receiving drive. Behind a slide-frame glass window my desk positions me near the door, the perfect roost to witness all of the happenings both behind the glass, as well as in front of it. Aside from the eventless time consuming visual description of a four cornered white wall room, the smell of gunpowder burnt flesh permeates the air. The other people in this room dont seem to notice it, possibly because they are more concerned with the events in their own lives that brought them here. Another possibility would suggest that they do not frequent this particular establishment, therefore would not notice the uncommon, temporary odor. I on the other hand, recognize it quickly. I notice the faint sent of barbeque burnt hot dogs overpowered by that dry odor of burnt gunpowder. The way your swim trunks would smell after a long summer night of lighting off fire-works and eating poorly cooked food in celebration of our nations forcefully acquired freedom.
I see a middle aged mother running through the doors screaming incomprehensible phrases at the top of her lungs. She collapses in tears as an emergency-tech positioned perfectly in her way informs her of the terrible news. Despite all the uplifting displays of resilience and medical ingenuity that accompany the occasional survivor, the room reeks of loss and despair. The gunpowder scent of the patient we lost tonight will saturate the thoughts of the staff for the remainder of the shift. From the doctors on down to the custodial staff no one will be able to shake their focus from the patient we lost tonight.
During the drive home I find my peace, I watch the overflow of traffic leaving the suburbs scrapping to make it downtown to punch a clock by 9 am. I thank my lucky stars I do not have to wake up with the sun just to fight traffic congestion on I-94 west. One thing I have always been envious of, is the fact that they will be rushing out of their corporate parking garages on their paid lunch hour the same time I finally sit down. Only after cleaning the rooms of my four children and setting some meat in the sink to thaw, can I sit down to rest.
After a brief sleep, only about 5 hours, I begin cracking open the cupboards in search for the rest of the ingredients required to make meatloaf for dinner. As always my plans for a surprise ice-cream desert are dashed, as the kids seem to have discovered the half-gallon and devoured it all before they left for school this morning.
In due time everyone arrives, eats, and goes to bed to wake up for their school day in the coming morning. This is when I leave for work locking the door behind me, only to despise every patient begging God for mercy, just as much as I resent every doctor rubbing his higher education in my face. The entire drive down I-94 east I, just live every patient waiting on EMS will utter the same desperate prayer for salvation from the receiving end of sirens.
blackheartdown:
Wow. Not sure if you spent time working the ER, but you did take me there. I wonder if part of the last sentence got jumbled though? Just in case you are also backing these up on your pc.
theartsdecay:
live was meant to be like. yeah i have it all saved on my comp, it is just a result of hitting save before proof reading. i have only been to the ER twice, both times as a patient, once i was in a coma so i didn't really absorb the surroundings. i just wrote what i felt i needed to if i wanted to put someone in the room i was exploring inside my head.