Two stories from my past life which I think sit together well, and are about the value of life. I think.
My first mountain rescue callout, while working as a trainee countryside warden, was to be on hand to assist with a man who had sustained a heart attack while walking on Kinder. When we arrived there, we found that the first people on the scene had, by chance, been a couple of nurses on their day off (yes, the irony). Despite their efforts, the man in the vest and shorts was clearly dead. I remember noticing so many details. For instance, because he was lying on a slope, the blood had run to his legs, which were mauve, while his top half was pale and sallow. A cut on his thigh, sustained when he fell, had not bled.
He was clearly overweight, too. Apparently his friends, who sat around shocked, had persuaded him that he would love a day walking with them in the hills. Like most heart attack victims, he had not died during the most stressful period of the ascent, but as his body relaxed a little on the way down.
The Royal Air Force rescue helicopter arrived with a doctor, who pronounced him dead. I remember having no problem with lifting his body to slide it into the bag. But I turned and saw some false teeth on a rock, that the nurse had removed before commencing CPR. And I just couldn't pick them up.
He was 38. He was married, and had three children under the age of ten. I thought of his wife; of the discussions his friends would have before she was told. How their lives would be irrevocably altered from that point onwards.
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The second event dates from when I was 16 and worked as a pump attendant in a gas station. One day a middle-aged man came in with a gas can. He had a pronounced limp and incredibly thick glasses. He said his car had run out of gas a little up the road, and could I fill the can, please? I did so, and we went into the shop. He gave me ten pounds; I rang it through and put the change on the counter for him. As he reached for the change, he knocked some on the floor, and I bent down to pick it up for him.
As I did, I noticed a movement above me, moved my head slightly, and felt an incredibly heavy blow just to the right of the centre of my skull. I sprinted out of the door, across to the security office at the factory opposite. They rang through to the police. I watched the man hurry away, surprised that the bad limp was actually real. He jumped into his car hidden in a gateway a little further up, and sped off. The police caught him fifteen minutes later.
When I went to give my statement, the officer asked me what I thought I'd been hit with. I said I thought it was a piece of wood, although it looked rather smooth. He opened a cheap tartan bag, and there was a solid piece of lead, about 15" long. I never knew what happened to him. I wasn't called to give evidence, so he must have pleaded guilty. But I have no idea what sentence he got. In fact, at the time I felt strangely sorry for him; this disabled, short-sighted man. What on earth had driven him to do that?
Now, however, I feel incredibly angry. He took it upon himself to strike a 16 year old schoolboy, a child in my book, around the head with a piece of lead. If I had been stunned, would he have struck me again? Had he considered that he could have killed whoever he assaulted? Certainly there would be a case for premeditated murder, with the classic Cluedo weapon (Col Mustard in the study with the lead pipe). I find little mitigation for his actions these days; perhaps because I am a parent myself. If he didn't mean to kill, he must have known he might.
My skull wasn't fractured, but I still get headaches there. Although I can't be sure that is the cause. Sometimes I think I imagine it, but when they come, I can pinpoint the spot clearly enough.
So. Two stories. Death is always surprisingly close to us, even when we can't see it.
More life.
L x
My first mountain rescue callout, while working as a trainee countryside warden, was to be on hand to assist with a man who had sustained a heart attack while walking on Kinder. When we arrived there, we found that the first people on the scene had, by chance, been a couple of nurses on their day off (yes, the irony). Despite their efforts, the man in the vest and shorts was clearly dead. I remember noticing so many details. For instance, because he was lying on a slope, the blood had run to his legs, which were mauve, while his top half was pale and sallow. A cut on his thigh, sustained when he fell, had not bled.
He was clearly overweight, too. Apparently his friends, who sat around shocked, had persuaded him that he would love a day walking with them in the hills. Like most heart attack victims, he had not died during the most stressful period of the ascent, but as his body relaxed a little on the way down.
The Royal Air Force rescue helicopter arrived with a doctor, who pronounced him dead. I remember having no problem with lifting his body to slide it into the bag. But I turned and saw some false teeth on a rock, that the nurse had removed before commencing CPR. And I just couldn't pick them up.
He was 38. He was married, and had three children under the age of ten. I thought of his wife; of the discussions his friends would have before she was told. How their lives would be irrevocably altered from that point onwards.
-----------------------------
The second event dates from when I was 16 and worked as a pump attendant in a gas station. One day a middle-aged man came in with a gas can. He had a pronounced limp and incredibly thick glasses. He said his car had run out of gas a little up the road, and could I fill the can, please? I did so, and we went into the shop. He gave me ten pounds; I rang it through and put the change on the counter for him. As he reached for the change, he knocked some on the floor, and I bent down to pick it up for him.
As I did, I noticed a movement above me, moved my head slightly, and felt an incredibly heavy blow just to the right of the centre of my skull. I sprinted out of the door, across to the security office at the factory opposite. They rang through to the police. I watched the man hurry away, surprised that the bad limp was actually real. He jumped into his car hidden in a gateway a little further up, and sped off. The police caught him fifteen minutes later.
When I went to give my statement, the officer asked me what I thought I'd been hit with. I said I thought it was a piece of wood, although it looked rather smooth. He opened a cheap tartan bag, and there was a solid piece of lead, about 15" long. I never knew what happened to him. I wasn't called to give evidence, so he must have pleaded guilty. But I have no idea what sentence he got. In fact, at the time I felt strangely sorry for him; this disabled, short-sighted man. What on earth had driven him to do that?
Now, however, I feel incredibly angry. He took it upon himself to strike a 16 year old schoolboy, a child in my book, around the head with a piece of lead. If I had been stunned, would he have struck me again? Had he considered that he could have killed whoever he assaulted? Certainly there would be a case for premeditated murder, with the classic Cluedo weapon (Col Mustard in the study with the lead pipe). I find little mitigation for his actions these days; perhaps because I am a parent myself. If he didn't mean to kill, he must have known he might.
My skull wasn't fractured, but I still get headaches there. Although I can't be sure that is the cause. Sometimes I think I imagine it, but when they come, I can pinpoint the spot clearly enough.
So. Two stories. Death is always surprisingly close to us, even when we can't see it.
More life.
L x
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
secretary:
Your first story brings back my memories of working for the NHS. It's a very hard yet often worthwhile job. You've evidently got a few stories to tell. x
caryn:
You must check out Plastique's set "Red Ribbon"---it is brilliant; powerful, erotic, evocative, and beautiful. Absolutely not the kind of everyday-nude-pics that comprise the near-entirety of mainstream pornography.