Why do you do this?

Disclaimer: This post will contain a great deal of profane language. It's not my normal style, but for the purposes of this post, I'm trying to maintain as much accuracy as possible. If vulgar language offends you, best you move along.

Time: Not all that long ago.

"Hi. You probably don't remember me."

He's neatly dressed, for a man down on his luck. The effort is there, with a coat, tie, and a shirt. Closer inspection shows the shirt has seen better days, for the threads run thin here and there, and the suit probably came from a thrift store, given the cut and (lack of) fit. But for all that, he's trying, and behind the veneer of a man trying to dress respectably, the trained eye can see a man who has walked a rough path.

No, sir, I'm sorry to say I don't.

"Well, my name is Jesse. Jesse Mitchell. And you saved my life."

I did?

Time: 6 months prior to not that long ago.

"You've got to help me!"

OK, that's why we're here. Tell me what's bugging ya?

"My fucking chest hurts! I think I'm dying!"

Alright. Easy, now. Take a slow breath, tell me about this chest pain thing.

"It fucking hurts!"

Fair enough. When did it start hurting?

"About an hour ago, after we did some coke."

Ah.... So, you did some coke, and now you don't feel good? Will wonders never cease? What else is bugging ya?

"Nothing. Just my fucking chest! Fucking help me, damnit!"

Sure, sure. Easy, now. We've got ya, it'll be OK. Here, breathe this, nice and slow like. OK, I'm gonna start an IV, give you some medications that will help that pain. Here we go..... slow, now, with the breathing. There. That'll help.

"Oh, God, I think I'm dying!"

Nah, not at the moment. Someday, sure, but not today. After all, I'm here, and I'm the second best paramedic that ever walked. (I say "second best" because there's a remote chance that someone, somewhere, is a tad bit better than me. I've not met this person yet, but that chance exists, and it wouldn't do to be TOO arrogant.)

I hook up an ECG monitor, check his blood pressure, and we slow roll to Big City Hospital and Bait Shop, with the lights down low, a calm voice from me, and some soft music on the stereo (a far cry from listening to DMX, which my partner had selected for the drive to the scene.)

Feeling better?

"Yeah, a bit."

We pull into the ER, switch to the ER stretcher, and give report to Nurse Simmons. Miss Simmons has been a trauma/ER nurse at Big City Hospital, Bait Shop, and School of Cosmetology since long before I was born. To be brief, she's been there and seen that and treated both at least twice. She's 5 foot 4 on her best days, stands as wide as she is tall, and takes absolutely no shit from anyone. Ever.

And she's the second best nurse I've met in my career (yes, Mom, you're number one.)

"What's wrong with you?" she asks, drawing some blood samples, doing a 12-lead ECG, and checking my patient's blood pressure.

"My chest hurts. Been hurting an hour now."

"Well, what were you doing that made your chest start hurting?"

Straight to the point, eh, Miss Simmons?

"I was doing some cocaine."

About now, Miss Simmons looks up from the 12-lead ECG (which is normal) and looks my patient straight in the eye. She's got that look that your momma used to have when she caught you lying. She never had to say anything.... just gave you that look.

Yeah, that look.

"You were doing WHAT? Did you say cocaine? Wait, let me get this straight? It's 2 o'clock in the damn morning, and you've been doing cocaine, and ALL OF A SUDDEN, you don't feel so good. So you call the ambulance drivers, crying like a little bitch, because YOU. DON'T. FEEL. GOOD. Well, wah-fucking-wah."

"What the....?"

About now, I smile. Miss Simmons, this is why I love you dearly, you cantankerous old woman, you. Here it comes.....

"Here's what I want you to do. I want you to lay there, shut the hell up, quit crying like a girl, and apologize to these nice ambulance drivers for wasting their time. They could be out saving lives of people who really deserve it, not some dumb ass like you who are only in this position because of something you did to your damn self."

About now, Miss Simmons walks out the door, leaving me alone with the patient, my paperwork, and the slow, steady "beep-beep-beep" of the heart monitor.

"She's a bitch," my patient observes.

Yes. Yes, she is, I agree.

But here's the thing: She's the bitch that was in this room to take care of you long before the doctors showed up. She's the bitch that will skip her lunch break to take care of you if you're REALLY sick. She's the bitch that will stay past the end of her 13 hour shift to take care of you. She's the bitch that will be the first person to notice when your blood pressure changes JUST SO, indicating the first sign you're about to go from "guarded" to "critical." She's the bitch that will be in here first, out of here last, and will spend more time, lose more blood, drip more sweat, and cry more tears to keep your sorry ass alive. And if all that fails, she's the bitch that has to explain to your momma why her boy died because he was stupid.

Now, because of all that, she's earned the right to chew your ass when you need it.

And, boy, let me tell you.... you damn sure need it.

He looks at me blankly.




That was 6 months ago.

Now that man stands in front of me and Miss Simmons, changed.

"I've been sober since that night. You two... you really hit home. Nobody else ever treated me like that. I got into rehab, been sober for 5 months now. Going to church, helping others, and giving thanks every day for the way you took care of me. And I want to shake your hand."

Nurse Simmons cried.

That's why I do what I do.