Training Day

A true story of youth, trauma, and reflection.

6:00 a.m. Humid air almost too thick to breath. I sat in my truck and began the familiar ritual of clutch, gear, brake, key, ignition. Like every day. 

Except, today was different. 

I'd just finished EMT training and was starting clinicals. I arrived at a very busy Level 1 Trauma Center. I walked in with no direction and only the name of my point person. He was a fast talking paramedic. He kept saying, "...just don't get in the way and help when needed". 

We moved fast through the halls. Fluorescent lights passed above us one after the other as witnesses to the eyes of so many laid on their backs in pain, fearful and far from their normal lives. 

Double doors opened before me by mechanism and with force. Deliberate. A rush of stale blood and flesh overcame my senses. A team of quiet peaceful older women moved quickly to clean the cast away debris of a previous trauma while others prepared the bays to receive the next. All points of interrupted lives came here to live or die in this city. 

To my side I could hear elevated voices volleying back and forth undercut by moans of misery and confusion. The eyes of those in need fell upon mine searching for a different reality. "What the f**k had I gotten my self into." Rushes of traumatic memories in my past quickly took front seat to my emotions. I had to shut them off. I was warned about this. 

He pulled at my arm. "Come on, I've got a good one for you to start with. They need your help." I couldn't feel my legs but moved quickly toward the back corner of the quadrant. 

A curtain was drawn with a different light coming from below. I could hear quick movements. Nurses coming in and out and two doctors rushing in. The second doctor motioned to me. I entered. "This is your training day, huh?" I responded with a nod trying to understand what was in front of me and how interpret my next move. He handed me a pair of shears. I looked at them in my hand. I knew what they were for but hadn't really prepared myself for immediate action. This was different than being in the box. "I need you to move fast or get out." I was dizzy but responded. 

In front of me lay an 18 year old girl who'd barely survived an auto accident. Her youth intersected the outcome of the accident in a kind of contrast you cannot un-see. She had cropped hair and pale skin with light freckles on her face. Spatters of blood and dirt on her skin seemed out of place, transported with the story of what became. One shoe remained leaving her left foot exposed. In the field I'd seen accidents with great force remove shoes from feet. My brain shut off. I needed to focus. 

Fast and with care I ran the shears up each pant leg and up the center of her shirt. With each layer removed the doctors quickly examined and assessed the extent of her injuries. She lay exposed and raw to this machine like room. A simple girl, in need of help, at the mercy of time and medicine. We quickly laid a paper sheet over her. In this moment it became clear the business of emergency medicine while brutal at times is finely threaded with decency and emotion. She was unaware, barely conscious. 

A quick triage of her injuries made clear she was stable. Two surgeons began the arduous task or reassembling her fabric, her youth, her skin. We bandaged all that would wait for attention and began cleaning. As I looked down the table, her hand sat exposed from under the paper and moved slightly. The surgeon looked at me and nodded. I reached out and held her hand. It was cool, soft and light. Innocent and undeserving of her pain. She grabbed my hand and tears began to stream from the corner of her eyes, barely open. "Talk to her" the surgeon said. My voice cracked. I called out her name and told her she was not alone. She was in an accident and would be okay. She couldn't respond. Tears left her now with an even flow. 

The work continued. I stood and held her hand for five hours. She never let up on her grip and neither did I. 

That night at home, I walked through the door alone and began to cry. I cried for my past, her pain, the empathy of the doctors, nurses, and paramedics. For those peaceful women cleaning every day, weaving in between destruction and pain like angels unmoved by fear and empowered by compassion. 

For all of us.