Talk to me

How did he know he could share such a story with me?
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I feel pretty useless at work lately. So, OK, for a long time now. After 6 years of not being allowed and lacking the right letters after my name to handle anything other than the drunks, the miserables, and the people that need nothing more than a ride, what else could I come to believe? I pray before my shifts now. "Just let me know that You're using me for something, God. Anything. Place me where I'm needed." Because if I can't believe that, I can't go to work anymore.

My partner and I were mad as hell to have gotten this call: all the way down to Golden Valley from Lino Lakes. The important metro trucks were too busy to be bothered with a transfer, so let's dump it on one of those negligible northern trucks. Turns out our patient did not need the monitor or ventilator that we'd been advised to bring, so he got the pleasure of my irritated self for the ride - that BLS, taxi-ride provider. As I climbed into the back of the truck, again I prayed as I usually do when I'm feeling I don't help anybody, "Lord, let me not take out my frustration over my life and my decisions on this man. It's not his fault."

So we talked - we had about 40 miles to get to know each other. It's difficult, carrying on a conversation with someone in the back of a noisy, bumpy ambulance, while you're reading through 2" of paperwork, trying to make your BP machine work, and trying to get the chart written. But this man wanted to talk; understandably, as he had only recently healed enough to have his tracheostomy capped. I think attentiveness and eye contact are important when speaking to people; I noticed that this man had the most beautiful blue eyes. I found myself smiling and really engaging in conversation with him. I learned about his near-death heart attack and 6 months of recovery.

Let me pause to say that I'm very cautious about who I share my inner life with - people can have explosive reactions to the word "God." Let me also say that I don't often share my own ambulance/grief experience unless it's relevant. Even then I spare details, usually leaving it at, "I was in a terrible accident once too, and I was hurt far worse than you are tonight - you will be okay." Let me also say that I had gloves on, rendering my cross ring invisible.

I shared none of this with this man - there was no reason to. So I was surprised when he looked at me and said with intensity, "I want to tell you something."

"Okay."

"You know, I don't remember my daughter finding me, or the car ride to the hospital. I was somewhere else." He studied my face; I gazed at him and waited. "I was in that place, you know, that you hear about - the white light, all that. I talked to Peter and Paul - you know, the disciples? They told me it wasn't my time. They told me to stay."

I can't say I smiled, so much. Nor did I say anything right away. My face just...relaxed, I guess. His eyes searched mine with more than a little desperation.

"I believe you."

"I knew you would."

How did he know he could share such a story with me?
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I am reminded of my observant Italian waiter: "Your friend is very calm and sensitive."
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I am reminded of one of my very first calls, a woman who had been thrown from her car as it rolled, her head frozen into the snow as she asked me the same question over and over again: "Where is my daughter? Am I going to be okay?"

"You're daughter is fine. We're taking good care of you." She heard the hint of exasperation in my voice, for she looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry, I'm just so scared." I looked down into her eyes in shame and said, "I know." Her eyes widened as she said, "When did it happen to you?"

Stunned, I stammered, "Two years ago."

With a visual sweep of my body, she stated, "But you're okay."

I nodded. "Yes, I'm okay."

She closed her eyes and sighed to herself, "Okay."

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I am reminded of the cancer and hospice patients and baffled looks from partners, seeing me grasp a hand for 20 miles or brush a hair out of someone's face. All negated when I see the pained tension on a patient's face dissipate for a few seconds.
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I am reminded of the countless suicidal patients, one whom, just last week, said to me, "I don't want you to think I'm a bad person. I've made bad decisions and I know this is all my fault."

To which I replied, "I don't think you're a bad person. I think it takes more strength to ask for help when we need it than to pretend it's all okay."

She studied me, deeply. I returned her gaze. Eyes can tell a story better than words.
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I don't know what it is about me: an aura, my eyes, a compassion borne of experience that is evident even when I'm not aware, that tells people their stories and experiences are safe with me.

I transported my patient from heaven again a few weeks later. He had deteriorated and couldn't speak. He could open his eyes with effort, but he didn't seem to be aware or make out faces at first. Before my partners opened the back doors of the ambulance, I leaned down with my hand on his head and said, "I have met countless people in these 7 years, ______, but I remember you. Thank you for sharing your story with me." His eyes flashed open in recognition. Those beautiful blue eyes remained fixed on mine as we exited the room.