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Another long silence has passed - remarkable, I think at times, for someone who has survived her life by writing down her thoughts for twenty years.  A lack of time (or maybe committment) to just flow with my thoughts, and a certain apathy toward writing repetitively about the same heartaches, keep me from returning here.

Since April, I've been back on overnights. There are positives and negatives surrounding this particular schedule, but what I notice the most is how the darkness changes how we experience and react to things.  Pain, fear, emotion - it all intensifies during the night. It's harder to maintain appearances; more so, to maintain the walls we protect our hearts with, and the filters between what we think and what we say.

I had this patient last week - a standard BLS transfer at about 3am. Countless patients, regardless of circumstance, size, or sex, comment on how strong we women are when we lift the cot.  Patients of older generations are also often surprised to hear that women can drive the ambulance; sometimes, that women are allowed to work the truck together (read: without a male partner). I have long ceased to be offended by their surprise, understanding that in their time, this was unheard of.

On this night, my patient did in fact comment on how strong I must be to lift him on that cot.  I didn't think much about it and merely offered my late night, sub-caffeinated smile with the usual response: "Yep, they require us to pass the same test as the guys."  End of conversation.  Later, after an uneventful transport, and as we were walking down the quiet hallway, out of the blue my patient comments again, "Wow, you really are an amazon, aren't you? I bet you could take any of the guys here."

The tears were there before he'd even finished speaking.  Just what every girl wants to be, right?  As the knife sliced its way through my heart, as I thought of my old injuries, I offered a quiet, falsely nonchalant, "Well, I work at being strong."

I know I am larger than any woman ought to be, that I tower over 90% of the men I meet.  I know that my physical presence overwhelms, and that is a hopeless and crushing pain that I can't put into words.   I remember the first day (yes, the actual day) when I realized I wasn't small, pretty, or feminine like the other, normal girls.  Like I ought to be.  Not like my mom, whom my dad married for her legs.  Not like my sister, a thin, leggy blonde who cried if she got a spot of dirt on her finger.  I came to realize over the years that I would never be a woman who a man wanted, for when I became fat, I became wrong and undesirable at the core of my being.  I know that despite losing 126 pounds, I can't ever be small enough.

Yes, his words really did make me feel all these things. We got into the elevator and I turned to face them, my patient and my male partner. Now, he says to me, "You have really beautiful eyes.  What color are they?"  (WHAT?!?  Now, I am silent, stupified, and still trying not to cry. Partner is staring at the ceiling.)

I leaned in and with a touch of exasperation said, "I've never known what to call them. Why don't you tell me?"

He studied me thoughtfully. "Kinda green...kinda blue. Like mine." He leaned back and closed his eyes.

I wear my mask of big, strong, and confident, because I'm a big, strong, Scandanavian brick shithouse of a woman.  I try to make up for it in every other way by staying as small as I can - in my work (still an EMT), in my intelligence (go ahead and make fun of me and my "big words"), in my neglect of my passions (music).  I can still barely keep from crying, almost two weeks later.  I know he didn't consider or see any of this when he spoke, and know that my reaction here would baffle him.

If a man could look beyond my size and into my eyes, would he want what he sees there?  He would see that I'm not big at all. I am, in fact, small and feminine, just like that 9 year old girl, waiting to be noticed.