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The inside was a different matter.
The medical director once asked me about a job. If I was OK. If my partner was.
I lied. Because it was expected of me. Because to admit you weren’t coping was to admit you couldn’t do the job. But I could. I was good at it. I saved lives.
We were all good at it. We were expected to be.
Covered in blood.
Days and nights blended. In Comms, out on the road, back in Comms again. Nothing worked. I tried. We all tried. Or at least, we tried the only way we knew how to.
The end was slow in coming. I didn’t see it, covered in blood as I was. But it came with a crowded house, stacks upon stacks of Weet-Bix boxes, and the failure to get an IV line in a patient who had been on his cold, rubbish-strewn floor, for seventy-two hours.
Veins collapsed. Skin brittle. Blood. Just there. But I couldn’t reach it.
Time passed. I recovered. The patient may not have, but I had to tell myself that he had.
Because how could I stay strong, not show weakness, and continue to do my job, no matter what, if I didn’t believe that?
Life moved on. Blood still visited. I did my job. I did what was expected. I played the part. No one suspected a thing.
And the blood came down in sheets of rain all around me.
