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“Leave it,” Ted advised. “Load and go.”
“I’ll grab the stretcher,” I said. Ted nodded.
I rushed back to the ambulance, frantically trying to count to three in my head as I inhaled. I realised after several seconds that the numbers were running together inside my mind.
Onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree.
I was sure that was not how it was supposed to go.
“He got diagnosed with cancer,” someone said. “Couldn’t face the chemo,” they added. “He’s got a wife and three kids.”
I pulled the stretcher out, throwing a scoop on top of it from the side cupboard, and rolled it back toward the scene. It clanked and groaned as it lowered toward the ground, taking longer, I was sure, than the cancer-stricken patient had to reach it.
“You want that c-collar on?” I asked Ted. He nodded.
I slipped around Mike and put the collar in place as Sheryl held the patient’s head immobile. I tried not to stare at the guy’s eyes. My gloves came away soaked in red.
A pool of it seeped out around the patient’s skull. I noted things on his face and the side of his head I knew would revisit me in my dreams. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, tainting the bag-mask pink.
Scoop stretcher. Rolled up towels taped down either side of his head. O2bottle between the legs. Defib across his shins. One. Two. Three. Stretcher up. Slower than my resps.
“Follow us, Kylee,” Ted said. “I’ll jump in the back of A 5-1.”
“OK,” I managed, moving toward our truck.
They pulled out, lights and sirens flashing. I sat in my ambulance and watched the crowd slowly disperse. Back to their day. Back to their lives. The patient’s face, if even acknowledged, forgotten.
He got diagnosed with cancer.
He just walked through the door and straight to his office. Then out the window.
He’s got a wife and three kids.
And the blood came down in sheets of rain all around me.
