As a paramedic, Paul has his share of run-of-the-mill cases. Breathing problems, digestive pains, heart complaints, slips and falls on slick sidewalks. Bike rides that end with a broken arm or a busted knee.
He’s also seen his share of the absurd and annoying. People getting stuck on toilet seats or calling in an emergency at 3 AM because they feel vaguely uneasy and want someone to bring them a drink of water.
He has long learned that common sense isn’t common. He has also developed a thick hide and a keep-your-head-down, do-your-job mentality that gets him through his shifts. But every so often, there’s an incident that rattles him.
Last time was several months ago – what the family of three looked like when their car collided with a semi. The way the child had remained alive, but not much longer than the parents.
Tonight, a different case rattles him. Which is strange, because he succeeded in saving a life. He was called to an apartment where a middle-aged woman was lying on her back in front of the couch. The only person with her was a man pacing around several feet away.
Within seconds, Paul learned the immediate facts: opioid overdose, Narcan already administered once, second dose necessary now.
Paul remained in a crouch beside her, as the woman blinked her eyes open and settled her hand on her forehead.
“Welcome to the land of the living,” Paul said in a jaunty voice.
The woman’s bleary eyes rested on his. “Why didn’t you let me die?” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” Paul forced a laugh. “I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I let that happen.”
“Can you get her out of here?” the pacing man burst out. “My kids could’ve been home – my kids could’ve been home – and this selfish b*tch pulls this stunt right here. Right in my living room. My sister! My own f*cking sister!”
“Why didn’t you let me die?” the woman repeated, sounding perfectly serious. Not a suggestion of self-pity in her voice, just a bone deep matter-of-factness, and Paul felt her words settle into his stomach.
A call is never a time to philosophize. There’s never room for a deeper “why.” So his training helped him along, and the overdosing woman, with hair thinning gray hair and fat cheeks and burned bridges, became just another case. And it was on to the next one: a senior with chest pains. And the next one: a drunk man passed out at a shopping plaza in the middle of the night.
It’s only during the following afternoon, when he’s on his couch eating a burger, that Paul notices that the woman’s words are gnawing at him. He dwells on the words, until the burger roils in his stomach, and he hears the question behind her question. “Why didn’t you let me die?” becomes What’s the point?
Paul pushes himself off the couch, gathers the debris of his late lunch, and shuffles to the kitchen to shove it into the trash. His roommate will expect him to empty the bin, but Paul’s back aches, and so does his head. He always feels like crap after a shift, especially now that he’s in his 30s.
He leans with his palm against a cupboard. What’s the point?
There are no answers in the empty apartment. “A paycheck,” he says out loud, his voice sounding flat in the silence.
What could he have told the woman had she asked him for a reason to live? Paul thinks he’ll have to come up with something for why it’s all worth it before his next shift.
Kilter Street Chronicles 