12 Hours in Memoriam

A gray morning.
I can taste the fog in the air.
Hints of grease, oil, and rubber filter through,
The engine turns bringing life to my rig.
My home for the next 12 hours.

Ascelpius's snakes bite me on the hip,
Roused to wakefullness, I grab my pager.
Half awake and rolling off of the gurney,
I make sure my partner in the crew cab copied.
Curse the patient for ruining my nap.

Fifty One Fifty, 72 Hour Vacation, Psych
My partner preps the room,
I get the turn over from the nurse
Pills, stable, doped, quiet, easy call
Wave off the security guard by the door.

The woman's eyes are open, but she doesn't see or care.
She gets out of bed, clutching a worn bible,
She slowly walks to the gurney and lies down.
I pull the gurney forward, I feel like the Ferryman.
Looking back, her unseeing eyes are locked on mine.

She dies by her own hands after her supervised vacation.

Cleaned rig, fast food lunch, new call.
Terminal patient going home to die. Hospice.
She wakes up when we get there, her family surround the bed.
She can't talk anymore. We're gentle and slow for the drive.
We put her on her deathbed. The family thanks us for doing our job.

Before I left, she grabbed my hand as hard as she could. She almost smiled.

Almost time to go home, last sniff, Last Call.
Machines almost drown out the gasps and moans.
I see him start to slip; I watch his heart start to stop.
I scream for my partner to get a medic and the AED.
Bones crack and scrape as I do his heart's job.

The paramedics give him the meds he needs. He has a fighting chance. I finish up the paperwork for the call.

Up late. No one else is awake. Another day. Some live, some don't.
If you remember why you do it, you try for every last one of them.
Eventually they blend together. It almost seems like one long,
Unending call. Still, some stay. Some faces stand out.
Enough to fill a shift, enough to fill a hundred.

I'll do it all again tomorrow. Not for my pride anymore. Not for glory. For them.

- C R Coda