GHOSTS

Jennifer Schmidt

Word Count: 1759 | Creative Non-Fiction

Memoir Piece
 Ghosts

While I cannot recall a specific year, or a specific date, or even the names of specific patients

I treated, I can often remember their ghosts. A kind of whisper of who they were in the few

moments I was with them, the impression they left upon me.

Back in the beginning, when I was young and new to this pre-hospital medicine world

occupied by the daring, the caring and the broken, I was in awe. Each time the radio would

produce its mechanical set of tones Id imagine the worst, which to those on the job were the

best as far as calls went. I was in school to be a paramedic, or I was about to start the portion of

training that took place on an ambulance, the point being that I had yet to do much more than

assist the elderly, the bedridden or those going to and from a physician or other medical

appointment.

On this day, Id gone to visit a crew; Tom, a paramedic, and his partner. Theyd wanted a

quick lunch and invited me along, so I jumped into the back of the ambulance for the few

minutes ride down the street to the closest fast food restaurant. The day had been quiet (which

was a word I would learn that you never say while on duty). There were very few calls for

service and there was no reason to think our ten or so minute jaunt would be any different. Of

course, it was.

Before getting to lunch, the tones blared from the bulky radios the men wore on their hips.

The call: an MVA (motor vehicle accident), code 3 (lights and sirens). The location: the highway

that separated Half Moon Bay on the Pacific Coast from the inland part of the peninsula. This

highway could be treacherous when dark, wet or foggy. It wound back and forth over the hill

with drops to one side into rock and brush while the opposite side mirrored that landscape on an
upslope. The two-lane highway had few turnouts, making any attempt at passing or turning

around difficult if not impossible. On warm summer days, the road would be packed with

beachgoers and families heading toward the Pacific Ocean. That day, from the back of the

ambulance, I remember the sun shining and the many cars on the road heading toward the coast.

Tom, someone I called a friend, was in the front passenger seat, he would be the lead for

whatever would be found when we arrived at the accident scene. His job on the way to the call

was to mentally work through all the possible scenarios: what additional equipment he might

need, what hospitals were diverting patients because they were too full to accept anyone else,

what time frame was acceptable for a critical patient to be taken by ambulance versus landing a

helicopter to fly them out. My job was to observe. While we worked for the same company I

wasnt on duty, I wasnt in uniform and I wasnt trained to the extent that Tom and his partner

were. No matter though, as most of the time these calls ended up being minor. Someone with

slight back pain who wanted to go to the hospital just in case, or someone who may have

strained their neck and hoped that whomever caused the accident had enough insurance to cover

the ambulance bill. Those were often the issues paramedics would find at accident scenes.

On the way up the highway we lost the radio signal; at times, it would come through

momentarily like the desperately needed breeze on a hot summer day, but then it would fade out

again just as quickly. While the dispatchers on the other end of the radio likely had more

information, we were unable to get any updates as to what to expect. Tom and his partner

casually talked about the possibilities, where we were geographically related to possible landing

zones for a helicopter or places to turn the ambulance around.

It took what seemed like an eternity to get to our destination. I watched through the opening

between the front of the ambulance and the back, where I was sitting. We weaved through cars
on the roadway using the few wider areas with their slender dirt shoulders as our own lane, until

finally rounding a corner where a vehicle had been laid on its side blocking both lanes of traffic.

I dont recall the last thing that Tom or his partner said, but I do recall the sudden silence from

the front of the ambulance and my heart starting to race. The ambulance stopped, the silence

suddenly broken by the distinctive deep metallic ratcheting sound of the emergency break being

applied. I remember feeling nervous and quickly putting on my work persona, the face that

shows no emotion, the voice that will not waiver.

Before I knew it the rear doors of the ambulance had been thrown open. Toms partner

grabbed the trauma bag and signaled me to come out. Once I jumped from the rear of the

ambulance I came to see why they had moved so quickly. Id seen the car on its side while

looking through the opening to the front of the ambulance, but I didnt see the people standing in

the roadway pointing. There was shouting and somewhere the sound of crying.

Toms partner went around the ambulance, heading for the drivers side of the vehicle which

was laid on the roadway. I stuck with Tom. We went around the other side, where the

undercarriage of the car faced up the hill. Tom, I recall, looked me in the eyes. I knew what he

wanted. He was trying to see if I was there, able to function and follow his instructions. The

look was brief, but it was clear, concise. I merely nodded and he started giving me instructions.

It didnt strike me just how odd the scene was as Tom and I quickly knelt on one side of the

body in front of us. A body, face down on the black pavement, lying still in the shade of the

vehicle. No face visible, just the denim jeans with a bit of tummy rounding out at the side near

the hip, a t-shirt, not ripped or torn. No sign of blood or deformity registered in my brain. Tom

and I took our positions ready to roll the body towards us, ensuring that when we did it would be

one smooth movement, making sure that the spine was kept in line with the rest of the body and
we were working together. When Tom gave the word, we would roll the body so that he could

assess it. It was on his count, on three. One. Two. Three. We rolled the body, I at the hip and

shoulder, he stabilizing the head and neck. We rolled the body only slightly, just until I heard

Toms voice, somewhat breathy, urgent, say stop. I froze. He leaned his head over towards the

face. I too leaned just slightly forward to try to see what he was looking for, or at. It was then I

saw the dark pool of liquid forming under the chest, the fluid that had start to coagulate just

under the head, and as Tom maneuvered to better his view, I had a clearer view. The body was

female; her neck had a thick choke chain, the type with big silver links that youd see on a dog.

Her t-shirt a dark color with perhaps a rock band name or emblem on the front. I remember those

details because I had to look away from her face. Tom stopped us rolling her because of her face,

it was caught between the pavement and the drivers side front tire.

I recall only images after that. Tom checking her carotid pulse, instructing me to lie her back

down in the position wed found her. It was then I knew she was dead. Tom sent me back to the

ambulance to get what we called a CHP blanket, the bright yellow blanket thats usually seen at

accidents over bodies or used to cover a patient when it was raining hard. I dont remember what

happened with the other patient, though I do know we didnt transport anyone in the ambulance.

Once we returned to the station I sat and decompressed with Tom and his partner. Tom

finished has paperwork and his partner worked on restocking and cleaning equipment. The PCR

(patient care report) needed to accompany the body once finished. It detailed the scene, where

the vehicle was, where the body was, what Tom and his partner had done and the time that tom

determined death.

Over the years, Id continue to see the girl from the accident in my head. The way her face

was set upon the front of her head like an ill-fitting mask, still attached by pieces of skin on one
side, but the rest was scraped, battered and seemingly not where it should be. Her reddish-brown

hair that lay perfectly upon the back of her neck and shoulders, then when turning her over the

front matted and tangled with coagulated blood. These are the images I remember, the first real

images of death, the traumatic death of someone my age.

Years later, Id run my share of calls on an ambulance. Id see my share of death, in both the

old and the young, from medical and traumatic causes. But, one day while at work I received a

call. Tom, my friend, my teacher, my mentor, was brain dead and on life support awaiting an

organ harvesting team. Tom, a professional, had overdosed on his insulin at home. To those

medics that came to help him, he was likely just another set of tones from the radio and a code 3

response. Someone to work up and take to the E.R., just another patient they were trained to take

care of.

For me, the news of this death brought back the freshness of death, it brought back the image

of that girl on the asphalt with her face hidden, seemingly just laid out to rest in the shade of the

overturned vehicle. Death was new again because it was the death of a contemporary, a fellow

medic, a friend. Tom was the first person to introduce me to death as a paramedic. He is now one

of the ghosts, a memory, a whisper that lingers in my head.