My medic for the shift was Catorra, a solidly-built, very dark African American lady in her early 60’s.  Catorra has a mile-wide smile, a hilarious sense of humor, and vivid story-telling skills.  She hones these skills for the entire shift, so things are always lively.  She was my first EMS partner in PA, and she enthusiastically took me under her wing.  I owe my PA EMS career to her and the night shift supervisor, a bald, muscled, gruff, goateed, and tattooed Afghanistan veteran whom I will call LD.  They are the type of people you want on your team when things hit the fan, as they exude both competence and confidence.  Both LD and Catorra are also considerate teachers in a salty language and no-nonsense sort of way, and somehow we three formed a friendship that continues to this day. 

It was one of those nonsense 0-dark-thirty transports.  “And I could be at home in bed, snug as a bug,” my mind foggily ruminated as we traversed dark streets.  But no, we were arriving Community Hospital to transport a psych to an inpatient facility an hour away.  I backed the white E450 box truck under the overhang, clunked the shifter into park, grabbed the hospital keys, and met Catorra at the back of the ambulance.  Ford 6.0 ‘Stroke fumes assaulted our lungs as we opened the creaking doors of the box.  I gripped the cold handles of the aging silver Ferno stretcher (or litter in PA-speak) and pulled.  The stretcher undercarriage hit the bottom of its travel with a metallic “clack!” and its unwilling wheels met the macadam.  The hospital’s dual sets of sliding doors squeaked a cheery “hello!” as they parted to admit us.  Security, who were evidently not feeling as chipper as the doors, gave us a cursory nod and examination as we strolled past, the stretcher in tow.

Our destination was PES, or Psychiatric Emergency Services.  PES security admitted us through a succession of locked doors, and we eased into the unit, stopping by the enclosed nurses’ station.  The tiny black-pony-tailed nurse in charge of our patient badged us in for a report.  I admired her courage.  I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to deal with mentally unbalanced humans if I was only 5’2” and 110 pounds.  She smiled a cheery “Hello!” and handed me a manila chart envelope.  “Your patient, Jose, is right across the hall.  He has been calm and cooperative, so you should have an easy ride!”  I filled out paperwork and received needed details.  The three of us then exited the secure area and met the patient in his room.  He was a minor, slim, sullen, quiet, and dark of countenance.  He dejectedly slumped on the stretcher and apathetically allowed Catorra and I to enfold him with a white hospital-issue blanket and click the seatbelts and siderails into place.  I smilingly introduced myself and my partner, receiving little acknowledgement in return. 

We softly rolled back through the security vestibule, halting once more before each door.  The maze of hallways came next, and soon we were out under the starlit heavens.  ‘Stroke smoke greeted us once again and the box doors squeaked open to admit Jose and I into their warm embrace.  I initiated a set of vitals as Catorra heaved her bulk into the driver’s seat.

The hospital disappeared after a series of corners, and the miles began to click away.  My conversation with Jose initially advanced in fits and starts, and then the dam ruptured.  He tearfully blurted out his story.  He was having a night of mischief out on the city with his compadres, strolling the streets, when one of their number discovered a handgun.  It was hurriedly snatched up and then passed around, with Jose ending up as the bearer.  As they recommenced their meanderings, the gun discharged, the round burning through Jose’s right calf.  A white bandage bore mute testimony to his story.  He bemoaned his misfortune, crying, “I’m such a worthless failure!”  The life he detailed was dismal, a stark existence in a city rowhouse, uninvolved and uncaring parents, no regular meals, no hope, no future.  Security and structure were foreign words.  No wonder he struggled to comprehend life’s purpose. The only bright spot in his life was an uncle who showed a little interest in him.  Tears flowed from both of our eyes as he wrapped up his story.  With a hand gripping his shoulder, I whispered, “Jose, I believe in you.  You can rise above this, and I have confidence that you can be a success.”  His next words ripped at my heart.  “Nobody has ever said anything like that to be before,” he sniffled, his deep brown eyes welling with fresh tears.  The rest of our conversation has faded from memory, but once again the call had long ceased being “just another transport.”

Our destination, Leaman Clinic, soon hove into view.  The Clinic at night looks like the perfect setting for a horror movie.  Aging native-stone structures bear mute evidence of the facility’s 70-year history and are set back from civilization down a long tree-lined lane. As you slowly dodge the speed bumps littering the drive, you wonder when you are going to hear a chainsaw and a maniacal laugh and see a shadowy specter looming up out of the gloom.  Thankfully, the facility seems to have quality staff who belie the eerie façade.

The truck squealed to a stop in front of the aging but still grand entrance, and Catorra’s toothy grin appeared in the smoky blackness at the back of the truck.  The Ferno protested upon being awakened, and sulkily rolled through the Clinic door.  The paperwork was given to the receiving staff, Jose dismounted our stretcher, and we exchanged parting words and encouragements.  Catorra and I were soon speeding down the deserted roads toward the warm station and rest.  A renewed thankfulness for God, my parents, and my own home was front and center in my mind until the clattering Powerstroke and humming Goodyears lulled my weary brain into a fitful sleep. 

I still think about Jose, and I wonder what he has made of himself.  I’ll most likely never know, but please say another prayer with me today for his success.