I was bored at the station, and decided to write. This is what happened.
"Sup"
"chillin, you?"
"Same"
The familiar clothes flow with the familiar motions of the familiar body, controlled by the familiar mind. The mind dictates the bodies movements, and before you know it, the mind has accomplished its task through the use of the body, and the mind takes the body to a different location to use the body to accomplish another task.
Once again alone, thoughts of the strangeness of such a mechanism of action crosses the mind of the bored chap, but this is a less interesting circle, so it is abandoned.
A loud ringing is heard, followed by an equally loud, but higher pitched, and longer ringing. A voice indicates there is a need for emergency medical services at a location of no importance.
A surge of energy and new life fills the mind of the man, as the subconscious mind tells the adrenal glands, perched atop the renal organs, to release the stimulant adrenaline. This rush is the single portal from boredom this young man has.
Filled with glee, he bounds to the medical vehicle, and assumes his position in the passenger seat, and waits for the driver. After a matter of hundreds of seconds, the partner appears, groggy and with hair indicative of a deep sleep. "How nice for her", he whims about her ability to sleep. The dormant period of the body eluded him up until this point. Perhaps this high would be followed with a low, low enough to drift off into a dream state. At least a state of a lack of thought and boredom.
The drive is uneventful, with an exchange of words not nearly noteworthy. The ambulance comes to a halt, and both exit their respective doors, gloves on and stethoscope on his neck. The back door is opened, and they begin to grab equipment; a cardiac monitor, a bag of drugs, an oxygen bag. But the process is halted by crying heard from behind. The young man, finally free from the shackles of uneventfullness, whirls around in a manner that would startle even the most calm of pets. The crying is of an adult female, at least past, or on the back end of pubescence. A blond-headed woman is standing, doing the dance of pent up tension and energy, with no outlet. The man knew the look. In her tear-soaked eyes, the man and his partner could see the despair. In her arms, lay a lifeless infant, no more than a year old. The adrenaline rush spiked through his stomach, up to the heart and then to the mind in an indistinguishable amount of time, only known to the one experiencing the sensation.
At once, the man took the baby and placed her onto the stretcher. He searched for a pulse on the upper arm, but none was found. The lips were blue, as were the beds of the fingernails. He immediately began CPR, clutching the sides of the, infant (now a machine with a malfuncitoning part, in the eyes of the man), and compressed the chest with his thumbs. The partner stood, shocked at the events that had transpired in a matter of seconds, before regaining senses and acquiring the necessary equipment for such a resuscitative effort. A needle was placed into the tibia of the babe, and a rubber breathing bag was used to give breaths. The partner called for more people, as this would be a three-man job, plus a driver.
The mother was escorted to the passenger seat of the ambulance, and the medics got to work. The baby was connected to the heart monitor, revealing a flat-line; the last thing the crew wanted to see. Any activity is better than none. Drugs were given in cycles, as they had been trained to do. The tension in the back was palpable, but calm demeanors were maintained, as they had been conditioned to show. They worked through the algorithm set forth by heart and infant specialists, hoping for the best, but having been prepared for the worst. The transit was 15 minutes, but it felt like 15 years, or 15 days, or 15 hours. It is impossible to tell. Time dilation is a funny thing..."NOT NOW" he screamed to his mind.
The ambulance came to the hospital, and they unloaded the cot with the now-machine baby onto the ground. They rushed in, mother on heel, and transferred the machine onto the hospital cot, and let the doctors and nurses take over. Information was painstakingly acquired from the frantic, hysteric mother. Painful for both parties involved in the exchange. The question of insurance was the one the man disliked most. He did this job for the public service (at least that's what he told himself in front of people. Even though they would never know, it made him feel less egocentric), and he despised the money-grubbing feeling that he got when he asked. But it's part of the job, and he does so with the precision of someone who wants to leave the situation immediately, but not make it known that he feels such feelings.
The crew leaves, and immediately resumes the gallows humor so often associated with people in jobs like his. But inside, he feels. What an unfamiliar experience, feeling. Knowing all the answers leads to deactivation of the feeling experience most of the time. But now, there was a reason to feel. The probable loss of a life. A life that had not yet had a chance to bud and blossom. And he jests to cope with the emotions, because in a job such as his, there is no way to feel with every person and not become the colloquial "burnt-out medic". And he returns to the black leather couch, with the 40-tiled ceiling, and begins to count.
Looping Life.
At 0300, a young paramedic is staring at the ceiling of the watch office, counting tiles. Forty tiles. The answer was already known, yet he persistently counts them. Again and again. Why? To kill boredom of course. At least to keep the boredom at bay, or out of the forefront of the mind. What causes this boredom? He knows the answers already. All of them. What can you do with your life when you have already figured out all that you must know? Ah...the experience is the answer. But he already knew this, because he has been down this thought process time and time again. Stuck in circles, but having seen all of the circles, it is just a matter of choosing which ones to see again. Much like watching old movies. Classics. The more complex, the more interesting, is a good rule of thumb. Usually. Merely watching the process. Suddenly the door swings open. A familiar face is on top of a less-than familiar body. The body dons a familiar uniform. Black pants with too many pockets for their own good. Black boots, shined once but now dullened with the wear of time and use. A black belt with no buckle, so as to not become intwined with other clothing in tight squeezes. A black mesh long-sleeve shirt, underneath a black mesh polo with a string shield over the heart, dictating the establishment and year of foundation. But he knows the person inside the clothing, inside the face and body. The mind, a familiar mind, is there. A familiar interaction occurs. "Sup"
"chillin, you?"
"Same"
The familiar clothes flow with the familiar motions of the familiar body, controlled by the familiar mind. The mind dictates the bodies movements, and before you know it, the mind has accomplished its task through the use of the body, and the mind takes the body to a different location to use the body to accomplish another task.
Once again alone, thoughts of the strangeness of such a mechanism of action crosses the mind of the bored chap, but this is a less interesting circle, so it is abandoned.
A loud ringing is heard, followed by an equally loud, but higher pitched, and longer ringing. A voice indicates there is a need for emergency medical services at a location of no importance.
A surge of energy and new life fills the mind of the man, as the subconscious mind tells the adrenal glands, perched atop the renal organs, to release the stimulant adrenaline. This rush is the single portal from boredom this young man has.
Filled with glee, he bounds to the medical vehicle, and assumes his position in the passenger seat, and waits for the driver. After a matter of hundreds of seconds, the partner appears, groggy and with hair indicative of a deep sleep. "How nice for her", he whims about her ability to sleep. The dormant period of the body eluded him up until this point. Perhaps this high would be followed with a low, low enough to drift off into a dream state. At least a state of a lack of thought and boredom.
The drive is uneventful, with an exchange of words not nearly noteworthy. The ambulance comes to a halt, and both exit their respective doors, gloves on and stethoscope on his neck. The back door is opened, and they begin to grab equipment; a cardiac monitor, a bag of drugs, an oxygen bag. But the process is halted by crying heard from behind. The young man, finally free from the shackles of uneventfullness, whirls around in a manner that would startle even the most calm of pets. The crying is of an adult female, at least past, or on the back end of pubescence. A blond-headed woman is standing, doing the dance of pent up tension and energy, with no outlet. The man knew the look. In her tear-soaked eyes, the man and his partner could see the despair. In her arms, lay a lifeless infant, no more than a year old. The adrenaline rush spiked through his stomach, up to the heart and then to the mind in an indistinguishable amount of time, only known to the one experiencing the sensation.
At once, the man took the baby and placed her onto the stretcher. He searched for a pulse on the upper arm, but none was found. The lips were blue, as were the beds of the fingernails. He immediately began CPR, clutching the sides of the, infant (now a machine with a malfuncitoning part, in the eyes of the man), and compressed the chest with his thumbs. The partner stood, shocked at the events that had transpired in a matter of seconds, before regaining senses and acquiring the necessary equipment for such a resuscitative effort. A needle was placed into the tibia of the babe, and a rubber breathing bag was used to give breaths. The partner called for more people, as this would be a three-man job, plus a driver.
The mother was escorted to the passenger seat of the ambulance, and the medics got to work. The baby was connected to the heart monitor, revealing a flat-line; the last thing the crew wanted to see. Any activity is better than none. Drugs were given in cycles, as they had been trained to do. The tension in the back was palpable, but calm demeanors were maintained, as they had been conditioned to show. They worked through the algorithm set forth by heart and infant specialists, hoping for the best, but having been prepared for the worst. The transit was 15 minutes, but it felt like 15 years, or 15 days, or 15 hours. It is impossible to tell. Time dilation is a funny thing..."NOT NOW" he screamed to his mind.
The ambulance came to the hospital, and they unloaded the cot with the now-machine baby onto the ground. They rushed in, mother on heel, and transferred the machine onto the hospital cot, and let the doctors and nurses take over. Information was painstakingly acquired from the frantic, hysteric mother. Painful for both parties involved in the exchange. The question of insurance was the one the man disliked most. He did this job for the public service (at least that's what he told himself in front of people. Even though they would never know, it made him feel less egocentric), and he despised the money-grubbing feeling that he got when he asked. But it's part of the job, and he does so with the precision of someone who wants to leave the situation immediately, but not make it known that he feels such feelings.
The crew leaves, and immediately resumes the gallows humor so often associated with people in jobs like his. But inside, he feels. What an unfamiliar experience, feeling. Knowing all the answers leads to deactivation of the feeling experience most of the time. But now, there was a reason to feel. The probable loss of a life. A life that had not yet had a chance to bud and blossom. And he jests to cope with the emotions, because in a job such as his, there is no way to feel with every person and not become the colloquial "burnt-out medic". And he returns to the black leather couch, with the 40-tiled ceiling, and begins to count.
