The paramedic bit

I was 25 when I got into the ambo’s, as it was affectionately called back then. I didn’t know it at the time but it was to be the start of a whole new path. The first job I ever did was a stubbed toe. Legit. Someone stubbed their toe. And then they thought I best call 000.

It wasn’t all stubbed toes though. It was a lot of other stuff. A lot of stuff that sort of trickles into your bucket over a long period of time, without really making it too heavy to lift. So you keep carrying it. Adjusting your grip sometimes when it gets uncomfortable. Some jobs dump a little more in at once, like a flash flood of sorts, but ultimately you keep going, unaware of how full the bucket really is, cause really, it’s metaphorical right? There’s no notification that your bucket is about to fucket. And even if there was many would silence it, clearing the screen so they don’t have to face the fact that the job they love so much might be harming them.

The reality of frontline work is – it’s different. Because there is no contained environment. There is no office or hospital you can confine the trauma to. You’re finding people in all sorts of horrific situations that have come about whilst they were simply living their lives. Like I’m living my life. Like you’re living yours. That’s the bucket filler. Not the blood and guts and gore, but the constant reminder that this shit could happen to me. To my family. To my loved ones. The longer you do it, and the more you see, the more you realise that actually, when your time is up, your time is up.

I loved my job as a paramedic. Like really, really loved it. For many years I couldn’t believe that I was getting paid to do what I did. It became part of my DNA. And still is to this day. I don’t think that will ever change. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it forever. Not healthily anyway.

Enter the doctor bit.