Page 89 of Switch!
Jesse’s shifts range from nine to twelve hours each. Much of that time is spent sitting in the ambulance, waiting for a call. That can still be draining since he’s always on high alert. Stan sometimes stretches out in back for a nap, but Jesse always thinks of the next call, and how mere minutes—if not seconds—can mean the difference between life and death. If not for the three days off he gets each week, he probably would’ve had a breakdown by now.
I’m not as intrigued by his job as when I first started accompanying him. Most of the calls are repetitive. Drug overdoses (both real and imagined), heart attacks (including false alarm indigestion), misdiagnosed illnesses courtesy of the internet, and elderly people who have been driven to the hospital so many times that they treat the ambulance more like a taxi service. One even asked to run a quick errand along the way.
Tonight has been especially slow. Stan and Jesse pass a crossword puzzle back and forth, watch YouTube videos on their phones, or talk politics. I find myself wanting something more interesting to happen. I regret this wish when the next call comes in.
“Unit Six, priority one, proceed to fifteen thirty-eight North Bryant Street. Apartment five bravo. Suicide in progress.”
Stan starts the vehicle and turns on the lights, but he doesn’t drive. Instead he responds to dispatch while keeping a puzzled expression trained on Jesse. “Sorry, did you say suicidein progress?”
“That’s correct,” dispatch replies. “He called it in himself.”
“The patient?”
“Confirmed. Police are en route.”
Stans exhales. Then he flicks the switch to activate the sirens. The rollercoaster ride begins, the ambulance taking tight turns and flying off the top of each hill. I’m beginning to wonder how many accidents arecausedby ambulances every year. Jesse is on edge, worried that he’ll have to witness someone die again. His nerves aren’t helped by Stan, who talks himself through a list of possibilities.
“If we’re lucky this is a cry for help and he’s not ready to go through with it yet. Although maybe he decided to kill himself and wanted witnesses. Hmm. Could be that we’re just supposed to pick up the body. He’s probably dead already.”
Which is a normal part of the job, Jesse thinks.I need to get used to this. I thought I’d have more time to prepare before it happened again.
“Let’s hope the jackass isn’t on the front lawn waving a gun around so the police will do the job for him.”
Gallows humor. Anyone who didn’t know Stan might think he was an insensitive jerk. I’ve seen how much he cares, and Jesse has more memories to back up this impression. Stan is only trying to cope. Everyone has their own way of doing so. Some disarm the shock by imagining the worst ahead of time. Others take a different approach.
“What are we going to need?” Jesse asks as he retreats to the rear of the ambulance, mostly so he can press his back against the cabinets and take a deep breath.
Stan rambles off a list of items, which gets him moving again. Jesse packs a variety of gear used to stop bleeding and to counter poisoning and overdoses. He’s wondering if the shears he uses to cut bandages are strong enough to deal with a noose when the ambulance comes screeching to a halt.
“How’s it look?” Jesse shouts to him.
“First ones on the scene,” Stan yells back. “Aren’t we lucky?”
“Are we going to wait?”
“Hell no!” Stan shouts as he hops out of the driver-side door. “Let’s get our asses in gear!”
Stan is usually more cautious, but saving a life often means risking your own. Jesse shoves his concerns aside and exits out the back. He meets his partner around the other side of the vehicle where they pause briefly while listening for sirens. Wherever backup is, they aren’t close.
“Don’t worry,” Stan says, leading the way. “We’ll have it all wrapped up by the time they get here.”
The stairwells of the apartment complex are external, which means nobody needs to buzz them into the building. Less ideal is how many people have already left their homes to see what the commotion is about. Jesse and Stan dodge a few of the more inquisitive residents on the way to apartment 5B. When they get there, the door is hanging open.
“Hello?” Stan shouts while hammering on it. “EMS! Paramedics! We’re here to help!”
“He don’t talk to nobody,” a scrawny woman one door down informs us. “No sense in waiting for an answer.”
“Do you know if he has a gun?” Stan asks her.
She shrugs indifferently.
“Great,” Stan mutters. Louder he says, “We’re coming inside! Don’t be scared!”
The apartment interior is dark, the air stale, the furnishings sparse. An old couch is covered with blankets and pillows, a TV across from it. An open laptop sits on the coffee table between them, the screen providing light to see by. Jesse scans the room for an occupant and doesn’t see anyone there or in the attached kitchen.
“Hello?” Stan calls. “Anyone home?”
They turn to face the hallway, light spilling from an open door farther down. They creep toward this. Stan is the first to poke his head around the doorway. Then he flattens himself against the wall while swearing.
