Page 87 of In Sheets of Rain

“It wasn’t always lights and sirens,” I said.

Or blood.

“Sometimes, it was a slow drive out to Piha to pick up a surfer with a bruised back.”

Laughter and jokes. Static over the radio. Black humour.

“Sometimes, it was comforting those who had lost someone.”

We were going down South. On the weekend. To see our new great-grandchild.

“And sometimes it was saving a life.”

Steak and mushrooms. Blue lips. Forceps. Breathe!

“I did it for five years,” I said.

I don't know how you do what you do. I couldn’t. My daughter’s a paramedic working in Auckland City.

“I loved it.”

And I hated it.

“I’ll miss the camaraderie.”

Permission to swing by and say our farewells?

“I won’t miss the nightshifts.”

The lights blazing, fifty-odd people in Tongan dress around us. Reds and whites en masse. So many.

And angels singing a song of grief and sorrow.

“I’m ready for a new beginning.”

It’s your story. You write it. Let your heroine win.

“For new friends and new memories.”

I looked at the group of people before me and smiled.

“And being able to finish a cup of coffee without the station alarm going off in the middle of it.”

I sat down beside Michael. The room was unusually subdued, but people had started conversing quietly.

“Well done,” he said.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“It’s over now, Trolley Girl.”

And he could have been speaking about the presentation, but I chose to think he was speaking about blood.

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