First Call Out

Darkness bleeds from the walls as I step from bright daylight into the house of death. The hovering ghoulish odour of mortality chokes me. A fierce battle of fight or flight takes place during that one step. Lucky for me, fight wins.

When I signed on to become a paramedic there were many rules to the job; the first was that a person had to do at least ten “ride alongs” with a regular ambulance crew before they could be considered a full-time member. The idea was that the person would get some real life experience under his, or her, belt before taking on the daunting task of saving lives. The reality was that if a person could cope with what they witnessed on scene then the chances that they would be successful in the position were greatly increased. There are many drop-outs at this stage.

It is my third day of being on call and not one page has come through. I am restless, nervous, excited, prepared, and unprepared all at the same time. My husband and I are sitting at the table, he dressed in pajamas, and me, dressed in pressed black trousers and a white shirt with the paramedic logo emblazoned on the sleeves. I am pushing my food around the plate babbling nonstop when my pager finally starts squawking at me. I am on my feet and out the door before it finishes its final beep. I’m pretty sure I hear my husband breathe a sigh of relief behind me. I arrive at the station minutes before my crewmates and have the ambulance out and parked in the drive waiting for the more experienced people to take over.

The trip out to the scene goes by in a blur. I don’t remember any of it; I am nauseous and energized at the same time. My instinct when we pull into the driveway is to grab the jump-kit and run into the house, but the look on the two police officers’ faces at the door stops me dead in my tracks. They are pale, and are taking infinite care to write out their reports. The sergeant in charge looks up at Bob, my unit chief. “He’s been dead for a long time,” is all he says.

I step to the side and let the regular crew go by. I have never seen a dead body before. And there I am about to see one that had been dead “for a long time.” Suddenly I am scared. Every cell in my body has just put the brakes on. I do not want to go into that house. In the end vanity wins the battle. I am not about to let the others know how afraid I am, so I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and walk in the door.

Smell seems too small of a word for what is lurking behind that closed door. It’s an entity. It’s a hovering ghoul with arms spread wide which encircles and envelopes me in its foul embrace. It rolls over me, coating me in a thin film of rotting flesh. Stomach-turning. Nauseating. So powerful that it is hard to concentrate. Yeah, he’s dead. Yeah, he’s been dead for a long time, and it is crystal clear why two officers are meticulously filling out their reports outside.

The small cabin is really just a tiny two-room shack out in the middle of nowhere. Old dishes with weeks of dried food are piled on the table, on the counter, in the sink, and on the floor. There’s a small cleared area on the edge of the table. A tin of tobacco, a partially used box of cigarette papers, and a Tupperware container of rolled smokes sit in the middle of the space. A stained mug, tipped on its side, is surrounded by an equally dark dried stain. The large plastic cuckoo clock on the wall ticks away the minutes in the abruptly silent room. Windows covered in grease and wood smoke reluctantly allow a few rays of light in to penetrate the gloom. My sun-blind eyes rove over the torn, lumpy sofa, the floor, and all the darkened corners of the room looking for the body.

“In here,” Bob says pointing out a hidden doorway.

I stop myself from taking a deep breath to try and steady my pounding heart and shaking hands. Some hidden strength allows me to take one step, then another toward that murky recess where fear is waiting. Then I’m standing in the doorway allowing my eyes to adjust to an even duskier chamber. A small bed takes up most of the space in this room and I see a dark shape on the bed. Time slows to a crawl as I follow the shape from its bare, burgundy-coloured feet, up long skinny trouser covered legs to the emaciated face of an old man.

I stare at that face. It’s a wax museum face. Shrunken in death. His essence no longer there. Just an old man who has died alone in his sleep. A little sad. A lot lonely, but not frightening. “We’re going to need a body bag,” Bob said.

“I’ll get it,” I volunteer and I flee from the room.

Sunshine and birdsong washes over me as I step out of that dark crypt. The gravel crunching under my boots and the gurgling of a river off through the trees are like the sounds of life suddenly reinserting themselves into my world. I take a deep breath and then another as I walk over to the ambulance and yank the back door open with shaking hands. “Do you need a hand?” the youngest cop asks me.

“Nope,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m just grabbing a body bag.”

He leans up against the bumper and drags both hands through his short dark hair. “I guess you guys see this kind of thing all the time,” he says. “I’m pretty sure I couldn’t do your job.” I shrug my shoulders not trusting myself to speak, and I grab two body bags before heading back.

My hand hovers over the doorknob for a long moment. Can I do this, I ask myself. Another battle of wills takes place between the coward and the brave soul hidden just under the surface.

Today the brave soul wins and I turn the knob.

Image Credit

Photo by Gab Halasz. All rights reserved.

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