A Work in Progress

EMS is... cold dinners missed sleep split seconds golden hours chest pains back aches filthy houses narrow stairs dead on toilets dead behind doors woah, look at that! talking off the ledge boredom adrenaline knowing too much knowing too little making cots squeezed hands repetition bitching held pressure held breath all eyes on you public scrutiny high expectations bull shit feeling cool looking dumb driving too fast   getting there too late panicked parents happy babies hidden sorrow unbridled joy

"Hurry up, hurry up!"  she shouted. Why were they getting out of the truck so slowly? "He can't breathe, he can't breathe!"  she shouted. They are still taking forever. "He needs oxygen, he needs oxygen!"  she shouted Finally they are at the door. "Where is he?"  they ask.  Isn't it obvious? "In there, in there!"  she shouted.  "What happened?"  they ask. Isn't it obvious? "He needs oxygen, he needs oxygen!" she shouted. They are standing on his oxygen tubing. "Don't stand there, don't stand there!"  she shouted.  They opened their bags. "No breathing tube, no breathing tube!"  she shouted.  "What do you mean?"  they ask.  Isn't it obvious? She waved a paper in their faces.  "It says it right here, right here!"  she shouted "He doesn't want any of this?" they ask.  Isn't it obvious? "He just...

"Hurry up, hurry up!" she shouted. They're going as fast as they can "He can't breathe, he can't breathe!" she shouted. Get the bag, the oxygen, the monitor, the board "He needs oxygen, he needs oxygen!" she shouted. Crossing the threshold. "Where is he?" they ask.  How would they know? "In there, in there!" she shouted. "What happened?" How would they know? "He needs oxygen, he needs oxygen!" she shouted. They enter the room, evaluate the situation. "Don't stand there, don't stand there!" she shouted. CPR started, oxygen delivered, heart monitor on. "No breathing tube, no breathing tube!" she shouted. "What do you mean?" they ask. How would they know? She waved a paper in their faces. "It says it right here, right here!" she shouted "He doesn't want any of this." they say.  How would they know? "He just needs...

Sometimes this job is like a race. Like you're carrying this person on your back, and it's a messy race. You're tripping and sweating and you almost drop them. It's bouncy and there's trash everywhere. And if you can just get them over that line. To the line and throw them over. Throw them over and into the ER, you're obligation is fulfilled. Your job is done. You've won the race. And for a long time, that was it. Mission accomplished and I wasn't responsible for anything else. I didn't care about anything else. Get them to the hospital.  Dust my hands off and pat myself on the back. But somehow, they crept in. What did happen?  Did they live?  For the first time I asked myself.  I began to bring them home. I put them on a shelf and they stared down at me. They said, did you run fast enough?  Did you fall?  Did you drop me?  You threw me onto this island- over your line, but was it salvation?  I left in a hel...

Every year, I forget the lush color of too-tall grass. how bright the sun is on the way to work. my jacket at home, even when I need it. how long it takes for the trees to begin to bud. that mice can get into the house. the musty smell of impending rain. how soon sun lotion becomes essential. that carpenter bees love to eat my porch. how tired I get when the daylight lingers. the taste of a cold beer on a warm evening. my favorite songs that drive away the winter blues. that spring is my favorite season.

It is simple and concise. Far from elegant thoughtful yet chaotic, typed and careful. Paragraphs and lists. These are the reasons, the pains and unmet needs. The counting of the blessings. Thankful for the good times, it reassures and probably, assumes too much. This whole life in a few lines. Are these words enough, this simple correspondence. Enough for forgiveness, for understanding. Is it long enough to heal a broken heart. Is it desperate enough to make it okay, to pull the trigger.

I press my fingers into the bruise on the back of my right hand. It does not hurt enough. It does not take their pain away, It does not save him. Hand on top of hand, I did my best to pump his dying heart back to life. Never wishing so fervently for a patient to open his eyes and smile at us as we congratulate ourselves. A slow leak in the brain has left her a widow with only one month in. Does he have to die, to remind us to live? All of our tools could not compete. Could not reverse the damage. Still I plead with his heart. Just start again and we’ll give you what you want. I press my fingers into the bruise on the back of my right hand. It does not hurt enough. It does not take their pain away, It does not save him.

Last week, my grandmother turned 95.  For the last few years I have had a work in progress poem, progressively titled 'When I'm 92...93...94' and this year, I finally settled on the lines. Happy Birthday Grandmom, I'm sure Mom will print this out for you. When I'm 95, I want to be like you. I want to be alive! I want independence, children whose successes outweigh mine, and grandchildren I can sip whisky with. When I'm 95, I want to be like you. I want to be a good storyteller. But really I would settle for the stories. They are what define you. The one of bread handed over a fence, a proud little red wagon, or how a pair of pants set you free. Or how you picked up coal from the train tracks, your adventures at the cannery, and how much you loved selling stationary at the five and dime. When I'm 95, I want to be like you. I want to have found love. I want to have given all of mine and have it be enough. I want to know the secret of a long ...

I started the call cold and irritated. After your apathetic husband, flagged us down, then disappeared into a dark, unmarked doorway your shady apartment complex. Once we found you, dramatically laying on the floor. 'Come on, get up now dear, laying there isn't going to help your breathing' Stale cigarettes are in the air and as I give you a breathing treatment, I start my lecture on smoking. But as your story unravels I soften I kneel down to look into your face and put my hand on your wrist wishing I could do the impossible. I cannot make your husband love you I cannot make your children care what I can do is offer you my help such as it is I wish I weren't so jaded didn't approach such situations with a negative attitude but I grow suspicioius when displayed in your squalid apartment is a paper thin and absolutely enormous TV.

I don’t know this feeling but like others, it comes and goes. It fills me with anticipation, and sadness at the same time. I don’t know this feeling but like others, it sneaks up on me. It causes me to take time out, not to be alone. I don’t know this feeling but like others, it keeps me going. It reminds me what the reasons were, and what the future holds. I don’t know this feeling but like others, I’m in denial. I think I know what it is, but I’ve never been homesick before.

Inexperience worries that the dough isn't right. Flour covered hands roll with makeshift pin and juice glass cutter. A watchful eye of foreign ovens ensures nothing is on fire. Plain icing needs sprinkles, arranged on each masterpiece. Scrutinizing the mess, but pleased with their uniformity. Tears caught me by surprise, flown all the way home with one bite.

The laptop is warm on my knees I take another break for tea. The research continues, words reluctantly multiply. I'm probably overcomplicating it and distraction abounds. I hear something outside, or the relentless allure of the internet. When a sudden idea peeks around the corner and I'm back to the point. That five minutes of work certainly deserves a reward. More tea.

It shouldn't be like this it should be easy. All this change, jingling in my pocket, is not a sign of wealth. But when you hear it, you call it 'spare.' The desire to be generous stemmed by lack of resources, and cruel skepticism. When what is offered is not enough, there can be little difference between charity and robbery. Still. It should be automatic, like feeling for a lightswitch, offsetting a lifetime of punishment. Is food the goal, or a ticket home, or a pint, I can't tell. What story today for 20p? But whatever the pretence, whatever its intentions, I would have wasted it too.

I'm published! Or, at least in print.

I drive home with the radio on, trying to forget your dead face. I stand under my shower, trying to forget your panicked father. I pour milk on my cereal, wondering why you tied the knots. I watch TV on the couch, trying to forget the marks on your neck. I walk to the grocery store, trying to forget the hopelessness I felt. I wander through the aisles, trying to forget the sound of your crying mother. I workout for an hour, trying not to be mad at you. I stir my frozen dinner, wishing you had told someone. I drift into a restless sleep, wishing we had made a difference.

An class assigned sonnet-like response to "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" by the bard himself. It's not perfect iambic pentameter, but amusing. Some may want those abs to be a six pack, oh, but yours, I’m afraid is two liters; that and your tattoo of some womans’ rack, are barely hidden by your wife beater. You drive a tractor all day with a frown, you farm; in your trade no man is wiser; a hard worker from sun up to sun down, sadly your product is fertilizer. A solid education, you have not, you won’t be, nor can name the worlds leaders; most of your schooling spent with some ink blots, avoiding the stay with bottom feeders. But I love you, you idiot, you know. You have harvested our love, row by row.

Why do we fear aging? We try to prevent it, to stave it off. We wish to be younger, to pull the reins of time. We damn the wrinkles, dye the hair, cover the spots. We can’t wait to grow up, then can’t wait to stop. Still, we covet our parents’ experience, and long for our grandmothers’ wisdom. I do not fear age, no, I embrace the passage of time, as the older I get, the more I realize how stupid I was yesterday.

I am good at being single. I am getting used to it. I heat pizzas for one and laugh at my own jokes. I am independently minded, and find fun as the third wheel. I watch demoralizing chick flicks, have daytime fantasies of serendipitous meetings. I am self sufficient. I eat lucky charms for dinner and sleep late in the middle of the bed. I am bad at being single. I look and wait, but I don’t know where to find him. And when I do find someone I like, I have named our children, before I look at his left hand. When I feel lonely I don’t know where to turn. I settle for my cat.

Wind chilled wet hands steady the paddle against the wind, rhythmically slicing it into the choppy waters. The swell pushes me forward clumsily, as the spray leaps into my face. I am exhilarated, nervous, excited. The everyday produces a hard shell. Too many interactions with lifeless people. But here out on the water, I am freed. I shout it to the trees, to the heron in flight above me, to the sandy shoreline. I can still feel. My fears are put aside for one more day.

This job can wear on the heart. Can cause one to harden, and grow cold against the world. Everyday traumas and dramas, melt together, and even the extraordinary becomes a fading memory. Bloody gloved hands unconsciously go through the motions, methodically carrying out their tasks.