Chapter 11 - Good Towels

"What were you doing having Jeremy take your picture in your bunker gear in front of the engine?  I asked Tom.

Who are you seeing now and what is wrong with her?"  

"She is hot Cap; you want to see a picture of her?"  Tom is grinning from ear to ear.

"No, she isn't, what would a hot chick be doing with you?  I said.

"No Cap, she is smoking hot" I can hear Tom laughing on the top bunk.

"If she isn't ugly and she is with you, she is crazy.  Based on your last girlfriend you should stick with women who are both ugly and normal.   Work yourself up to plain and boring...but for now ugly and normal is the best bet for you."

A large arm extends over the edge of the top bunk bed holding an open cell phone with a picture on it.   "Take a look at my new girlfriend Cap."

"You better not be in the picture Tom, and you damn sure better not be naked.  I should never have to see you naked.  If you are critically hurt, burned, or dying, I am going to make the medic's cover you up while they treat you.  There is no chick hot enough to cancel out you being naked in the picture." I tell him as I am reaching under the bed to grab my reading glasses. 

Tom is a square jawed graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy with a relaxed, easy-going manner.  He is painfully honest about almost every aspect of his life.  When Tom got divorced, we got divorced right along with him.  When he started meeting women and dating again, we were with him for all of those fun, painful, and awkward moments.

Tom laughs harder and shakes the phone at me again.  I grab it and look at the picture.  There is a great looking woman in her early 40's.  She is wearing a very short plaid skirt, a white shirt unbuttoned all the way down, showcasing beautiful large breasts that do not appear to be original equipment.  White knee socks and black high heels complete the ensemble.  She is bent over a wooden kitchen chair showing off a yoga butt in low riding white bikini panties.

"How did you get her to do that?    "How do you get a woman to do that?" I asked him.

"She wanted to do it." 

"No she didn't, and she does not look drunk.  You know you can go to jail for having a drunk woman do that." I told him.

"She wasn't drunk when she took the picture."  Tom said, the glee in his voice is unmistakable. 

"Who took the picture?" I asked him. 

"I did" I see his head hanging over the top bunk and he is grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Chris has rolled over on his elbows on the other bunk.  "Throw me the phone Cap, lemmie see."

"You guys want to hear the rest of the story?"  Tom says.

"NO" everyone within earshot in the bunk room says simultaneously.  We know from previous experience that Tom will tell us the story in greater detail that we are prepared for.

The green light of the plectron lights up the room.  The familiar voice of the dispatcher comes over the radio.

Engine 3, Paramedic 4 respond and stage for a suicide attempt

Everyone is out of bunks and pulling on work shirts and boots and walking down the stairs to the engine.  The quiet is a stark contrast to the banter of a minute ago. 

On the rack next to the door everyone grabs a handheld radio.  As they get into their assigned seats on the engine, everyone is double checking their gear with that OCD that all good firefighters have a touch of.  They are checking the same gear they checked less than an hour ago.  The address is close, less than 2 miles away. 

"Engine 3 in route, status 4, non-emergent, confirm SO has been dispatched" I say into the handheld radio.  Shorthand for we are going without lights and sirens and will wait for the sheriff officer to give us the all clear to respond in.  

I look at Tom and shake my head and he smiles.   I am grateful we will have a Tom story waiting for us when we get back from this call.

Suicides are the most demanding calls we respond to; they require a depth of understanding that most of us do not possess or need in our normal day to day lives. 

My observations about suicide (like most everyone else's), are made in the safety of the circle of my family or friends and in the light of a painless day.  Up close, suicide is complex and those clear observations I have at distance, seem terribly misinformed and just plain mean to the people who are going through this particular hell.  Like most everything else, suicide looks very different up close.

"No lights or sirens, that is the Ridge subdivision, drive slow so the SO has time to clear the address.  Stage off of road 5 until the give us the OK."  I tell the crew on the headset.

"Tom, you and Chris will have patient care."

"Jeremy, you are going to be an extra set of eyes on anyone else in the house".  You guys know wearing blue does not mean shit, you all look like cops."

"Pay attention in there, if anyone one is going to do stupid shit, they are not going to announce it, they are just going to do it.  No brave shit, because brave shit is almost always stupid shit" I remind them.  Everyone goes home after the call, that is always the first and most important goal. 

We can see the lights of the patrol cars up ahead.  The engine comes to a quiet stop 1/4 mile away.  The homes here are on the high end on 5 acre lots, with shops and barns.  

"When we respond, park out on the street and leave the driveway open for the ambulance" I tell Chris.

"Did they say how?" Tom asks.

"No, but we will find out in a couple of minutes."

The dispatchers voice comes over the radio and I hold up a hand so everyone will stop talking and hear the radio traffic.

Engine 3, Paramedic 4, it is code for to respond in

Code 4, everything is safe to respond in per procedure.  Nothing is ever safe, complacency kills firefighters.  Under the best of circumstances people can unpredictable. In cases like this there is just no way to tell how anyone will respond to the house filling up with blue uniforms.    The family or person you are helping never does quite respond like you would expect or want them to.  Any combination of emotional pain, drugs, or alcohol can give the smallest person superhuman strength.   

The house is showroom nice.  Nothing in the yard is out of place, every shrub and flowerbed is neatly manicured.  A beat-up Mustang in yard is the only thing that seems out of place.  There is large wrap around porch that is well lit.  Sitting on the porch in a large white rocky chair is a tall lanky kid who is watching us walk towards him.   Bent over in front of him is a smaller man in his late 50's holding a bundle of towels on his lap and pushing down.  He is sweating and he looks exhausted.  He is talking to the kid in quiet, easy voice and I cannot make out what he is saying.

"Fire Department" I say in a conversational tone.

"What is going on fellas?" I say to the older man and young guy sitting in the chairs.

"My wrists are cut" the lanky kid says.

"Do you mind if I take a look?  What is your name?"

"Josh, my name is Josh" 

"Josh let me look, do you have anything that is going to hurt me?" I ask, looking at him to see if I can interpret his response and body language.

"No, not at all" he says. 

"Josh are your parents' home?" I ask.

"I am Dad" the man says, standing up slowly and he cannot stop his hands from shaking.

Josh's hands are cold to the touch and curled and cupped like he is trying to make the letter C.  Dad was trying to stop the bleeding by applying direct pressure with bathroom towels.

"Josh, Chris is going to put these on your wrists" I hold up curlex bandages to show him.

"Chris is going to raise your hands up and hold them so we can completely stop the bleeding.  If it gets uncomfortable or you start to get anxious tell us and we will do something different"

I nod to Chris, and he applies the curlex and slowly raises his hands.  This was a genuine suicide attempt.  The cuts are deep and down to the bone. 

"Josh, do you feel like hurting yourself now or hurting me? I ask.

"Naw, I am done, I am sorry for this." he said, and he looks sincere when he says this.

"Not a problem Josh, I am going to ask you a bunch of questions that I ask everyone.  I am not a cop; I need to know so I can treat you." I tell him.

"Yea, shoot, no problem, ask away" he says, and he looks relieved. 

I am asking him general history and medical questions. Josh is not what I expected to find, he is easy to talk to and has a round open face.  When he smiles his entire face opens up and you cannot help but smile back at him.  

"That is my car" He flips his head to the old beat-up mustang in the driveway.  "I am restoring it."

"What have you done with it?" I ask him as Chris and Tom are working to wrap up the cuts and get basic vital signs.

"Engine and transmission so far, it will outrun anything out there" he says with a broad grin.

"Yes, it will" his dad says as he sits down two freshly folded towels, his hands seem to be shaking worse now.  I am looking at him now thinking I may have 2 patients. 

Josh smiles broadly again, and despite everything, his dad smiles back.  Josh scares me, if he did not have his arms above his head with a firefighter holding bandages to the wrists, nothing in his demeanor would seem odd.  If he was talking to me, I am not sure I would have recognized he is in the kind of pain that would drive a suicide attempt.  On the surface he seems like a great kid.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman walk up to the porch where we are with Josh.

"Those are my good towels" she says pointing at the folded towels and the blood towels on the floor.   She takes a long look at all of us and turns me to me.

"My good towels, these are my good towels" she says looking at the pile of bloody towels on the deck.

"Ma'am we are not using your towels; we have our own gear" I tell her.

"My good towels" she says and walks back into the house.

There are times to say nothing.  I want to tell her that those bloody towels at his feet used by his dad may have saved her sons life. I want to tell her no one gives a flying fuck about 100 dollars' worth of designer towels.   

I turn back to Josh and stay focused on him, but the damage has already been done.  Chris still has Josh's arms up.  Josh cheeks are crimson, and he has stopped looking at anyone.  He has a blank look; the transformation is frightening.   Dad stands up without a word and walks back into the house.  

"Josh the ambulance is here.  We are going to load you up and get you checked out" He is the polar opposite of the kid I was just talking to a minute ago.  His cheeks are still crimson, and he is staring off to the side, not responding to me.   There is a heaviness about him that feels like despair.  It is going to be a quiet ride to the hospital.

"I have tried this before" Josh said.

"What?" I ask.

"Suicide" he said blankly.

"When did you try it and how did you try to do it?" 

"It was my birthday last month" he said in a very flat voice. 

I told the crew I would ride in with him.  I am halfway through my paramedic school at St Anthony's.  It is a bumpy ride, and I am sitting on the bench next to him laying out the things to start an IV on him.  I am tying off the tourniquet and I am glad to talk about something lighter with him.

"Yea?  hey Happy Birthday" I said

"You want to know what I got for my birthday?" he said.

"Tell me" I look down and smile at him, grateful for the lighter bit of conversation.

"A gun, I got a fucking handgun.  Isn't that the most fucked up thing you ever heard of?" 

He does not wait for an answer.  His eyes tear up for a moment, but he does not cry.  That look of despair is back and then Josh his eyes go blank.  He turns his head away from me and does not say another word.  The rest of the ride to the hospital is quiet.

When we get to the hospital, I hand him off to the Emergency Room doctors and I tell him to take care of himself.  I would like to go back into the room and tell him how completely fucked up it was that he was given a gun, but I can't.  There is very little I can say or do for him that will pull him from the dark place he has found himself in.  Most of the people we touch are put back together by dedicated professionals we see only briefly.  The best days are when you leave them with people who can put them all back together. 

I step out into the night air, take a deep breath and walk back to where the engine is parked with the crew. 

Josh, I hope you find your way back, I hope you finish restoring that mustang and I hope it outruns everything else out there.  

Hope and pain are linked very closely to each other.  Pain creates the need for Hope.  Hope inadvertently causes pain.  I will never be able to reconcile how it that works in times like this.

The lights in the interior cab are on.  I can see Tom reaching around to Chris and they both are laughing.  I know that I am missing the start of the new girlfriend story.  I realize that I have to leave Josh in the very capable hands of the professionals he is with now.  Understanding there is nothing more to be done, is always hard to do. 

Hope and Pain

I want to head back to the station and hear the end of the new girlfriend story.

EPILOGUE

I am not sure when it started but I am now in the habit of scanning the obituaries in my local paper.  It is the spring of the new year, and I am taking the first sip of my first cup of coffee.

I see Josh's smiling face staring up at me from the Obituary column in the local paper. 

Josh is 23 years old and survived by his mother and father.  

No details were provided on how he died.