I've known many people that have been in the Emergency Services. Riding on ambulances to calls, putting out fires and helping the community. Most of them can be seen in happier times, grilling up chicken dinners around local fire pits. They stick around their stations on late nights, trading stories of the day in a comradery that few can match. Risking your life in those high adrenaline situations together will do that. Its a tight sort of brotherhood that I sometimes relish.
One of those proud members of the local emergency services in my area is a dear friend of mine. I've worked with him for as many years as I have been at my current job as a maintenance worker. I knew him years before that. He grew up at the camp, the same as me. He was always proud of his service as a firefighter and an EMT. He could talk about it for hours. And has. On many occasions. But the other day he was down, really down. I haven't ever seen him nearly as depressed as I had that day.
He had rolled into work late, boots untied and sullen. He told us about the call they got in the early hours of the morning. He told us about the little apartment they went to and about the poor man that had killed himself there last night. There was a pause in his story. He told us he didn't sleep for a while, or well. That's why he was late. We all just kind of nodded and went back to our individual jobs, except me. I offered to give him a ride up the hill so he could work on the garden we were putting in. We took the long way around and I enjoyed talking to childhood friend. The sun was shining, waving down in hot rays onto our heads.
Ya know, I told him, an EMT told me that if it stops bothering you, stop doing it. He told me darkly that is still bothers him. There was a few seconds of silence before the chatter on his pager picked up. The open broadcast picked up all sorts of calls. As we reached the top of the hill and my friend got off, we heard something really amazing.
"There is no emergency but I would like to extend my hand to Ellen. I want to let you know how much I love you and would like to repeat that there is no emergency. I ask, Ellen, that you do the honor of marrying me."
Ellen, another operator, called back. The flat, stoicism that all radio operators must keep was betrayed by the bubbling excitement in her voice. "This is Ellen and my answer is yes. I love you too."
My friend and I sat there, looking at each other. My hand was still on the steering wheel of the golf cart. His foot rested on the floor of the cart. We looked at each other with disbelief. It was special, romantic. They may have been miles away, but it would take more than a receiver to separate them. Then other calls started rolling in.
"Wyoming County copies. Congratulations."
"Lackawanna County copies. Congratulations."
"Station #142 copies. Congratulations."
They rolled in. Counties, fire departments, ambulance companies. It was an amazing moment and we just stared across the golf cart at each other. And from the pits of despair, my friend was pulled back up. Those who serve in the emergency services across the nation see the worst of things, and are apart from others in ways that someone on the outside could never understand. But it can also draw people together. My friend was at the bottom but he felt a connection to those two, each on other sides of a receiver. Connected like a family all, a brotherhood of exceptional heroes. That day exemplified the EMS to me. They are the best of the best, while seeing the worst of the worst.
