I am Medicine

(This is a rough draft for one of my essays in my class, and I figured I would share it with you.)

Standing in front of the full length mirror I studied myself. I wore only a tank top and my scrub pants, my hair pulled tight into a ponytail. I looked plain to most people, but as I prepared for a long 12-hour shift it became apparent that plain had so much more built into it. I picked up my earrings and began to put them in, something I only did when I worked. As I did so I could hear the sound of a siren as it passed the apartment outside. Smiling my mind wandered to the first time those ears heard that all too familiar sound of sirens.


"Unit 7 to the shelter for a 21 year old female with unknown cause."
The intermediate in the driver’s seat ground the gas pedal into the floor as the Paramedic in the passenger’s seat radioed back to dispatch. As soon as the call was returned he turned to me with a smile.

"Buckle up." Without waiting to see if I had listened or not the sirens went on and the lights flashed, causing mayhem to release into the streets. It was my first call and my first time seeing people trying and failing to merge right. Pedestrians jumped back up onto the curb and stare at us, falling into the trance that only lights and sirens can conjure. From the back of that ambulance I gripped the seat and closed my eyes, letting the sound echo off of the buildings and return back to me, falling deep into my ear canal before settling there comfortably. I could even feel that sound deep within my chest, as if that was what my soul craved.


Pulling on my scrub top I caught glimpse of my watch, an old plastic Wal-Mart brand that I hadn’t taken off in ages. As always I checked my watch and verified the accurate time with the clock on my cell phone. As I adjusted it by a minute I studied the worn paint and my watch tan that had come from my lack of taking it off.

Graduating from Nursing Assisting School was no big deal to the students, but the teachers wanted our parents there and urged them to give their student a gift. My father was proud of me and wanted to attend, but like me, he felt that the gift idea was stupid. My mother, a sentimental sap like the teachers convinced my father to just do it. Graduation day was busy, crowded and overwhelming as we got our certifications, at the same time we were also awarded our gifts. When my turn finally came I was given a small wrapped box. Other students got scrubs, equipment and even money, leaving me confused. I opened the box and smiled, a gray plastic watch sat inside, ready and waiting for me to wear it. I put it on my wrist and set the time, promising never to take it off.


Sitting down on the edge of the bed I pulled on my sneakers with distain. The plastic that was once white and shiny is now gray and falling off. The fabric is shades of brown and black and looks disgusting, despite many attempts to wash them. The rubber is no longer in tact and the shoe laces look as if they may break, but in the year that it took to get to that point I had seen many miles and more action than most shoes would. As I look up and into that mirror again I realize the only reason those old crummy sneakers are still around is because I don’t have the heart to throw them out yet.

Starting my job at the hospital was the biggest career accomplishment I had thus far in my young career. The hospital held a prestigious title and only hired the best of the best. I had purchased a new pair of Nikes, the first pair of brand name shoes I had ever bought. Sitting in the shadow of the giant building I worked in I tied those new shoes tightly and smiled at the spring I now had in my step.


Driving into work I sing loudly to the radio, trying not to think about the things I will see in the next shift. It’s the way that I block it out, so I sing, loudly and off tune. As I do so I catch a glimpse of myself smiling, taking my thoughts far away from my stress-free commute and into a memory of a smile that speared my soul.

"Can I have a coke?" He asked, being all of six years old with buzzed brown hair and a missing tooth. I smiled at him and nodded, noticing how big that boys ears were. When I returned with the coke he smiled and opened it quickly, drinking it. His mom smiled from the corner and thanked me and I nodded, laughing as he jumped out of the bed and embraced me, flashing his bare bottom to the world as he did so. As I left his room my smile faded, six year olds have no business being Bone Marrow Transplant patients.


As I pull into the parking garage and pull out my bag I begin to load my right thigh pocket with all of my equipment. People think that I carry too much stuff in that little pocket, but each shift I use all of it. As I cram more and more pens into the pocket and attempt for my flashlight a code sits heavy in my mind.

The code button got punched by the Nurse and I grabbed a pen light from my right thigh pocket, beginning to examine the eyes. As they began to identify infection the doctor pulled a blue marker out of my pocket and began to draw on the patient. Without saying a word I pulled my trauma shears out of the same pocket and handed it to the surgeon as they began to strip ‘em and flip ‘em. Nurses pulled pens and highlighters out of my pocket and began to chart. Twenty minutes later the Ambulance arrived and strapped the patient to a backboard and left quickly. As I gathered up my supplies, cleaned and replaced them the nurses smiled at me. "You look like a Paramedic."


Washing my hands at the nurses station I stop and begin to rub on some lotion. As I rub my hands together quickly I study them. In my job it is all about taking care of people, including holding hands for comfort. As I studied my hands, the callouses, the sores and the scars. Compared to most people my hands were well taken care of.

Her hands were worn, feeling and looking like leather as I studied them. Her nails were uncared for and her cuticles looked as if they hadn’t been touched in years. Those hands clung tightly to mine all night long as I sat in her room with her. She stirred once or twice, barely attempting to speak, let alone move. I stared at the sticker on her board with fear as I felt for her pulse. She squeezed my hand tightly, waiting for me to return the squeeze. After a moment I moved my fingers over her wrist again until I felt it, three beats and then it slipped away. The room was quiet, not even the sound of breathing filled the room as I stared at the big purple DNR sticker on the board. Do Not Resuscitate.


Ears that have heard first cries and last breaths, a watch reading only military time, battered from thousands of hours in the service. Tennis shoes, six months past their expiration date. A smile that has comforted sick and well people alike. It’s a right thigh pocket crammed with pens, markers, flash lights and scissors. Hands that have felt life hanging on and slipping away.

It’s who I am. I am medicine.