When most people get off work, they go home, eat dinner, watch a little TV maybe, go to bed, and that’s it. They leave their work at work and don’t give it another thought. They don’t know how lucky they are.

            I get off work about the time when most of those ‘other’ people are starting their day. And I’ve been there for 24 straight hours, too. 

            On a good day, I’ve had a good night’s sleep and get home just after the kids have left for school. My wife cooks up a hearty breakfast while I clean up. Then we sit down together at the kitchen table – she waits to eat with me rather than have breakfast with the kids. I think that’s about the only way she actually gets to eat and not have to jump up every two seconds to fetch something for the kids. After breakfast, we clean up the dishes – yes, I help her clear the table. It may sound funny, but that is one of my favorite parts of the day. It’s just me and my wife.We don’t talk during this little ritual. We don’t really need to. We have done this for so many years now, it’s second nature to us. It’s comfortable and safe and I wouldn’t stop doing it for the world. 

            Once in a while, my partner follows me home after a shift. He just loves my wife’s cooking, and I think she loves to watch him eat as, um, well, let’s just say he’s enthusiastic when he eats and leave it at that. She even holds out hope to teach him not to talk while he eats. The woman is a saint. 

            After breakfast, our second favorite pastime is curling up on the couch together – with my wife, that is, not my partner. He is usually conscientious enough to take off for home right after we eat, though there is the odd occasion when he’s been on some oddball rant for the last 24 hours and just can’t seem to let it go. I have learned, in my years of working side-by-side with this man, to just let him have his say, or else it continues into the next shift.

            Anyway, on the days when my partner is not hanging around after breakfast, my wife and I curl up in the corner of the couch and watch our favorite show. Now, don’t laugh, but we love "The Price is Right"! My wife has spent enough time in enough shops that I really think that if we could ever land a spot on that show that we’d clean house, so to speak. More than the show though, nothing compares to the feeling when my wife lays her head against my shoulder while I put my arm around her waist. If I ignore the fact that there are kids’ pictures plastered on every wall, and a babydoll lying under the coffetable, and a small fleet of tiny cars and trucks littering the carpet, I can almost make myself believe that we are kids again, out on a date. 

            Depending on my wife’s current "Honey-Do List", the rest of my day varies from household chores, to shopping, to the rare day of doing nothing but lounging around the house. I’m still trying to figure out how I can work that last one in a little more often. Not that I mind working around the house. I take great pride in our home and the fact that I have done most of the work by myself. Okay, I had help. My wife is a whiz when it comes to small projects and we work well together – better than most husbands and wives I’ve seen. 

            By the time we get our shopping done and chores completed, it’s time for the kids to come racing home from school. You’d think they hadn’t seen their dad in 24 weeks rather than hours by the way they burst through that front door. I have to admit, as a dad, it does my heart good to see them so happy just because I’m home in the middle of the day. I know it’s probably only a matter of time before they turn into teenagers and don’t care much anymore, though I hope our family never gets to that point. 

            >From that moment on, the house is chaos yet somehow my wife manages to pull together all the schedules, homework, dinner, and bedtime into some sort of controlled bedlam. Did I say she was a saint? She’s a miracle worker, too.

            Some nights, after the kids go to sleep and I don’t have a shift the next day, my wife and I take our iced teas out to our flimsy little lawn chairs on the patio and just sit and talk. If you asked me what we talked about, I’m not even sure I could tell you. I just know that I can tell this woman anything and know she’s listening. Of course, the same holds true in reverse. She tells me about her day while I was working and I hang on every word. If truth be told, I may not be able to relay every single word she says, but I still listen to it all. I love the sound of her voice. 

            Hours later, when the stars are still sparkling in her eyes, we retire for the night. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

           That is a good day. 

           Unfortunately, not all days go that smoothly. 

            The end of my day depends on the previous night, or even the day before. Even if my partner and I have a bad day, if we can just get a good night’s sleep, or at least a few easy runs during the night, it’s sometimes easier to put the bad stuff behind us. If we can’t...

            What’s worse is when you get a bad run in the middle of the night that lasts all night. We barely get into our bunks or maybe even manage to catch an hour or two worth of sleep and the klaxons sound and there we are – jumping into our turnouts before we can blink. We’re tired. We’ll get a call for a drunken driver. His careless regard for life has caused an accident. Maybe he has even killed yet he still has the ability to try to walk that imaginary straight line, which of course they never can. We’re discouraged. Or we end up at a house fire, complete with multiple victims – many times an entire family. We break into the house, pushing our way through smoke and flames to bring them out to safety. We treat them on the scene. We transport them to the hospital. Many times, if the hospital is backed up, we are asked to help out in the exam room as the doctor administers treatment. The cries of the burned sear into your brain. We’re so tired. 

            And then there’s those runs you just can’t shake – the runs that involve a child. Those are the toughest. We work hard on every run and give every case our utmost attention, but when the victim is a child, especially a small child, we all kick into high gear even more so. There is just something about holding the life of such an innocent in your hands. They look up at you with these scared, trusting eyes as if you’re God or something. Their mother or their father looks to you as if you are God. There are times I want to scream at them that I am only a paramedic, not God, but I don’t. I can’t. My partner and I are their only hope, their only link to help. When we save a child’s life, we know we’ve saved the family. But sometimes, the injuries are just too extensive. Too much time has passed. Sometimes, there is nothing even God could do. 

            That is the worst.

            Every one of us deals with the pain of losing a victim in different ways. My partner needs to talk about it, but sometimes even he can’t voice what his heart is feeling. After an especially bad run, we’ll sit in the squad for the longest time before we clear ourselves as available. Sometimes we are able to talk about it. Sometimes we just sit and stare into the night. 

            After a night like that, no shower, no hearty breakfast, no amount of TV viewing can heal my heart. I feel like it’s my fault and yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. I’m told that’s what makes me a good paramedic. I don’t know. I don’t feel like such a terrific paramedic at times like that. I always feel that there was something more we could have done – something that was overlooked – just something...

            My wife knows the second I walk in the door when it was a bad one. I’ve never asked her how she knows, but I’m grateful I don’t have to say it. Those days, she simply takes me in her arms and holds me until I let her go. Some days, I don’t ever want to let her go. 

            A saint? She’s my lifesaver.

            I’m a lucky man.

                                                                                         Roy DeSoto