But one thing never changes. There’s always a form to fill out. Paperwork.
There are forms for every patient. If they don’t go to hospital, another one. If they’re septic, another. If they’ve died, another. I have a joke if patients are not sure they want to go to hospital.
—Let’s do the paperwork; then we’ll both have died of old age.
And there’s an endless variety of jobs. An endless variety of things that can go wrong in this life.
Where else could you take two people into the hospital on the same shift? One who’s suffered a cardiac arrest while driving and crashed into a building. We got him back. (Good job, said Len.) The other who’s fainted, frightened he was allergic to his cheese and onion sandwich.
(For fuck’s sake, said Len.)
One of the reasons I like the Health Service is I always wanted to be a comedian. This isn’t as strange as it sounds. My oldest friend used to run comedy clubs all over the place, and I used to help out on the door taking money. This was back in the nineties. A lot of people who would become household names performed. I used to yearn to have the bottle to get up on the stage and make people laugh, but I never did. In the ambulance service you can step on and off the stage whenever you like. You can be funny when you need to be, and serious when you don’t. A lot of times when people phone 999, they want someone to come along and take charge of a bad situation, not panic, and make it better. An amazing number of times, a joke succeeds in all three.
—Haven’t I seen your face before?
—Yes, on Crimewatch.
Or:
—You’re a smooth driver.
—I’m even better when I’ve sobered up.
Or:
—I was in hospital last week with me legs.
—Better than being in there without them.
That sort of thing. You sort of have to be there, but they do work. And obviously we’ve got bandages and drugs and oxygen and stuff for when a joke isn’t quite enough. One of the things you learn is when to make the joke and when not to. Sometimes Val gives me a look.
It’s time you shut up now.
You can’t make a joke out of everything.
And it has to be said, sometimes it’s the patients who say the funniest things.
Kenny
Another shift with Val.
We’re called to a man, fifties, outside his flat in town. He’s a known self-harmer and he’s cut his neck.
So far, doesn’t sound too exciting. We go out to a lot of self-harmers and they don’t usually do too much damage. Usually just cuts and scratches deep enough to show a little blood and let the pain out, as one of them once told me.
But this guy’s a little different. When we get there there’s a very worried-looking copper holding a dressing to the man’s neck. The patient is sitting on the pavement with his back against the wall. His face is white in the darkness and he’s wearing a dark red tracksuit.
Only it’s not a dark red tracksuit. It’s a white tracksuit, absolutely covered in blood. Soaked. He’s sitting in a pool of it.
Blimey, we think, and switch into hurry-up mode.
The patient’s still conscious and breathing, and he hasn’t actually cut his own throat, so he’s still able to breathe. But he’s very close to fainting because his blood pressure’s collapsed due to the fact he’s sitting in most of it. We get him on some oxygen and onto a stretcher with his feet raised so what little blood’s left goes to his head where it’s needed. A paramedic who’s backing us up gets a line and some fluids in him with difficulty and we relieve the poor copper, also looking rather pale, and get a new dressing on his neck. Then it’s off to hospital.
—What the bloody hell happened?
Kenny has a history of depression, alcohol dependence and self-harm, and often cuts his arms or neck with a Stanley knife, but like most people just makes small cuts. Tonight he was (sort of) happily cutting away at the side of his neck when he realised things had gone too far and the blood’s pissing out like a tap. He staggers out into the street and calls 999. A bit of a shock really, but maybe the brush with death will do him some good. Shake something up in his head.
I can’t help thinking despite the self-harm, alcoholism and depression, he’s still something of an optimist. He’s unemployed, wearing a filthy old tracksuit drenched in blood, and he’s got a drink problem. Val’s in the back with him. She’s young and beautiful and professional, and he doesn’t know about the bad language.
—You going out with anyone? he asks on the way into hospital with the blue lights flashing.
—No, not at the moment.
—Would you go out with me?
—Well, let’s get you to the hospital and sorted out first, shall we? Then we’ll see.
At hospital Fatima manages to look expressionless and mystified at the same time. I think she often finds us – patients and ambulance staff – strange.
—He cut his own throat?
—Yes.
Unwell patient.
3
Friday evening – years ago. I’m petrified, as frightened as I’ve ever been in my life. I joined the ambulance service eighteen months ago, and now it’s my first-ever shift on a proper, front-line, A&E, emergency ambulance. Tonight, real people – the poor sods – will depend on me to look after them; their lives will be in my hands. I can’t quite believe it – why did I ever sign up to this?
Fuck!
Anyway, I’m crewed up with a nice experienced woman, Denise, who no doubt will look after me, but it’s still terrifying. I’ve opted to attend for the first six hours of the shift – best to get it over with – so I’ll be in the back with the patients. Oh my God. We sign on and the shift starts at 7 o’clock, and after that we’re just waiting for the first job.
I’m shitting myself.
Nothing happens for the first half an hour, and this even makes it worse. Denise sits watching EastEnders or something, perfectly calm, she’s seen it all before. I sit watching the screen but taking nothing in, trying to stop my heart hammering away. And then it happens. Our pagers go off and we have a job. I jump up and get in the ambulance, wondering if I’ll have a heart attack or throw up first.
Billy
Halfway to the scene the details of the job come over. Male, forties, blood gushing from ear. Conscious and breathing.
Jesus Christ, I think, what’s this? ‘Blood gushing from his ear’? What from? An injury? Assault? A cerebral bleed? Bloody hell. What on earth do I do?
Denise remains icily calm and says nothing as the blue lights flash and she drives to the job, which has been called in from a phone box in the town centre. Then we see the call box with the caller still in it. All she does is sigh quietly.
—It’s Billy Watts.
Billy Watts? Billywatts?