Paul’s first day

From Griffith REVIEW Edition 26: Stories for Today
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Written by Georgina Luck

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Paul was always the first person to be killed. I met him at his practical exam. The trainees were waiting for their names to be called.

Scenes of carnage outside – trainers lying around pretending to have broken legs, blocked airways, bleeding organs. Trucks parked at unusual angles, planks piled up like sculptures: the set of a theatrical catastrophe. Whenever I supervised the trainees I remembered my first exam. It was uncanny how real it felt. I could almost smell the burning rubber of braked tyres, the smoke from a chemical fire. As I knelt down to check an airway my hand would shake; I would convince myself a life was ebbing away in front of my eyes. Once I was about to simulate a glucagon injection. The trainer, who was supposed to be unconscious, coughed. I was so surprised I dropped the syringe. The trainer was kind. I went to pick up the syringe and she moved her shoulder slightly, to make it look as though I was checking her vein. I don't think I'm quite so merciful.

I looked out the window to see if they were ready for the next group. I sometimes felt as though I was releasing the trainees into Dante's Inferno. Walking into their own version of hell – an incorrect diagnosis and this one would be destined for the swamp water, that one for the flaming tomb. The way trainees behave in a simulation is very similar to the way they will behave on the job. The exam was not only a test of their practical skills. It was a chance to be shown their weaknesses, to have their fears dragged to the surface. The waiting room was quiet: the silence of young people about to confront themselves.

‘Bugger, my thumbs have gone numb.'

We all turned. Paul was looking at his hands as if he'd just discovered them. My first impression was that he was all arms – gangly things that made him look like a plasticine man. ‘My thumbs sometimes go numb when I'm nervous.' He looked around at the other trainees as if they were lifelong comrades. ‘Does that happen to anyone else? No? Just me, then.'

He clenched his hands a few times, then started wringing them, shaking tension out of the room. Some of the trainees smiled. I'm not known for my improvisational skills but for once I had an idea.

‘Here, give this a go.' I had a hand strengthener in my pocket, a device I often carry to improve my rock-climbing grip. I handed it over.

‘Cheers – you're a life-saver.'

Paul worked the strengthener furiously for a few minutes. His name was called. He stopped at the door, grinned and gave us all a double thumbs-up. I burst out laughing. It was the first time I'd let my guard down with the trainees. I felt as though I'd transgressed.

The next day Paul would make a special visit to the station to give it back to me.

‘So, how were the thumbs?'

He rolled his eyes. ‘Mate, the thumbs were fine. My brain was the problem.'

As Paul walked to this first exam it was the end of my shift and another supervisor came to take over. I stayed, curious to see how this young man would perform. Paul was waiting while another trainer explained the scenario, his body poised. The trainer told him to go. Paul instantly summed up the scene. He was able to take in the big picture, to make a lightning assessment with the information available, to develop a split-second action plan. Many trainees go straight to stemming blood – Paul was one of the few who didn't hesitate to check the airway. I watched him triaging. He might look goofy in everyday life; at work he was elegant, moving from one procedure to the next with the grace of a dancer. But he had one major flaw.

He forgot to check his own safety.

I watched all his exams; it was always the same. He would rush ahead with his brilliant instincts, hurdling fences to make a short cut, creatively digging a tunnel to get an oxygen mask to a trapped patient. In doing so he would forget the oncoming truck, the balancing pipe, the dangling wire. As I got to know him I realised it was due to his optimism, his belief in a benign universe. He just couldn't accept that the truck might not stop, the pipe might fall, the wire might not have switched itself off. After the first exam the trainer put his hand on Paul's shoulder.

‘Your skills are undeniable,' the trainer said. ‘But you've just died five times. You've been electrocuted, burnt, decapitated, gassed and probably run over.' He shook his head. ‘Pauly, that's got to be some sort of record.'

I watched Paul hang his head, and thought of my own mistakes. Mine would always come from caution. I would never be killed for a flash of contextual genius – I would never risk protocol and my own neck to make a rash decision. We envy people their talents; I think that was the first time I realised we can also envy their faults.

I often think back to the first time I met Paul. I'm not sentimental – at least I don't think I am – but once I left that bloody hand strengthener at a camping ground and drove three hours non-stop there and back to retrieve it. I'm not overly talented at getting to know people – most of the time I'm surprised when people want to spend time with me. For once I made the overture, stepping outside my awkwardness to make contact. I suppose the reason I've kept the strengthener is self-congratulation. A reminder that I had the sense to recognise a great friend.

‘THIS WOMAN IN the street told me I'm a problem-solver,' Paul said. It was Paul's first day as a probationer. He had worked as a trainee at another station for a year and had now moved to the next level. I swear he jinxed me that day. It is common for me to receive at least one job a month where I come out feeling like a bit of an idiot. This time we received three in a row. Afterwards Paul would joke that I'd set the jobs up, manipulated the system to make his first day more enjoyable. If only I had that power.

Paul closed the ambulance door and did up his seatbelt. I thought I'd give him some practice driving around, let him familiarise himself with the Blue Mountains before the first job came in. I learned quickly that Paul loved to give a running commentary of his life. Documentaries he'd watched, jokes he'd been told, books he'd read. On this first day I was treated to his summary of an Agatha Christie murder mystery. Paul's favourite detective was Miss Marple, the elderly spinster. She would solve mysteries by comparing the murders to little problems in her village – the arsenic murderer reminded her of the grocer who stole the pickles; the axe murderer, of the housekeeper who raided the vicar's petty cash. One day I found Paul in the kitchen trying to cheer up a tired colleague who had her head resting in her arms. She was a nice girl but I could see she had reached a level of exhaustion that transcended politeness. She turned her head.

‘Paul, no more Miss Marple. Please. I just don't have the energy.'

We drove leisurely down a hill, trees lining the street like spectators watching us in a parade. Paul moved from Miss Marple to a conversation he had that morning. ‘So yeah, this woman was selling books and she stopped me to chat. I think she belonged to one of those religious groups. Anyway, I asked her a few questions and she said she could tell I was a problem-solver. It's funny how people can tell things just by looking at you, isn't it?'

‘Did she also say you have an open face?'

‘She did, actually!'

‘Did you buy the book?'

‘I did.' He turned the ambulance slowly around a corner, an old beast making its way back home.

‘Paul, she says that to everyone. It's her spiel. She tells everyone they're a problem-solver as a selling technique.'

‘Maybe.' We stopped at the lights. Paul was so absorbed in the conversation that he didn't notice the light had turned green. A man from behind honked and Paul gave him a friendly wave. ‘Or maybe she only stops the people who really are problem-solvers.'

‘Possibly.'

The first job came through on the radio. I asked Paul if he was ready. He nodded solemnly, turning on the siren. This first job was a possible cardiac arrest. I radioed for a back-up team. As we drove, all the normal things were going through my mind – starting to plan, preparing myself for Paul's nervousness. There was another voice talking away beneath. I always wanted to see the trainees do well, but I hadn't realised how badly I wanted Paul to do well on his first job. It was as if a mantra was going through my mind. Not a death. Please don't let his first job be a death.

We arrived. The front door was locked. I yelled out, and there was no answer. With a cardiac arrest there is no time to waste – seconds can make a difference. I told Paul I was going around the back, to see if I could find an open door.

‘And if not, do we ...'

‘Yep – break it down.'

I went round the back, quickly scanning for open windows. The back door was locked as well. I took a step back, preparing to kick it in. I thought Paul would wait for my instructions, not realising he'd take my silence as a go-ahead. I took a run up. As I kicked I heard Paul crashing through the front door. We both barrelled into the room and I had to jump over a cat that appeared at my feet. It was a good thing it was a large room, otherwise we might have sailed right past each other and out the opposite doors. A perfectly healthy-looking woman of about seventy was sitting on her lounge suite in the middle of the room.

‘Lordy,' she said.

We assessed the scene. The woman had called the ambulance complaining of chest pains, which we always have to treat as a potential cardiac arrest. It was more likely angina. She was hard of hearing; she probably hadn't heard me yelling out. I was about to apologise. Paul picked himself off, brushing off his trousers. ‘And that's just our warm-up routine!' he said.

We sat down to examine her. She had felt chest pains. Her son had, very sensibly, told her to always call an ambulance immediately if she had even the slightest pain in that area. I explained it was probably angina, but that we wanted to make sure. I also said it was a good idea for her to come with us to hospital for a thorough check-up.

‘Oh no, I don't want to cause any bother,' she said.

I cancelled the back-up team and asked Paul to take her medical history. I wanted to give him a chance to do it without prompting. The doors were a good excuse, so I told him I was going to check the damage. I heard him as I was leaving the room.

‘What's your name?'

‘Ellie.'

‘That's a lovely name. And are you taking any medication at the moment, Ellie?'

When I went outside the back-up team was there. They had dropped past on their way to the station in case we still needed a hand. Our colleague Jerry looked at my handiwork as he was leaving. ‘You moonlighting as a renovator, Daniel?' I waited for a decent interval, then returned. Ellie was sitting forward in her seat with an expression of great interest. Paul was settled comfortably back into the lounge suite, waving around a biscuit as he talked. ‘Yeah, and then someone suggested paramedic training and it was weird, because my mum had always said I was quite good in an emergency, so I thought -'

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?'

‘Oh, right!' Paul snapped forward to take the rest of Ellie's history. He told her again it would be a good idea to come with us, just to make sure her condition wasn't more serious.

‘No, I really couldn't. You boys must be very busy.'

I felt a familiar frustration, the presence of an old foe. So much of the job involves fighting fear – it is always fear that hides behind politeness, behind the cheerful ‘she'll be right' attitude. We couldn't force Ellie to come to hospital; I knew it would take a great deal of cajoling to convince her to change her mind, if we even could. I was about to bring out all my stale arguments, the feeble weapons of logic and rationality, when I saw Paul staring at a painting on Ellie's wall.

‘Is that a Bruegel print?'

‘It is! The Tower of Babel.'

‘Thought so.'