Paul’s first day - Page 2

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

Written by Georgina Luck

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I gave Paul a questioning look behind Ellie's back. He ignored me. ‘You know, there's a print at the hospital and I've never been able to work out if it's a Bruegel. I keep meaning to check it out but I'm always too busy. Tell you what – if you come to the hospital, you can tell me if it's a Bruegel or not.'

Ellie paused. I could see Paul's smile was hard to resist. ‘All right. But I promise I won't take up too much of your time.'

We got our woman to the hospital and handed her over to the nurse. ‘This is Ellie,' Paul said, preparing to give her history.

Ellie smiled up at the nurse. ‘And this is Paul. He has such interesting stories.'

The nurse put Ellie in a wheelchair and we walked with her to the triage room, past the painting. Ellie asked the nurse to stop for a moment. She studied the painting. She turned to look at Paul over the top of her glasses. ‘Young man, that looks absolutely nothing like a Bruegel. It's not even the same century. It's a Vermeer.'

Paul grinned. ‘Well, I'm not much of an art critic then, am I?'

She laughed and the nurse took her away. We walked back down the corridor. I stopped for a look. ‘I didn't know you were into art.'

‘I'm not. There was a big book on her coffee table about Bruegel. Lucky guess.'

‘Bit unorthodox, wouldn't you say?'

‘We got her to the hospital, didn't we?'

‘Fair enough.'

The next job came in. This time it was to an infant who'd had a fall. It didn't sound serious but with children there is always a scary prospect. Not a kid with a spine injury. Don't let his first day have a kid with a spine injury.

We arrived and could instantly see the fall wasn't serious. The child was active and alert. We prepared to take the child to the hospital for a check-up. The mother insisted on a neck brace. I refused. The child definitely didn't need a neck brace and I was worried the act might cause more damage. I knew from experience that it was almost impossible to get a neck brace on a distraught two-year-old without first giving medication – we might as well try to lasso a wild horse. The mother was adamant. I prepared for a fight. As I started my spiel Paul went out to the ambulance; he came back with three adult neck braces, two children's neck braces and a teddy bear, which we use to comfort children during their journey.

‘Daniel, could I try something?' It was exactly the right thing to say, deferring to my authority so I wouldn't lose face in front of a patient.

‘Sure.'

He knelt in front of the girl, scratching his head. ‘I've got a little problem and I was wondering if you could help. Teddy's hurt his neck. We need to put a bracelet around his neck, but he's frightened. You can see that Teddy looks frightened, can't you?'

The girl nodded, her eyes wide, instantly forgetting her own fear. The mother moved forward, worried the girl might be hurting her neck by nodding. I held out my hand, signalling for her to wait.

‘I thought that if we all put on bracelets, then Teddy might not be scared anymore. Do you think that might help?'

The girl nodded again.

‘Would you like to hold Teddy while I put on your bracelet, to show him how to be brave?'

Paul handed the teddy over and the girl held it tenderly, unconsciously imitating her own mother. ‘Don't be scared, Teddy. You'll be fine.'

While the girl was comforting Teddy, Paul gently slipped on the child's brace. I could see a flicker of panic come into her eyes as she felt the material around her neck. Paul quickly picked up the next one. ‘Will you help me put this on Teddy?'

‘And Mummy and the nice men will put them on, too,' the girl's mother said. So we rigged up a bloody neck-brace production line until we were all secure. I wanted to take off the brace once the girl was in the ambulance, but the mother wouldn't hear of it. We arrived and started transporting the girl in a stretcher, still wearing the braces. Jerry passed on his way to another job, raising his eyebrows. ‘Must have been one hell of an accident, boys,' he said.

We got the girl safely inside. The nurse was one of my favourites, with a knack for calming down families. We left with the mother looking relieved. I gave Paul a light pat on the back. ‘Good work.' We walked back down the corridor. ‘Oh, and Paul?'

‘What?'

‘You can take off your brace now.'

The third job came in. By now I was starting to feel as though we'd stepped into some sort of folktale, that the next front door we walked through might transport us into another world altogether. From what I could make out from the radio message, someone had been injured at the local poetry reading. It was a notorious event – a monthly session at the pub that always seemed to involve more drinking than poetry. It sounded as though one of the poets had been hit on the head by a sharp object. I suppressed a sigh as I closed the passenger door. Not a poet with a head injury. Spare us both a poet with a head injury.

The reading was over by the time we arrived. A few people were still having heated discussions at the bar. The stage was empty save for the injured poet and his friend. They had reached the morose phase of drunkenness. The friend gave us a brief rundown. The poet had been reading on the stage, punctuating some of the lines with vigorous gestures. He jumped heavily on the stage, dislodging a print in a heavy frame. The print hit him on the head. His friend explained that it was a copy of an engraving by the mystic poet William Blake. ‘Who says art isn't dangerous?' he muttered to Paul.

We examined the poet. He was huge – over six feet, built like a wrestler. I felt as though I was in a recurring nightmare. Once again it didn't seem serious; once again we wanted to take him to hospital for observation. He refused to budge. ‘I'm walking forward into my own death,' he said.

I suspected he had a mild concussion and shock. When people are in that state they often fixate on one idea. I handballed to Paul.

‘Come on, mate – let's just get you down to the hospital.'

The poet shook his head. ‘I'm walking forward into my own death.'

‘Looks to me like you're just sitting in your own injury at the moment. Come on – let's get you down to the hospital and get you checked out.'

Again the poet shook his head. ‘I'm walking forward into my own death.'

The repeated phrase suggested he might have serious concussion. I was also worried that the combination of drunkenness and shock might make him turn nasty. I was fairly confident Paul and I could handle him, but I didn't want to find out. I kneeled beside the friend. His eyes were closed. I shook his shoulder and asked him if he knew what the poet was talking about.

‘He thinks he was cursed by William Blake when the painting fell on him. He thinks his immediate future has been foretold. He thinks that if he moves one inch he'll be...'

‘Dead. Right.' I looked across at Paul. ‘Any ideas?'

Paul thought for a minute. ‘I've got it!' He clicked his fingers, a strategy to get the poet's attention. ‘We'll reverse the curse. You can walk backwards.'

The poet looked at him with suspicion. ‘What?'

‘Well...if you walk forwards you'll be walking into your death. If you sit here you're in limbo. But if you walk backwards you'll be travelling into your past and you'll cancel everything out. You can walk backwards to the ambulance, sit backwards when we're driving and walk backwards to the hospital. You'll reverse the curse.'

‘Reverse the curse?'

Paul nodded. ‘Reverse the curse.'

Paul could see he found the little rhyme soothing. The poet thought for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sounds logical.'

Halle-bloody-lujah. We got on either side, helping him to his feet. The belligerence I'd worried about erupted. He pushed us away and started roaring. ‘Who are these people?'

His friend, still on the floor, opened one bleary eye. ‘They're physical manifestations of your psyche. The one on the left is your id and the one on your right is your superego. You just have to integrate them into your ego and you'll be fine.'

‘Oh, cool.' His relaxed, letting us take hold of his arms. Well done, friend.

Paul and and I looked at each other. We both appreciated the fragility of the poet's calmness. Without speaking the three of us walked backwards to the ambulance, Paul craning his neck to keep watch. Paul sat with him, the two of them facing backwards. This time when we passed Jerry on our way into the hospital, he just shook his head. ‘I'm not even going to ask this time.'

It was my favourite nurse again. Paul briefly explained the situation.

‘He thinks he's been cursed by who?'

‘William Blake.'

The nurse shook her head sympathetically at her patient. ‘Oh rose, thou art sick!'

The poet nodded vigorously. ‘That's it, that's it!'

‘The invisible worm / That flies in the night...Has found out thy bed / Of secret joy. Thanks, guys.' The nurse smiled at Paul and pushed the poet backwards down the corridor, quoting Blake all the way to the triage room.

I grabbed Paul, pushing him into the kitchen so he wouldn't hang around to ask the nurse out. I wasn't in the mood for romance.

The rest of the shift passed without incident, the two of us driving around the mountains with Paul happily musing on the day's events. Our shift ended and we took the ambulance back to the station.

‘So – how did you find your first day?'

Paul nodded. ‘Pretty good. And who knows – tomorrow I might actually get to treat an injury!'

‘You did well, though.' We checked the equipment in the ambulance, a simple housekeeping duty that aided the transition back to the everyday world. ‘Looks like you really are a problem-solver. Miss Marple would have been proud.'

For the next few months Paul slowly built his reputation as a skilled probationer. One day I had swapped a shift and Paul partnered up with Jerry. Paul had a death that day. A young girl who drowned in the family's swimming pool. I have never quite forgiven myself for not being with Paul at that job. Paul's work was exemplary and Jerry wasn't shy about telling everyone how well he had performed. Paul had seen death before in his role as a trainee but never a patient so young, never one he treated directly. I could imagine the horrible journey back to the hospital – Paul working furiously, even though they both knew the girl was gone.

My shift started soon before Paul's ended. I was at the hospital just as Paul came back from the job.

I saw him walking back from the triage room. I was going to ask if he wanted to come over to dinner. His head was down; he didn't see me. He suddenly stopped near the window, looking over his shoulder. I moved quickly into an alcove.

In that part of the corridor there is an optical illusion. You only notice it when your head is held a certain way, when your body has a certain posture. Light reflects off something outside – a tree perhaps, or part of the building – to make it look as though a form is behind your left shoulder.

When Paul turned I knew what he was thinking. It was something every paramedic in the station has thought, an unspoken initiation as inevitable as the first mistake, the first success. I knew Paul would probably take some time off, go bush for a few days. He would turn up on Monday, noticing a colleague's new haircut, teasing the cleaner about his defeated football team. For now, I knew why he couldn't look at anybody as he walked out.