I have begun this project where I write down what happened on those special calls. So far I have only made it through 4. Feelings are had. I stop writing and cry. Then more feelings are had. Then more crying. Then I have to consider how I never was an emotionally-impervious cold-hearted paramedic who could see his fellow man suffer and feel nothing, only caring when it was expected and accepted. Mask gone. It all seems to become so normal, everyday, pedestrian. Another suicide, another overdose, another shithead street drunk, another obvious death, another cancer patient, another car accident, another house fire, another heart attack, another psychiatric crisis, another stabbing/shooting/assault.

There’s this point at which you get tired of the stories only to realize that they’re not tired of you, that you’re an alcoholic, your fucking crazy thoughts aren’t your own, you’re crying all the time in secrecy and now you’re standing in a motel hugging a suicidal alcoholic firefighter with your future written all over him. You have a family too. Maybe it’s not too late. It eats away at you. Now the only solution seems to be the cardinal sin of asking for help, which means feeling weak and telling all the damned stories you tried so hard to forget. You’re a human being just like he is. Just like the rest of them.