The sudden yelp of the ambulance siren jolted me from my slick “you got this” veneer as I advanced onto work property with my OT. It was probably intended to alert someone to open the gate but that’s not why I have made that noise in the past. That was not the first thing I thought of. Did I do enough? Did I do right? Is it really not my fault the lady we now know had a blood clot is dead in the back of the ambulance while I make that noise in a terrified attempt to reverse that?

Breathe.

No, “is” is now “was”. Breathe. I did the best with the situation we had. Breathe. She was in a room the stretcher couldn’t reach. Breathe. She was a truly nice lady and I’m the piece of shit paramedic who killed her. No, breathe. Not true. That outcome was inevitable no matter who showed up or what they did to try to extricate her. Breathe. I’m not responsible for what led up to her daughter calling 911. Breathe. I’m not a piece of shit, I’m just the paramedic who got the call. Breathe. I’m not in an ambulance trying to drive faster than time, I’m just standing in the parking lot of my headquarters while ambulances come and go for maintenance and repairs and folks pick up supplies. Breathe.

Breathe.

I almost cried. Again. I’m afraid to in public. Especially there. My fear of showing weakness and incapability around a culture that reveres its strength and perseverence is still heavily ingrained. Is anyone really the epitome though? I was all clammy and bothered when I got home. That shift may as well have happened all over again with how I feel right now. Some Gravdal, Evilfeast and Ymir in the headphones helped. Today is about the victory of coping not the defeat of being triggered. Fuck you PTSD.