Free Ambulance Girl by Jane Stern

boards. I transfer this precious memo from the class bulletin board to my notebook, then write it on the back of another piece of paper and on the napkin for the caffé latte that I have brought to class. In case I lose anything I have backups.
    As the class draws to its end the paramedics have become slightly more approachable. Frank’s paramedic partner from the hospital stops by the class one evening. His name is Billy Mapes and he tells us a short history of how there were once no EMTs. In 1968 the Department of Transportation signed the “white paper,” the original document that set out guidelines for what have since become the protocols and guidelines EMTs follow. It was also a way for the government to deal with the highly trained paramedics who were coming back from Vietnam with nothing to do with their skills. The 1970s were the birth of the modern EMT, the pioneer days, so to speak.
    Frank and Billy stand in front of the class. They look like two thick bricks in the military-style uniforms issued to them by Norwalk Hospital. I envy the big gold-rimmed patches on their shirts. EMT-P, the highest rank. I like their snub-nosed military-style boots and their pants with extra pockets for scissors and notepads.
    Billy goes to the back of the room, pours himself a cup of coffee, and sits as Frank finishes the lecture. “A—B— C,” Frank drones. He is talking about radio dispatching, and even he knows it is boring.
    “A—Accuracy: Know what you want to say before you say it.
    “B—Brevity.
    “C—Clarity: Don’t scream into the goddamned radio!” he screams at us.
    My head is filled with facts, facts I know and more facts I fear I don’t know. They float like jellyfish in and out of my mind, nebulous and hard to grasp. Some moments I remember how the heart pumps, other times I see it as a big lacy valentine and am unable to recall a single thing about all the tubing that a real beating heart has hanging from it. I have become single-minded. I have no time to think about anything but passing the exams.
    “If you pass my class, you will pass the national boards,” Frank tells us. I pass his class, the written and the practical exams, and it is still a month until the national boards. I have become a walking factoid machine, spewing forth information about things few other people care about. When I am at Tom Knox’s office I alternate between striking up bonhomie between two “medical professionals” and cringing at my lack of knowledge about the mysteries of the human body. I mispronounce words. I don’t quite grasp concepts. I am not a doctor, I am not a nurse, I am not even an EMT yet. But with my stethoscope sticking out of my pocket, throwing around the terminology, I feel pretty cocky. I have gone from knowing nothing to knowing something.
    Tom Knox shares medical school stories with me that I relish, about people passing out when they see their first cadaver, things like that, but I am afraid of the leap it is going to take to go from seeing gory slides in a classroom to seeing the real thing.
    Michael cuts his hand on a shard of glass while lowering a storm window at home. I hear him cursing. I walk to where he is and make myself look at the injury. I feel faint. “It’s different when people you know and love get hurt,” Frank has told the class. I can only hope so, because the sight of Michael standing in the kitchen with blood pouring down his wrist is a hideous sight.
    “I’ll call 911,” I say with some apprehension and some glee.
    Michael rejects the idea. “It’s not that bad,” he says. The dish towel he is holding is now red. I tell him to apply pressure, which he does, and to elevate it. I get some ice cubes, put them in a plastic bag, and hold it outside the towel. The blood seeps awhile longer and then finally clots. We peel back the wrapping and look at the wound. It is long and deep, right above the knuckle.
    “I really think you should go to the ER,” I tell Michael.