Imagine the dreamlike tones of a social media influencer: “GRWM to be paid $0 an hour to go to the worst parts of your city, and get yelled at by strangers for trying to help.”
Photo courtesy of Mary Powell (Bagpipe) ‘25
I wake up in the morning, feeling the opposite of “like P Diddy” and stock my Walmart cargo pants with my tools of the trade—trauma shears, gloves I didn’t use from the shift before, notepad, pens by the millions, and, most importantly, my Stinkbalm.
I then make the miserable and dark drive to the station, where my equally sleepy partner and I make sure everything is working and stocked on the unit, because “on scene” is not the place to find out your lifepak batteries are dead.
We enjoy a few moments of silence before marking available, and if we’re lucky, we enjoy a morning of quiet—which you couldn’t point out on shift because everyone is too superstitious. This could involve a meetup of the other people on duty at some local breakfast spot. As a rule, your first call will come as you see your crepes turning the kitchen counter. You wish them a soulful goodbye and leave.
First calls are always the wonkiest. It’s always punched out as something chill—then you get there to find something wild, like a drunk driver at 6:30 in the morning, or a Hooters break in—what??
After we drop our first patient off at the hospital, things are still chill. You eat a sad bagel out of the EMS room that someone donated in the prehistoric era and drink tiny diet cokes out of the nurses’ fridge trying not to think about the minimum of 11 hours left on your shift.
The day passes in a blur from there, because in a city of over 450,000 people and only eight-ish ambulances working, there is too much to do.
There is some random and cool stuff to see—like prison, or random warehouses (I actually don’t know if I’ve NOT been to any warehouses in town after working EMS). You also get a delightful exposé on the nursing home scene in town—hint hint, it's not good.
If you’re lucky again, you get to take a break for lunch—yippee!! With no question, it must be Chick-fil-a. Since supervisors give you a smooth five minutes for lunch, you will get a call right as the food comes out, but this time, the Walmart cargo pants are going to come in clutch! A chicken sandwich fits perfectly in those side pockets and will stay nice and warm until you make it back to the hospital post call. You could try to eat in the ambulance, but if you’re in the back for whatever reason, it's not a good call. After my first unit enters the back doors, I try to focus on one thing at a time.
Your shift cannot well and truly be done unless you've had to call APS/CPS (Adult/Child protective services). Chances are, they won’t do anything about the horror you saw, but at least you tried—Com Dev and Sociology majors please please please fix America.
Feeling like you’ve had at least a year knocked off your lifespan, you drive home listening to Colin Firth sing “Our Last Summer” on loop, and call it a day. In the words of Hilary Duff: “Welp, that's my life! Thank you so much for spending time with me. I hope you enjoyed it, ‘cause I know I did.”