It was my birthday and so I decided to kill myself one more time. Maybe this time I’d get lucky.
I visited Jenny’s grave first. I knelt and brushed away the leaves and dead grass that had accumulated around the base of the stone and traced the carved outline of her name with my fingertip. She’d been one of the last to die, really die, before the Cure, nine years ago on this same day. God, I missed her. (more…)
(Originally published on ThatWhichIsHuman.com)
The trauma pager, an old fashioned alpha-numeric beeper, sounds off.
‘6 minutes, Red, MVA rollover. Trauma Code’ read the black letters on its tiny green screen.
Five minutes later, the EMT team rushes in with the gurney, one of them performing vigorous one-handed chest compressions as he pushes his side of the wheeled bed. The other squeezes a ventilation bag attached to an endotracheal tube. The tube is stuck in a bloody mass of tissue and hair that is barely recognizable as a young woman’s face.