Read Online Ambulance Girl by Jane Stern - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Stern
Tags: Fiction
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conditions we will encounter in real life.” Sven will be placed in the stair chair and strapped in so his arms will not be free to reach out and grab the banister. I am to carry him down accompanied by one other member of the class.
With the stair chair you can be either at the head or the foot. To be at the foot means you have to walk backward down the stairs, in this case in a darkened stairwell. What Frank does not know about me is that I have no sense of balance. In my own home, with the lights on, in broad daylight, on a familiar staircase with broad carpeted stairs, I hold on to both the wall and banister when I descend. I have always had a phobic fear of falling. I am clumsy, I lurch about. Walking down stairs with no banister is impossible for me. Now I have to do it in the dark, holding up a giant Swede.
I opt to take the head so I can walk forward. I station myself behind Sven, who is strapped to the chair. Normally jolly, he now looks grim. He thinks I will drop him and he will tumble in the stair chair three flights down. “Don’t worry,” I lie. “I’m really strong.”
Nobody, me included, wants to acknowledge that perhaps I should be trying to lift someone lighter. I refuse to whine. I bend my knees, place both hands on the hand grips of the chair. “On my count of three,” I say to my partner, who has taken the foot end of the chair. “Three!” I yell, and with all my might lift this immense person high enough into the air to clear the steps. I walk down five steps. I start to wobble.
“Don’t touch the railing,” Frank yells at me. “Keep both hands on the chair or you will drop him.”
I feel faint, I am falling, I can’t breathe. “I have to stop,” I yell, and Sven is put back down on the steps. I try to catch my breath.
Frank suggests that I take the foot part of the chair. I hate this even more, although he tells me it is a little lighter to carry the foot of the chair. It means I have to walk backward down the stairs. I am scared. Frank comes behind me and grabs the waist of my jeans to help guide me down. I am too polite to tell him he also has my undies and that he is giving me a major wedgie. He is going to steady me as I walk down the stairs; he will tell me when to step off.
“Lift” he says, and I bend over, my underpants tight in the crack of my ass. “Step,” Frank says. I do not move. Sven feels even heavier holding him this way.
“Step!”
Frank yells at me. “Don’t let him just hang in the air.” Frank is pulling me down the darkened stairs by my underpants. Sven is swaying left and right. He knows he is going to be dropped. He frees a long arm out from the restraining straps and grabs the banister. I drop my end of the chair. Frank is still holding on to my pants. I hear a rip. Sven crashes down, groaning as he hits the concrete stairs. The four guys in my group all look away, embarrassed. “FAIL!” Frank yells. “Stern, see me after class.”
I am bathed in sweat. My heart pounds, I can’t breathe. I run past the guys on the stairs and look for a safe place to collapse. There is a couch in the darkened TV room where the firemen are congregated. I fall on the couch and they pretend not to notice me. I pull at my underpants; I try to breathe; I can’t stop sweating. I start to cry. I think I am having a heart attack. What a way to go, surrounded by EMTs. I have crawled away into a dark corner like a dog to die. I can’t call 911 because they are already here. I have failed, so why would they save me? Slowly I start to come around. I stagger to my feet and sneak out the side door and drive home. When I get there Michael is asleep. I don’t wake him up. I stay up until 3 A.M. taking my pulse and blood pressure repeatedly. I press my carotid artery hard just as Frank warned me not to do.
That is it, it is all over. FAIL! The word rings in my ears. Move over and make room for the young and the strong, for women with six-pack abs, for giant Nordic gods
With the stair chair you can be either at the head or the foot. To be at the foot means you have to walk backward down the stairs, in this case in a darkened stairwell. What Frank does not know about me is that I have no sense of balance. In my own home, with the lights on, in broad daylight, on a familiar staircase with broad carpeted stairs, I hold on to both the wall and banister when I descend. I have always had a phobic fear of falling. I am clumsy, I lurch about. Walking down stairs with no banister is impossible for me. Now I have to do it in the dark, holding up a giant Swede.
I opt to take the head so I can walk forward. I station myself behind Sven, who is strapped to the chair. Normally jolly, he now looks grim. He thinks I will drop him and he will tumble in the stair chair three flights down. “Don’t worry,” I lie. “I’m really strong.”
Nobody, me included, wants to acknowledge that perhaps I should be trying to lift someone lighter. I refuse to whine. I bend my knees, place both hands on the hand grips of the chair. “On my count of three,” I say to my partner, who has taken the foot end of the chair. “Three!” I yell, and with all my might lift this immense person high enough into the air to clear the steps. I walk down five steps. I start to wobble.
“Don’t touch the railing,” Frank yells at me. “Keep both hands on the chair or you will drop him.”
I feel faint, I am falling, I can’t breathe. “I have to stop,” I yell, and Sven is put back down on the steps. I try to catch my breath.
Frank suggests that I take the foot part of the chair. I hate this even more, although he tells me it is a little lighter to carry the foot of the chair. It means I have to walk backward down the stairs. I am scared. Frank comes behind me and grabs the waist of my jeans to help guide me down. I am too polite to tell him he also has my undies and that he is giving me a major wedgie. He is going to steady me as I walk down the stairs; he will tell me when to step off.
“Lift” he says, and I bend over, my underpants tight in the crack of my ass. “Step,” Frank says. I do not move. Sven feels even heavier holding him this way.
“Step!”
Frank yells at me. “Don’t let him just hang in the air.” Frank is pulling me down the darkened stairs by my underpants. Sven is swaying left and right. He knows he is going to be dropped. He frees a long arm out from the restraining straps and grabs the banister. I drop my end of the chair. Frank is still holding on to my pants. I hear a rip. Sven crashes down, groaning as he hits the concrete stairs. The four guys in my group all look away, embarrassed. “FAIL!” Frank yells. “Stern, see me after class.”
I am bathed in sweat. My heart pounds, I can’t breathe. I run past the guys on the stairs and look for a safe place to collapse. There is a couch in the darkened TV room where the firemen are congregated. I fall on the couch and they pretend not to notice me. I pull at my underpants; I try to breathe; I can’t stop sweating. I start to cry. I think I am having a heart attack. What a way to go, surrounded by EMTs. I have crawled away into a dark corner like a dog to die. I can’t call 911 because they are already here. I have failed, so why would they save me? Slowly I start to come around. I stagger to my feet and sneak out the side door and drive home. When I get there Michael is asleep. I don’t wake him up. I stay up until 3 A.M. taking my pulse and blood pressure repeatedly. I press my carotid artery hard just as Frank warned me not to do.
That is it, it is all over. FAIL! The word rings in my ears. Move over and make room for the young and the strong, for women with six-pack abs, for giant Nordic gods
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