going climbing on Sunday, with a quick stop to the emergency room when he conveniently thought he dislocated his knee during our walk back to his truck after getting off the rock. But as the doctor he has his eyes on confirmed, he was fine and suffering from hypochondria. More like stupidity.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the whole thing. Scott’s a good guy, known him since we went through the pipeline together, and he’s as restless as I get. Always moving, looking for the next rush. And normally that applies to extreme sports because he loves a challenge, which is why he’s now a local skydiving instructor, but for some reason he’s decided this doctor is the next peak to conquer. Can’t really blame the guy, because he was right. She’s the full package, smart and gorgeous, but with her brown hair and eyes, all I could think about was Zoe.
I can’t believe I didn’t pinpoint the pregnancy earlier. The mood swings. The heightened sense of smell. Even her breasts are bigger. Not enough anyone would really notice, but I sure did, and she’s been a little tender lately as well.
I don’t know if it was denial, but I just…I know better than to miss details like that. Part of my training in Pararescue was medically focused: being able to identify injuries and knowing how to treat them in the field. Recognizing symptoms that whisper truths the ego would give anything to hide. The body tells you everything you need to know, it triages itself and it will scream the priorities if you know how to read the signs. The words coming out of the mouth of the person you’re working on, however, they do their best to send you in the other direction. Fear and panic, adrenaline and secrets, it’s a hell of a minefield to traverse.
After a while you start to get a feel for it, to see the sleight of hand for what it is. When they’re screaming about their ankle, but the bullet only grazed it and the real problem is the shard of metal in their bicep. But to get there, you have to lift their sleeve and it’s going to reveal the track marks they don’t want you to find. You ask questions about pain, and they lie. Eventually, you stop listening and you decide for yourself.
In all honesty, if I was more motivated to be the best version of myself, I should probably be an EMT. I’m certified and all that shit, and a lot of ex-Pararescue head that direction when they get out. Calm under pressure, physical requirements that don’t touch the limits of our trained capability. But instead of being benevolent with everything I have to offer, like rich people who donate half their wealth to charity, I’m hauling furniture.
I’ve seen enough broken bodies for a lifetime and I don’t really want to be giving CPR and blood transfusions anymore. I don’t do failure well, and you can’t always bring them back. It’s still hard though, seeing someone need help. So I give it when I can. I never took a Hippocratic oath or anything, but I’m not about to tell someone I’m useless when I’m not, and I won’t let them be hurt if I can make it better.
It makes hospitals tough places to be. Keeping quiet and practically sitting on my hands while we’re in the waiting room because of whatever new bone Scott broke. I know it’s hard for him too, because we sit and watch, debating back and forth what the stranger’s injury is and the right course of treatment. But yesterday when we went into the emergency room, the sign up front had an arrow pointing toward Labor and Delivery and I felt my chest lock.
It’s not even like I’ve been counting down the days to getting married and having kids. I’m the guy who saw that as forfeiting weekend climbing trips and the freedom to travel. But spending my entire life knowing the only person I could ever claim as family was myself…the idea of it is striking hard and deep.
Family.
Scott is my family, in a way. A brother. We’ve spilt blood together, carried each other—literally—faced
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the whole thing. Scott’s a good guy, known him since we went through the pipeline together, and he’s as restless as I get. Always moving, looking for the next rush. And normally that applies to extreme sports because he loves a challenge, which is why he’s now a local skydiving instructor, but for some reason he’s decided this doctor is the next peak to conquer. Can’t really blame the guy, because he was right. She’s the full package, smart and gorgeous, but with her brown hair and eyes, all I could think about was Zoe.
I can’t believe I didn’t pinpoint the pregnancy earlier. The mood swings. The heightened sense of smell. Even her breasts are bigger. Not enough anyone would really notice, but I sure did, and she’s been a little tender lately as well.
I don’t know if it was denial, but I just…I know better than to miss details like that. Part of my training in Pararescue was medically focused: being able to identify injuries and knowing how to treat them in the field. Recognizing symptoms that whisper truths the ego would give anything to hide. The body tells you everything you need to know, it triages itself and it will scream the priorities if you know how to read the signs. The words coming out of the mouth of the person you’re working on, however, they do their best to send you in the other direction. Fear and panic, adrenaline and secrets, it’s a hell of a minefield to traverse.
After a while you start to get a feel for it, to see the sleight of hand for what it is. When they’re screaming about their ankle, but the bullet only grazed it and the real problem is the shard of metal in their bicep. But to get there, you have to lift their sleeve and it’s going to reveal the track marks they don’t want you to find. You ask questions about pain, and they lie. Eventually, you stop listening and you decide for yourself.
In all honesty, if I was more motivated to be the best version of myself, I should probably be an EMT. I’m certified and all that shit, and a lot of ex-Pararescue head that direction when they get out. Calm under pressure, physical requirements that don’t touch the limits of our trained capability. But instead of being benevolent with everything I have to offer, like rich people who donate half their wealth to charity, I’m hauling furniture.
I’ve seen enough broken bodies for a lifetime and I don’t really want to be giving CPR and blood transfusions anymore. I don’t do failure well, and you can’t always bring them back. It’s still hard though, seeing someone need help. So I give it when I can. I never took a Hippocratic oath or anything, but I’m not about to tell someone I’m useless when I’m not, and I won’t let them be hurt if I can make it better.
It makes hospitals tough places to be. Keeping quiet and practically sitting on my hands while we’re in the waiting room because of whatever new bone Scott broke. I know it’s hard for him too, because we sit and watch, debating back and forth what the stranger’s injury is and the right course of treatment. But yesterday when we went into the emergency room, the sign up front had an arrow pointing toward Labor and Delivery and I felt my chest lock.
It’s not even like I’ve been counting down the days to getting married and having kids. I’m the guy who saw that as forfeiting weekend climbing trips and the freedom to travel. But spending my entire life knowing the only person I could ever claim as family was myself…the idea of it is striking hard and deep.
Family.
Scott is my family, in a way. A brother. We’ve spilt blood together, carried each other—literally—faced
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