The One and Only

They say everyone in frontline medical care has that one job. The one that sticks with them, sometimes forever.

Mine was an 11 year old, hit by a van while they were actually playing on a dual carriageway. The van driver had no chance of stopping or avoiding them. I often wonder how the driver fared afterwards. For a long time I was angry at the parent that allowed them to be there, but then I realised that they had lost much more than me. I drive past the location sometimes on the way to places, there are still flowers and other tributes tied to a lamp post near to the site.

I know for one colleague it was the 15 year old we cut down from a tree in their garden.

This is not about doom and gloom. It’s about the fact we are all human. No matter how tough the exterior image, we all have the sleepless nights where we wonder “could we have done more”. The answer is always no, but that doesn’t help.

“Stress” was a common ailment in my time. Only now is it being recognised as PTSD. Still the support is not there. Managers still tell you to call a helpline if you’re struggling, rather than recognising the fact that you are not coping and dealing with it themselves.

The title of this post, yes, it’s from the Chesney Hawkes song. It was the theme song of my group during my training. We knew what we were getting in to. Our instructors were veterans and held nothing back.

But still we all went into it. From the first death, the first CPR job – we toughened ourselves and went on to the next job. Most of the public didn’t care, they just wanted what they felt they were entitled to. We did our job, many still do. Not because of the glory, there is none, but because we made a difference. I always said for every hundred patients, if just one says “thank you” then the job was worth it.

It’s New Year and most of us will have made a toast at midnight on the 31st. Something positive and forward looking. I want to end this post with a toast a friend sent me. A friend who still serves with an ambulance service despite a severe period of diagnosed PTSD, after their one job:

“Here’s to getting out of bed when you don’t really want to. Here’s to going to work knowing no one really cares. To doing your bit. To making a difference, to getting by, helping them ambulance types that need it. To making yourself available to the ambulance types that haven’t realised yet that they need some help. Cheers!”

“But that only happens to soldiers!”

That’s actually what a friend said to me recently when I told them another friend, who is still with the Ambulance Service, had been signed off with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Until a few years ago, I’d have agreed with my friend, but now I know different.

It’s difficult to describe the emotional hardness you develop. When you walk into a drug den and see the addict, clearly dead, with the needle still in their arm. When you cut someone down from a tree. When you have to explain to someone that the last time they spoke to their partner was just that. I could go on, but there’s no need. The emotional hardness happens because the people you work with understand, and there’s an unconscious support there.

When I left the Ambulance Service that support ended overnight. I wasn’t aware at the time, but looking back I can see the signs and symptoms. My support mechanism ended overnight and I went through a form of PTSD. An ex-colleague and myself often chat about jobs we’d been called to, but sometimes…very often…that’s not enough. We recently lost another friend and fellow crew member that we both trained with, the job became too much and broke him. Now we have become acutely aware how huge the lack of support for ambulance crews all over the country is.

After a particularly nasty job, I was once given a phone number I could call, should I find I was struggling. For those who don’t know any ambulance crew members, they may appear kind and caring, and they are, but underneath they become a certain amount of tough and hard. It’s the only way they can survive. To call a number and talk to an anonymous person, who knows nothing about you, is beyond failure!

The purpose of this post is not to point the finger at the Ambulance service. It is to highlight the vulnerability of every person who works in an ambulance, and to highlight the need for a much greater system of support. I am fully aware that other services deal with the same situations, but perhaps someone else will write about it from their perspective.

Next time you see an ambulance go by with its lights flashing, spare a thought for the crew. Think about what might be going through their minds. When you go to sleep at night, think about the crew members, and what nightmares they might be having. If you know a crew member, show your support. Sometimes they look tough, but underneath they’re just normal people……….well, most of them are!

After I posted today’s blog, someone sent me this link. They only cover some parts of the country, but it’s a start: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/ambulance/mental-wellbeing-ambulance/

Another charity just released a single to help raise funds to provide assistance for emergency workers suffering PTSD. The charity is PTSD999, the band are Burn out and the song is (appropriately) a cover of the late David Bowie’s song Heroes. Download it from Amazon or iTunes for a meare 99p.