The Things You Didn't See(8)
The paramedic introduces himself as Jon, then asks what your name is.
Dad whispers, ‘Maya. My Maya.’
They move quickly towards me at the foot of the stairs, and Jon smoothly positions himself just where I’m kneeling, taking over. ‘Cassandra, is it? You can stop now: we have her.’ I lean back, suddenly in the way.
You lie, limp and pale, your hair shrouding you like a black veil dipped in blood. Bruises are appearing on your neck, red as garnets. Your nightdress has ridden up, so you’re exposed, but no one seems to notice.
‘Hello, Maya, my name’s Jon and this is Hilary. Can you hear me, love?’
The paramedics work together in a tightly choreographed dance. They snap on purple plastic gloves, then she unzips a blue kitbag, folds it out to reveal syringes, tubes, medical objects.
Jon puts on a pair of clear safety glasses before checking your mouth and nose.
I wince as a metal object is slid into your mouth.
‘Okay, I can see the cords. Airway compromised, blood occluding,’ he says to Hilary, withdrawing the metal tool. ‘Unknown damage to neck and lower jaw, possible fracture at base of skull. I’m going to have to intubate to protect the airway. Get me a size eight.’
Hilary moves swiftly to the bag and brings forth a pump-driven machine. ‘Here’s the suction.’
Jon slips a tube into your mouth, looking all the time at the position. With a balloon-like object at the other end of the tube, he pushes air into you, counting to ten, stopping to check his watch, counting again. Hilary connects you to an octopus-like machine with many tentacles. At the end of each is something different: a peg to place on your finger, a cuff for your arm, several sticky dots for your chest. I’m watching a horror film, disconnected from me but still terrifying. I want to turn it off, but can’t.
Another paramedic arrives. She’s pretty, with caramel skin and the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, I assume she’s mixed-race. Something about her feels familiar. She looks at me, wide-eyed as if she’s seen a ghost, then kneels beside Jon and looks away.
‘Okay, good, airways clear and she’s breathing,’ says Jon. ‘Circulation, Holly?’
She checks the machine, though I can tell she’s still aware of me. ‘Pulse is weak, low BP. Saturation is only seventy-five per cent.’ Speaks the foreign language of medicine in which they’re fluent.
‘Take over the bagging, Holly. I’m going to cannulate for fluids.’
A needle is inserted in the crook of your arm and I shudder on your behalf.
Jon unravels the clear tube from the needle then shows her a bag of fluid. ‘I’m going to put up a 500-millilitre bag of sodium chloride, 0.9 per cent, expiry 2020.’
Hilary lifts her head from checking the machine, glances at the label. ‘Yes, confirmed.’
The work continues, but I see how the third paramedic leans forward, pulling gently at your nightdress so it covers you again. Giving you back your dignity. I am more grateful for this than for any of the life-saving tricks that have saved you.
Jon checks his watch. ‘Okay, we’re six minutes in and she’s stable enough to travel. Let’s scoop and run. Make sure the hospital knows we’re coming and they’re ready for us in Resus. Holly, you can meet us back at base.’
My thoughts slide into the fog.
I sit on the stairs, my body heavy and aching. There’s a lull, a calm in the activity as the fluid enters you and Jon looks up, to where I’m perched. I feel him notice me and look down, see my stained blouse and realise it’s obvious I’m not wearing a bra. I cross my arms over my chest, lower my head and feel the damp tips of my hair on my throat. When did it get so bloody?
‘You’ve done well. I heard you had to resuscitate her. Relax now. We can take over from here.’
‘I’m going with her to hospital,’ says Dad aggressively, as if a right is being denied.
A stretcher is brought in, and it takes forever to move you. I notice the third paramedic is talking to you, almost lovingly, the whole time.
I wish someone would talk to me like that. I’m feeling absent. I have to slide my hands between my thighs to stop my body shaking.
Dad says you shot yourself, but that makes no sense to me. I want you to talk to me, tell me what really happened, but you can’t speak, have barely moved. All I can do is watch helplessly as they open the stretcher into two halves and slide each side under you, scooping you up. Then the two who came first begin to carry you out.
The third paramedic comes forward. ‘Cassandra?’ She hesitates, then tells me, ‘We’re getting ready to take your mum to hospital, and your dad will be travelling in the ambulance with her. She’s in good hands, and the hospital are waiting to take care of her. Is there anything we can do for you?’
I shake my head. All I want is for someone to tell me what happened, since I can’t believe you shot yourself, and she can’t tell me that.
Down the hallway, near the backstairs, Jon continues his loud monologue: ‘Okay, Maya, we’re just taking you out of the house now to the ambulance.’
His voice comes closer as he and Hilary carry the stretcher through the hallway, past the door to the front room, and I see the breathing tube and line into your arm being held over your bloodless face by the third paramedic. Strands of dark hair spill over the side of the stretcher, long and fragile like silk, and I want to reach and gather it up, in case it gets caught and hurts you. As if she can read my thoughts, the paramedic reaches forward and lifts your hair back in place.