A Shattered Moment (Fractured Lives 1)

“Keep your panties on, Nancy. It’ll only take me a few minutes to change.”

“You’ve got ten.”

“Relax. You nag more than my mom.”

“That’s what she told me last night.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t understand what your mom was saying ’cause she was too busy swallowing,” he returned, grabbing his crotch.

“Want me to show you the mark on the wall from your mom’s head banging against it?”

“Is that the same mark where your mom—”

“Shut up!” Chad yelled from the living room. “You fuckers are sick. Go to work already.”

Thirteen-and-a-half minutes later, we headed out the door.

We made it to work with ten minutes to spare, and I was immediately called out. Michael and I rarely went out on calls together since we were both EMTs and were usually paired with a paramedic.

Living in Florida, we got the majority of our calls from retirement facilities. When I decided I wanted to be a paramedic, it was for one reason. I wanted to save lives. I was eight when Dad had clutched his chest one evening, complaining of pains. By the time the ambulance arrived at our house with lights flashing, he had stopped breathing. The entire time the paramedics worked over his body, I was convinced he was going to die. They administrated CPR and were able to get him breathing again before transporting him immediately to the hospital, where he underwent triple bypass surgery.

Those rescuers became my heroes when he pulled through. I knew one day I would do the same thing. I wanted to save people, too, and be the difference in some kid’s life.

What I had never considered were the instances where I would be unable to make a difference. Sometimes there were circumstances beyond our control—unexpected injuries or internal damage that was just too severe. In my naïve idea of the job, losing people was not something I had banked on. I guess I’d always assumed I’d be a superhero without the cool outfit.

Our first call of the day was to an elderly couple’s house. The husband greeted us in the driveway, waving his frail hands.

“It’s my wife,” he said as we climbed from the ambulance. “She lost her balance stepping down off the stepstool and broke her ankle. I tried to help carry her to the car, but I just couldn’t . . .” His voice trailed off.

Steve, the paramedic on call with me, patted him on the back reassuringly. “Don’t worry, sir. That’s why we’re here. You wouldn’t want to put us out of a job, right?” he asked, guiding the elderly gentleman back into the house. “What’s your name?”

“Edmund Mazur.”

“Polish?” Steve asked conversationally as we made our way through the door.

“Yes. My father and mother came to the United States when I was a wee tike. Young folks nowadays don’t put much stock into where they come from.”

“Well, sir, my mother would have my head if I did that. Her surname was Wozniak.”

“Ah, a strong Polish name,” Mr. Mazur said, sounding less distressed.

Steve was good at his job. He knew having an upset spouse on our hands would only make the situation more difficult. Mr. Mazur’s body language and his statements when we arrived indicated he was upset that he was unable to help his wife. He was a proud man. We’d seen this time and time again—husbands who’d spent years taking care of their families until, eventually, age got the better of them and their bodies simply couldn’t do what their minds still believed possible, like in this case.

We found Mrs. Mazur on the kitchen floor next to a stepstool that was lying on its side. Mr. Mazur had obviously tried to make his wife as comfortable as possible. She had a pillow tucked under her head and a blanket similar to what my grams would crochet draped over her. Judging by the look on her face, she was in pain.

Steve and I made quick work of assessing her. While I was taking her vitals and asking questions to see how coherent she was, Steve checked her ankle and prepped her for transport. Before long, we had her loaded up on the stretcher and into the ambulance. After several handshakes and much appreciation from Mr. and Mrs. Mazur, we left them at the hospital in the hands of the capable ER staff. That was my favorite part of the job. We weren’t superheroes like in the comic books, but in Mr. Mazur’s eyes, we had saved the day. It was a heady experience and made me feel invincible. I loved my job.

“I need some serious grub. You want to grab something to eat before we get called out again?” Steve asked as we both climbed into the ambulance. “I’m so hungry I could eat my own hand.”

“As long as it’s not Mexican food. I thought I was going to die from gas asphyxiation last week after you ate at that one taco truck.”

“No doubt. That shit tore me up. I’m steering clear of all beans for a while. It put a serious dent in my social agenda with the wife.”

“I told you not to eat a double deluxe burrito when you had a date that night. That’s like rule number one in the marriage guidebook.” My sentiments were interrupted by an incoming call coming on the radio. “Looks like you’ll have to gnaw on your hand for a while,” I said as Steve hit the sirens. “Domestic abuse, too. Wonderful.”

I hated going out on these calls, especially when there were children involved. We got sketchy details from the dispatcher that a Caucasian male in his mid-thirties had been using his wife as a punching bag and she was barely breathing. A neighbor hysterically called it in. Steve and I exchanged looks as he weaved in and out of traffic.

The house was located in one of the older, less desirable parts of the city. The flashing lights from several police cars illuminated a yard that looked like a trash heap. A broken-down car and moldy couch pretty much took up the entire driveway. The small patch of grass that hadn’t been dug up by the large barking dog chained to a nearby tree was dead and littered with empty beer cans and various other items.