For now, writing about my life in EMS is difficult, not because I don't have stories to tell, but because my muse seems to be lacking. It's a strange concept. In order for me to write about tea , in one form or another and how it interacts in the life of a paramedic, maybe I need to be drinking the horrible stuff that awaits crews at fewer and fewer hospitals.
In order for me to write about elderly patients, either the amusing or the heartbreaking , perhaps I need to be meeting them regularly, treating them, either their illness or their loneliness.
For me to write about victims or witnesses of street-side carnage, the real or the perceived, perhaps I need to have a board and collar within easy reach, even if I choose not to use them.
Violence is real, too real. Never-ending. Tragic and often inexplicable.
Yet, I just can't seem to get to writing about them. I need that spark back in my life, the inspiration to put pen to paper, or fingers on keys if you prefer. Hopefully, that spark is heading back my way.
Yesterday, I had a phone call.
"What size are you? We're trying to sort out your uniform."