She Asked for the One with the Blue Eyes

It came in as a lift assist.

That’s one of those calls we almost don’t talk about. A person has fallen — usually older, usually unharmed — and needs help getting up. It’s the EMS equivalent of a courtesy call. No sirens. No adrenaline. No chart, if you can avoid it.

But you still go. Because sometimes it’s not what it sounds like.

That day, I went alone. That wasn’t unusual. Volunteers don’t exactly jump at the chance for a non-transport lift assist, and I didn’t blame them. It’s hard to explain to people outside of EMS, but there’s this strange divide between what we train for and what actually fills our days. Sometimes it’s CPR. Sometimes it’s helping someone find their glasses.

She was on the floor when I arrived. Her husband met me at the door — quiet, polite. Both were in their late seventies or early eighties. She hadn’t hit her head, hadn’t lost consciousness. She was alert, maybe a little slow to answer. He told me about the brain tumor. The chemo. It all tracked.

Two medics arrived shortly after I did. I knew them. I stepped outside and told them they were clear — no patient contact needed. They offered to help lift her anyway, but I said I had it. That’s a favor we do for each other. No chart means no paperwork. It’s one of the small mercies in this line of work.

There’s a method I use in situations like that. I have the patient sit up. I straddle over, squat low, and have them wrap their arms gently around my neck. It’s almost like a slow dance. Then I lift them straight up and pivot to wherever we’re going. In this case, the couch. She thanked me. They both signed the refusal. I left.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But over the next two months, I started getting pings on my phone — alerts from our dispatch app. Same address. Again and again.

I wasn’t around for those calls. Traveling, off shift, just not nearby. But each time, someone would message me after.

“She was asking for you.”

“She wanted the one with the blue eyes.”

The first time it was funny.

The second time it wasn’t.

The sixth time, I was walking out the door to take my kid to a birthday party when a new call came in. Same address, but the nature was different. Assault. Male victim. Elderly. I told dispatch I couldn’t transport, but I’d stop by.

When I arrived, one of the fire guys offered to keep an eye on my son. Inside, the husband was on the couch, holding a towel to a cut above his eye. State troopers were already there.

She was upstairs.

When I entered the room, one of the officers saw me and stepped aside. “Look who’s here,” he said, softly.

She looked up and started crying.

It was still during the pandemic. I had my mask on, gloves. She asked me to take them off.

I did.

I knelt by her bed, and she reached for my hand. Her skin was cold and paper-thin. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I prayed you’d come,” she said. “Every time. I prayed you’d come.”

Then she told me.

“He’s been hurting me.”

There are moments where your brain splits. One part listens and assesses: is she oriented? Can she consent? What protocols apply here? The other part just feels it. You never know which part will speak first.

She said he’d tried to force himself on her. She hit him with a phone. That’s how he got the cut.

I found a female officer and told her exactly what I’d heard. After that, everything moved quickly — social services, protective measures, the machinery of the system.

Back in the room, she still held my hand. She cried the whole way to the ambulance. I walked beside the stretcher. I told her she was safe now. That we’d take care of her.

I couldn’t ride with her. My son was still waiting outside. So I handed her off to the lieutenant and told her I’d check in soon. She nodded. She let go of my hand.

That was the last time we spoke.

A few weeks later, I was in another town when an alert came in. Same address. This time no one from our agency was available. Another crew was dispatched. The notes were vague. It sounded like she might have died.

I couldn’t get confirmation.

There’s this feeling in EMS that’s hard to describe — when you need to know what happened, but you’re not on the run sheet. You weren’t the crew. You’re not owed the follow-up.

That same hour, I got a message from my company. A business task. Something forgettable and routine.

I read it and felt nothing.

And in that moment, I knew I was done.

Not with medicine. Not with showing up. I was done with the version of my life that had kept me away from this.

She didn’t die that day. I got to see her one more time. But she wasn’t there anymore. She was in a bed, eyes closed, breathing slow and shallow. No recognition. No words.

But I held her hand again. I think she knew.

When she finally passed, her family invited us to the memorial. That almost never happens.

Usually, we’re ghosts. We show up for a moment — sometimes the worst moment — and then we vanish. We patch people up or try to save them, and then we’re gone. Most patients don’t even know our names. Most of us don’t ask for theirs.

But this was different.

Sometimes, when you do this work in a small place long enough, you’re not just an EMT. You’re the one they hope for. The one they remember. The one they pray will come.