The Night That Never Ended
Some EMS shifts end when you clock out. Some haunt you for days. But a shift like this one? It changes you. This city has a way of doing that.
I’ve worked in quiet rural systems where a whole week might pass without a single call. I’ve worked in busy suburban setups where ten calls in a day feels like chaos. But this city? This city is relentless. Fifteen calls in twelve hours is average. Eighteen means you’re running at a breakneck speed, never catching up, never coming up for air. And each call demands every ounce of your attention, your focus, your humanity — whether you’ve got any left or not.
You start the shift like always — checking the rig, restocking supplies, making small talk with the other crews. You try to center yourself, get your head right, but this city never waits for that. The first call hits before you’ve even settled in. Gunshot wound.
The Man Who Spoke French
We roll up to the scene, and the noise hits me first — sharp, desperate, and in French. French isn’t common here. Spanish, sure. But French? I’m the only one who speaks it. I push through the gathering crowd and find him lying on the cracked pavement, middle-aged, hands gripping his thighs, trying to hold himself together. Blood is seeping between his fingers. One bullet, four holes — through one thigh, out the other side, into the opposite thigh, and out again.
He’s screaming at me — “Aidez-moi! Je vais mourir!” Help me, I’m going to die. His eyes are wild, his grip on my arm iron-tight. I drop to one knee, leaning over him.
“Qui l’a fait?” I ask. Who did this?
“Un gangster,” he chokes out. A gangster. The cops look at each other, unimpressed. Just another night in this city.
We go to apply a tourniquet, but the medic stops me — “Not bleeding enough,” he says, pointing at the leg. That’s when I notice the odd bulge just above the knee — a bone pushing up against the skin, not quite breaking through. The bullet must have hit his femur. The guy’s still screaming, gripping my hand now, his pulse thundering under my fingers.
He keeps calling me frère, brother. I keep talking to him, trying to keep him grounded, telling him it’s going to be okay — even though I’m not sure it is. We load him up and head to the trauma center, where the ER doc is stumbling over broken French. I step in without thinking, translating questions as they cut away his jeans, as they prod the leg, trying to assess the damage.
He locks eyes with me as they push the needle into his arm, as they clean the wounds. It’s like I’m his lifeline — like as long as I’m speaking to him, he can hold on. I know he needs more than my voice, but right then, it’s all I can give.
Crossfire on the Corner
The chart isn’t even done when the next call drops — Car accident, possible gunshot.
When we arrive, it’s clear this wasn’t just a crash. A sedan, smashed into a barrier, smoke curling up from the crumpled hood. The driver’s door is jammed shut, and through the shattered glass, I can see the driver — head tilted, blood streaking down his face. The passenger is already out, clutching his arm, twisted unnaturally.
A cop runs up — “Driver’s been shot in the head.” I look back at the car, at the hole in the windshield, and my stomach drops. This wasn’t an accident. Someone fired from across the street, and this guy just happened to be in the wrong place.
I make my way to the passenger, his face white, cradling the arm like it might break off entirely. He keeps looking back at the driver, like he can’t process that they were just driving down the street, and now his friend’s head is leaking blood onto the dash. I wrap his arm as best as I can, make a sling, get him to the rig.
The driver’s door won’t budge, and there’s no time for finesse. We grab him by the collar and yank him through the window. I feel the warm stickiness of his blood against my hands, and I try not to think about what that means. We get him on the stretcher, and people are already gathering, phones out, filming.
It never gets easier — having an audience while you’re trying to keep someone alive. The driver’s breathing is shallow, pulse weak, and the whole time, his friend is muttering, “He’s gonna be okay, right? He’s gonna be okay.”
Kicked Out of the Rig
Barely get back to the station before the next call: Unresponsive male, alleyway.
He’s sprawled on the ground, lifeless. I kneel beside him, and his eyes snap open. He launches to his feet, shoving past us, sprinting to the end of the alley. The cops are yelling, trying to contain him. He’s ranting, hands flailing, eyes darting everywhere.
After ten minutes, he finally lets us strap him to the stretcher, but as soon as we start moving, he thrashes. Kicking, screaming, trying to wrench his hands free. We secure him with cravats — soft restraints — but it doesn’t matter. In the rig, he’s slamming his head against the wall, eyes wild and rolling back.
I’m at his feet, pressing them down, bracing with my whole weight. One cop behind me says something, and I turn for just a second. The next thing I know, his feet break free, and I’m airborne.
He kicked me so hard, I flew out of the back of the rig. One of the cops caught me mid-air and pushed me right back in without missing a beat. We gave him Versed — nothing. Then ketamine — too much. He crashed, had to be intubated, and we were bagging him all the way to the ER.
The Shining
Last call of the night. Sick male, bleeding. Sun just peeking over the horizon. We step into the apartment, and I nearly fall — blood. It’s on the floor, splashed on the walls, leading to the bed where a man lies motionless. Dialysis port ripped out.
It looks like a massacre. My captain tells me not to touch anything. I just stand there, staring at the way the sunlight turns the blood an eerie shade of copper. I clean my boots on the grass outside, try to scrub the smell of blood out of my nose.
Eighteen calls. Some serious. Some not. And as I drove home, the sun fully up, I kept seeing the man’s eyes, hearing the screams in French, feeling the force of those feet kicking me out of the rig.
This city doesn’t just push you. It breaks you, molds you, and somehow, you still come back for the next shift. Because in the chaos, you find purpose. Or maybe it finds you.
