All In A Day's Work

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All In A Day’s Work

By Joannebarbarella


This is a tribute to someone who did not even know she was a heroine (and probably still doesn’t). She’s a member of our sorority here at BC. I have not sought her permission to publish this piece as it can be construed as fiction, and probably much of it is, but I hope she likes it. I think she may recognize herself.

This might also qualify for Dorothy’s Challenge

*********************

In those days they called her Big Pete. This was when she was an ambulance man or at least appeared to be. Most people have no idea what those people go through.

You had to study for a couple of years to become an emergency medical technician, or an ambulance man. They taught you all the theory but they couldn’t teach you the reality. Nobody could show you the blood and guts that you would actually encounter. Only experience would teach you what that was like.

So she graduated and the world saw this big tough guy who was the epitome of the men who operated the ambulances that responded to all kind of emergencies, traffic accidents, fight-related incidents, and all the rest. Only those who worked with him saw the kind and gentle person inside and most of them did not quite know how to respond to that person. They did not realize she was female. Actually neither did she.

The crises she saw are too numerous to narrate in one story, so here are a few to let you all know what it’s like to be on the sharp end, particularly if you know that you are not who you seem to be but have no idea what to do about it.

So you’re cruising in your ambulance with a driver and a partner and you get a call to a pub in Oxford Street. Everybody in Sydney knows what that means. It’s the heart of the gay district. You arrive to find a young girl unconscious on the floor of the bar and a number of people trying to restrain a vicious drunk who is attempting to kick the shit out of her as she lays helpless. You try to ignore him while you tend to her and assess her injuries. It’s pretty obvious that she has been badly beaten and will require hospitalisation.

The drunk gets away from the bystanders trying to hold him back and tries to resume his attack.

You push him away from the girl.

“What’s your fucking problem, mate?”

“She’s a fucking bloke.”

“Well, this *IS* Oxford Street. What do you expect?”

He tries to get at her again, so you flatten him with a single hit and then turn your attention back to the girl lying on the floor. Your ambo mate brings the stretcher over and together you lift her on to it as tenderly as you can and take her out to the waiting ambulance to transfer her to Saint Vinnies.

Just another incident…..all in a day’s work.

Forget about the innumerable Saturday nights when you have to go to some accident or incident and pick up the pieces. That’s normal. Drunks and druggies, the ever-present punch-ups, the odd stabbing or shooting. You can turn your mind off when dealing with those. Many times those you are trying to help turn and attack you or your partner or their mates do. Sometimes the cops are there to help you out but not always, so you become inured to having to defend yourself too. All in a day’s work.

It’s the big ones that get to you. There was the nursing home fire. You got the call and raced to the scene. The building was well and truly alight and you and your crew got there before the cops and the firies. None of you hesitate. It’s into the burning building and looking for the old folk inside. Between you, you manage to carry out half a dozen before the other emergency services get there. More ambulances arrive. You should have taken the ones you have saved to the hospitals but those who arrived later did that and you kept going back inside to try and rescue more until the firemen and the police physically restrained you.

Fifteen died that night. If it wasn’t for you and your mates it might have been thirty. Did you get any thanks for it? No. All in a day’s work. You went home, sobbed your heart out and eventually cried yourself to sleep. Your wife said you were a big baby. Real men don’t cry.

More routine every-day disasters, year on year. The little ones just gradually wore at your soul, a bit at a time, so you didn’t really notice them, but they did come back in dreams. They always came back in dreams. To make it worse, your wife never seemed to get it. When you screamed and wept in your sleep she just got annoyed because you woke her up. What was such a big deal about riding around in an ambulance?

Then came the really big one, the one that finally broke you. A train derailed and took out the pillar that was supporting a bridge which passed over the track. The bridge collapsed onto the train and crushed a couple of carriages crammed with commuters on their way to work. The incident later became known as the Granville Train Disaster.

You and your ambo mates got called out to deal with the aftermath. To call it a mess was a vast understatement. Even access was a nightmare. Try to imagine two railway carriages crushed under a collapsed bridge. For twenty four hours you fought to get the victims out and to transfer them to hospitals for treatment, but in all too many cases you pulled on an arm or a leg that was no longer attached to the rest of its body. You lost count of the number of times that you threw up.

But you kept working, and every now and then you found one who was still alive. The railway men and other emergency workers stayed with you and helped in lifting pieces of crushed metal and concrete from those who were trapped. They cried and spewed along with you. This was a piece of hell. In the end you collapsed, exhausted, and were carted off in one of your own ambulances. Your mates said you were raving about being able to save more when you couldn’t even stand.

The final toll was eighty-two dead, and the authorities said two hundred and ten injured, but they did not include those like you who had cleaned up after the catastrophe, pulling out the dead and injured. Your injuries were not physical, but were nevertheless just as real. Any military veteran would have received better treatment than you did, but it was all in a day’s work, wasn’t it?

The nightmares started coming longer and harder and didn’t go away. Every night was punctuated with crying jags. You awoke sweating and in tears. Your wife was much less than sympathetic. Real men don’t have nightmares and don’t cry all the time. You must be some kind of sissy. She actually didn’t realize, and nor did you, just how close to the truth she was. You took to sleeping in another bedroom.

You tried to go back to work but you were useless. Every minor incident would leave you a quivering wreck. Your workmates looked after you as well as they could but they still had work to do and you were just getting in their way. You were sent to the Medical Officer, who said you were just suffering from stress and it would pass. You were given anti-depressant pills for the days and sleeping pills for the nights and told to take two weeks leave.

None of that worked. You couldn’t stand being at home with your wife and she couldn’t stand you being there. The pills seemed to have little effect. You were like a zombie during the days and the sleeping pills just plain didn’t work. The nightmares kept on coming.

You went back to work with much relief, just to get away from a woman you were coming to hate. You had never hated anyone in your life and those who knew you best said you cared too much. That was a blessing but also a curse. It was why you were good at your job, but it was also why you hurt so much inside when you thought you had failed. This time around you just couldn’t cope.

They sent you to see a psychiatrist, who also told you it was only stress and it would pass. Here, take these pills. This made your wife even worse. She complained to all who would listen that she was married to a nut-case who couldn’t hold down his job and was spaced out most of the time.

After several months it was gently suggested that you resign. You were actually now old enough to get a severance payment, long service leave and a pension. You loved your job but realized that you were now a liability so you reluctantly accepted retrenchment. You also decided that you had had enough of your bitch of a wife so you told her the house was hers and you were off.

You decided that a change of scenery would be good for you so you moved to Queensland and got yourself a little flat in Surfers’ Paradise. That seemed to work for a while although the dreams and night-sweats didn’t disappear. Casual work was fairly easy to come by and although you didn’t really need to work you still liked to feel useful. That was fine until one day you witnessed a car and motorcycle crash. Old habits kicked in and you rushed to help. Suddenly all the nightmares became daymares and you suffered a complete mental blackout, becoming a casualty yourself.

When you awoke you were in hospital, in a mental ward, no less, and drugged to the eyeballs to keep you tranquillized. After a few days they lowered your dosage and you were compos mentis again. Of course they sent a psychiatrist around to see you to try and determine what happened to cause your melt-down. For a change this one was a fortyish woman who listened and she extracted your story from you bit by bit.

You opened up to her and told her of your years as an ambo and the tragedies and disasters that you had witnessed and attended. She listened and asked you questions about your emotions and feelings. Maybe it was partly still the effects of the drugs but you showed more of your tender nature than you had ever shown to anyone since you were a child.

After a week of daily conversations she grasped your hand one day.

“I think I know what’s wrong with you,” she said. “I think you’re really a woman!”

It was as if you had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Things fell into place and made sense. The care you had lavished on the victims who you had helped or tried to help was like a mother’s love. They had all been, in a way, your children. It was your feminine nature that had pointed you to become an ambulance man. In a different time and in a different body you would have been a nurse.

“I’ll need to do a few more evaluations and tests, if you’re willing, and then we can work on fixing the problem.”

Finally someone understood you and you were more than happy to continue exploring this radical new idea. The lady organized further medical examinations and a week later you were released from the hospital, no longer considered a danger to yourself, besides, they needed the bed.

The sessions with the psychiatrist continued on a weekly basis and after the clinical results came in you were declared fit for further treatment. Those conversations also convinced you that she was right and that you were actually and should always have been a woman. All these years you had been in denial, had pushed your innate femininity down to the depths of your sub-conscious.

The acceptance of the diagnosis partially relieved the dreams and nightmares. They still came but were somehow more controllable and lost some of their power.

After a few more sessions she offered you a way forward.

“I can put you on female hormones. They will have physical effects on your body. Even at your age you will develop breasts and get smoother skin, but they will also have mental effects. At first you will experience mood swings, but I don’t think that will necessarily be a bad thing. They will help you to get rid of emotions that you have held back for many years. I doubt that your nightmares will ever go away completely but we can certainly ameliorate them. It’s up to you but I recommend that you take them.”

It didn’t take you but a moment to agree.

“If you do decide to transition I have to warn you. I believe your mental health will benefit considerably, but with your physical build and appearance you will probably never be able to convincingly pass as a woman.”

“I don’t care. Let’s do it.” You said.

And so you started on an irreversible course. It wasn’t instantaneous, but, with the help of your psychiatrist you made many friends along the way and became that person that you should always have been.

At 75 you became maybe Australia’s oldest transsexual and you are now finally at peace with yourself. Maybe you still have the occasional nightmare but I know they are nothing like as frequent and you have many people who love you. They don't care that you look mannish because they can see your soul.

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Comments

I know of whom you write...

Andrea Lena's picture

my heart is gladdened by this even as I weep tears of joy for the privilege of knowing this fine lady! One of the bravest souls I have ever met; even if it's not face to face. Thank you

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Of Course you Do

joannebarbarella's picture

And she is still with us and still helping people who need it.

Thank you

BarbieLee's picture

Beautiful story about the one(s) who give so much of themselves in so many ways. Trying to tend to others and trying to ignore who they are because of commitments. With our amazing diversity in all the different races, body shapes, mental abilities, physical abilities society still demands ONLY TWO genders. One must either be male or female.
always,
Brb

Oklahoma born and raised cowgirl

The Ambulance Officers Do Not Get The Kudos

joannebarbarella's picture

That they deserve. In Australia we seem to be developing a culture where they are targets for the very people that they are trying to help. Where will that end?

Stories

shiraz's picture

Like Andrea I know this lady and there was an email from her this morning when I woke, in which she recalled that rail disaster. She's stronger than I could ever be and I'm sure she'll be embarrassed to read this.

- - - -

Paperback cover Boat That Frocked.png

I Think It Was

joannebarbarella's picture

The 40th anniversary, either yesterday or today. She should not be embarrassed. She was a heroine. We have PM'd and she's OK with this.
I love her dearly and it was certainly not my intention to embarrass her.

Moved to tears

I am moved to tears because I know this lady and we talk on the phone at least twice a day, the long distance between us does not come into it because we Skype quite often, she stood by me when I was at my lowest point in my own transition, and I would not be alive today without her love and determination to where I am today, Thank you from the bottom of my heart dear lady. Carla Bay.

ROO

Dear Carla

joannebarbarella's picture

I just thought that a little bit of kudos was deserved. She may not be an ambo any more but she is still helping people who need it.

Among others

Annie recognised that.

Steph, Your Folks Would

joannebarbarella's picture

They are made from the same stuff.

PTSD

I was going along in this story, going, yes, yes, this is what first responders go through and what it does to them.

And then:

“I think I know what’s wrong with you,” she said. “I think you’re really a woman!”

WTF???

This is PTSD. It happens to 100% cis people, too. The author has described how it happens very well. And the advice that's given: "you'll get over it" is just as useless in real life as it was in the story. If the horrors you experience are bad enough, they stay stuck in your brain like a festering splinter forever. The VA hospitals are full of veterans of our various martial adventures who, decades later, are just as bad off as the day they were shipped back home. Police and fire departments have tons of people who had to take early retirement when it got to be too much.

The main character may or may not be trans. But, speaking from personal experience, trauma is a separate thing and needs specialized treatment. Which the psychiatric establishment would prefer to believe isn't necessary (no surprise -- these are the same folks who told you for almost a century that women's memories of incest were just a fantasy.)

I endorse Asche's comments

PTSD can come to anyone who experiences stressful situations. Maybe being an unsuspecting transsexual may make it worse, especially if the repressed femininity has made them take up a caring activity of the sort which makes PTSD more likely, as in your story. But it would be a mistake to think that simply because someone suffers from PTSD they are necessarily also transsexual.
Nonetheless, this is obviously a real and great story about a caring person. Thankyou for showing her to me.

Asche And Outsider

joannebarbarella's picture

I did not intend to imply that there was or is any causal link between PTSD and transsexualism. While I am neither a physician or a psychiatrist I have had numerous conversations with our heroine and what she has told me is that once her GID was diagnosed and treated, leading to her eventual transition, that her susceptibility to PTSD was much less. She still suffers from PTSD and told me that she had to take a pretty large dose of medication on the anniversary of Granville in order to be able to get a night's sleep.

However, now that she is at peace with herself with respect to her gender identity she is no longer fighting a war on two fronts as it were.

This story was written as a tribute to a very caring and brave lady, not as a case study, so please read it in that context.

A lovely story about an

A lovely story about an absolutely special woman. As a volunteer firefighter, on several occasions, I retrieved people who failed to survive the incident involved. It stuck with me for quite a while. I can only imagine what "Pete" went through. She finally met the right doctor and now is still helping others. She is a VERY special person !
Thank you for writing this story.

Hugs, Karen

In The End

joannebarbarella's picture

The partial key to her peace of mind was meeting the right psychiatrist, as you so rightly say. She needed somebody to LISTEN to her and understand her problems. She still sees the same psychiatrist who has helped her enormously.

You're right. She is a very special person.

Everyday heroes

laika's picture

This was really moving. I guess the wife in this story represents a real person, who I don't want to speak ill of without knowing anything about, but it seems like she could have been more understanding. It takes a real dolt to think being an emergency first-responder is just "riding around in an ambulance all day"; and a lack of caring about other people to not see how witnessing bloody tragedies up close would stay with a person and haunt them. Sadly, not all women are the wellsprings of compassion and empathy that us girls-at-heart like to imagine, while some males have these qualities in spades. (And I really don't think the counselor was simply saying 'You have PTSD! You must be a woman!'---like the above commenters seemed to take away from this story---I'm sure she must have seen other things in her too that weren't elaborated on for the sake of brevity...)

The way the narration segued from third to second person was pretty slick, and it really worked. The writing was stylistically a bit different for you, but just what this tribute story for a friend needed, and brilliant!
~love, Veronica

I Have Taken Liberties

joannebarbarella's picture

With some of the characterisations (but not with our main character). This is a story, after all! I do believe that the wife just did not understand the depth of empathy felt by her husband for the people that he was trying to help.

While "riding around in an ambulance" was maybe too dismissive, I do know of one occasion when our heroine broke down in tears and the wife sneered at him. On that occasion her father was present and admonished her that if a man could not cry then he had no soul.

I do so love it when you compliment my writing, but then I'm vain. One of these days I may be half as good as you.
Smooches,
Joanne

PTSD and GD

I write a lot about both, because I have both. They are unrelated; there is no automatic link, as some comments here have already made very clear. What does happen is bootstrapping. Both conditions are depressive states, and both lead to inertia and an inability to cope with further stress. They ramp each other up, and where someone may be able to wrestle their dysphoria down, add in the toxicity of PTSD and you are on a loser.

That is the crux of the difference in the characters of my people Gillian Carter and Annie Price. Jill is just seeing the end of her life as a continuation of despair and dysphoria, and is looking to clear the decks before suicide. Annie is collapsing as the dysphoria mixes with the PTSD, its triggers and nightmares. PTSD's most corrosive effect is that it takes away resilience and coping ability. My own experience is pretty typical, in that if presented with a 'situation' I cope for as long as it lasts. The breakdown comes when the immediate stress, the support given by action, is withdrawn.

You Have Explained It

joannebarbarella's picture

Much better than I did in one of the previous comments and it shows in the characters who inhabit your stories.

culture shock

Haylee V's picture

This is a very well-written story, but a lot of the cultural lingo and references are completely lost on me. Although I was able to grasp the overall story, being an American, some of the subtle nuances went completely over my head. Perhaps you could include an Aussie to American glossary to clue me in?

*Kisses Always*
Haylee V

Aussie-American Glossary

joannebarbarella's picture

I hope this works for you:-

Ambo= Ambulance man (or woman)
Pub=Bar
Saint Vinnies= Saint Vincent's Hospital. One of Sydney's main hospitals
Firies= Firemen

I can't see anything else that wouldn't work in both Aussie and American English. If you need more please PM me.

Real men don't cry?

Jamie Lee's picture

Where is it written what makes a real man? Where is it written "real men" don't cry? Isn't a real man one who can empathize with others, think of others before himself, know when it's necessary to be firm and stand up for what's right?

If ever man were the type of man the wife felt her husband should be, it's quite possible the world population would be much smaller than it is now. Because those men who knew how to be tender when necessary, and tough when required, would be thrown to the side for those who are tough all the time.

Perhaps the real man was the wife, who seem to lack empathy and compassion for another hurting human.

It takes a very special person to be a first responder, a person who can be both tender and tough when the situation dictates. A person who is willing to put the needs of others ahead of their own.

First responders not only face gruesome scenes which affect them personally but those who they call family. And unless they allow others to give help when needed, or they find the right kind of help, they could go off the deep end. And only those who have been there, done that, fully understand the type of help that may be needed.

Others have feelings too.

Last Night On The News

joannebarbarella's picture

I saw an ambulance officer desperately trying to hold himself together while he was being interviewed. His unit had been called to an accident scene where a car with two young people inside was wrapped around a telegraph pole. It was pretty clear that no-one could have survived and the poor bloke was describing how they could do nothing except cut the bodies out.

Anyone with a soul would have forgiven him for crying.

"They don't care that you look mannish"

That's true of my friends as well.

As someone who knows PTSD from the inside, you've described it well.

DogSig.png

The Hardest part...

Sunflowerchan's picture

The hardest part of any job that centers on being a caretaker is dealing with the stress. When I was a teenager, I cared for my grandmother on weekends as kind of a live in nurse. She was up in the age, and often required me driving her to the hospital. Those nights are burned into my mind, so many flashing lights, so many different sounds, the smells of the different E.R's. She was up in the age so it seemed that every fortnight I was driving her in the dead of night to the E.R in Jackson or nearby Clinton. I saw things those nights, horrible things, and while I was not on the front line like our heroine. I can only picture what hell they go through. E.R's in big cities are soul tearing places, crowed, people often left in the hallway waiting on a room. Some never made it to a room. I remember once going to fetch my grandmother some gator-aid from the drink machine, I passed a gurry with a woman laying on it, and when i came by she was covered up from head to toe. That stuff stays with you. So I can kind of, and only in the smallest of measurements understand the trama are main went through. And like our main, none of my other cousins, hell none of her children seemed to care, they even grew annoyed that I sometimes became emotional when they tried to butt in and take charge hours after she been checked in and the doctor had already examed her. I'm sorry for rambling like this, but this story was so well written it just brought these memories back.

From blushing kinky to weeping, you are a true mistress of written word. Thank you for allowing me to read these stores today and I can't wait to see what jewels tomorrow holds. As always thank you for being you, and thank you for all you've done for the site, for all you have shared and all your thoughtful comments. You make this site special by being here and being you.

I Do Know

joannebarbarella's picture

What being a carer is like. I was my wife's primary carer for over two years as she slowly succumbed to multiple cancers. It's no fun, is it?
My good friend Alison Mary Murdoch was the true subject of this story, an ambulance officer for 22 years until she could take it no more. The story is true regarding certain major events in her life. Sadly, she passed away a couple of years ago at 87 years young. She contributed here, commenting as Gram Alison or Alison Mary and I hope that in some small measure this keeps her alive in our memories. She deserves that.

I am delighted that you are commenting on some of my tales. Thankyou, Sunflowerchan.