Chapter 14
Tristan
Gone. My first emergency response, and the victim I tried to save, is gone. I can’t speak, can hardly think, when we drive back to the station. Whoever that woman was, she had friends, a family, and coworkers. She had a life, and had people who loved her.
Now she’s dead—and I couldn’t save her.
Nick, too, is silent on the drive back to the station, until he pulls into the apparatus bay and parks the ambulance. “Tristan,” he says, “look at me.”
I can’t look up. I’m just staring at my hands, which I’ve only now noticed have blood on them.
“Tristan,” he repeats.
I look up, meet his gaze.
“It’s not your fault,” he says very softly.
Then, he reaches out, and his fingers brush against my cheek.
I realize that I’m crying.
“It’s not your fault,” he repeats. “You did everything you could. I’m sorry, I should have had you check on the man in the SUV.”
The SUV driver and the Nissan passengers were completely fine.
Sometimes, there’s no explanation for who gets hurt, who dies, and who walks away in accidents like that.
I know that, in the logical part of my brain, but right now it isn’t connecting.
“You couldn’t have known,” I say flatly.
“I still feel responsible. Are you okay?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen someone die.”
His gaze softens. “That’s not answering my question.”
“I’ll be okay.”
I have to be okay. I chose this job, and I knew what it might involve. I have to be okay.
“You did very well,” Nick continues. His praise is soft and genuine. “You did everything you could, and you kept your head. You did everything exactly as you were supposed to, and weren’t delayed at all. I’m proud of you. That was a gruesome first call, and you handled it like a pro.”
His words make me feel just a little bit better.
“Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
Neither of us has moved to get out of the ambulance.
“I feel like I failed,” I whisper.
I don’t know why I’m trusting Nick with these vulnerable words, but I am. I trust him. He seems so solid, so immovable, so sure.
“You did not fail,” he says firmly. “Yes, it would be great if every call we responded to ended in everyone surviving. Unfortunately, that’s not what our job is like.
Our job is to show up and do everything we can to save someone.
And that’s what you did. You gave it your all.
Sometimes, there’s nothing we can do. But you can hold your head up high and say that you tried, goddamnit. ”
I nod, but Nick’s words aren’t connecting in my brain.
All the panic and anxiety I didn’t let myself feel during the actual emergency hit me now.
I feel like I can hardly breathe; my pulse is rapid, almost painful; I feel a cold sweat break out on my body, and my cheeks burn.
“Tristan?” Nick says, his voice low and concerned. Then, “Can I touch you?”
The question surprises me, shocks me just enough that I catch a gulp of breath. “Um—sure.”
I have no idea what he plans on doing, but I certainly don’t mind the idea of Nick’s hands on me.
He places both hands, large and strong, on my shoulders. “Look into my eyes.”
I do.
His face is nothing like mine.
Calm, completely in control. His expression is gentle and firm, with a look in his eyes that perfectly blends kindness and sternness. “You need to breathe,” he says in his low, rich voice. “Breathe with me. With me.”
Then, he removes his hands from my shoulders, gently takes my hands, which are twisted in my lap, and places them on his stomach.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
He inhales, and I feel his firm diaphragm expand. I inhale with him.
“And out.”
He exhales softly through his pursed lips. I do, too.
“In.”
We inhale.
“And out.”
We exhale.
“Our breath controls our body,” he whispers. “And we can control our breath. Don’t let it control you.”
I nod.
Tears spring into my eyes, and I feel like a fool for crying. But I don’t feel ashamed, not in front of Nick. I trust him to see me like this.
I know he’s not going to judge me. I know he won’t tell the others and make a joke out of it.
“You can cry,” he murmurs. “Let yourself feel what you’re feeling, and then let those emotions go. Don’t carry them around with you once you get out of the ambulance. Leave them here. Leave all that here.”
I’m crying now, fully. I’m crying not just for the woman I didn’t, couldn’t, save, but for Warren. I’m crying for myself. I’m crying because of all the pain and loss that I can’t fix, can’t stop.
And Nick doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay. He doesn’t tell me that everything’s all right. He lets me cry. He helps me breathe through it.
Most importantly, he sits with me.
He doesn’t leave. He lets me feel it all, rides out the pain with me. He doesn’t ask me any questions, doesn’t ask me to explain or justify what I’m feeling. He doesn’t make me feel foolish for feeling all of this.
When my tears are gone, and my breathing is under control, he hands me a tissue and a water bottle he produced from somewhere. “Here. You need to hydrate.”
I wipe my face and take a few sips of the water. “Thank you.” My voice is hoarse from crying. “I feel so stupid for crying like that. I’ve seen worse in the ER. That just… it just got me.”
“You don’t need to explain,” he says softly. “What we do is hard. You think I haven’t cried after a call? Of course I have. We all have.”
I nod. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”
He squeezes my shoulder. His touch is so strong, yet so gentle. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
“Do you want me to give you a moment alone in the ambulance?”
“That might be good. Thanks.”
He gathers his things and gets out of the medic unit, shutting the door behind him.
Alone, I sit in silence, placing my hands on my own stomach to feel my breathing. It’s calmed down considerably with his help, and my heart rate has returned almost to normal.
I feel the heavy, painful emotions fluttering on the edges of my psyche, threatening to overwhelm me again, and instead of pushing them away or letting them drown me, I let myself feel them, each one, the pain, the regret, the grief.
Each one has a purpose, and each one came from something.
Those feelings are nothing to be ashamed of, but they also don’t need to control me or define me.
I thank them for existing, and then I let them go.