MAN, I LOVE THIS JOB.

March 26, 2007

I wrote this post after one of those calls that reminded me why I signed up for the job in the first place. It had all the makings of a mess—a suicidal patient with a weapon, a foot chase, a full-blown takedown, and a screaming transport in the back of the rig. But it also had rhythm. Flow. That weird kind of clarity you only get in the middle of chaos when the training kicks in and the noise fades.

I remember sitting in the back of the ambulance after it was over, blood on my gloves, adrenaline still burning off like static. My partner and I just looked at each other and laughed—not because it was funny, but because we got through it. No one got hurt. The patient was safe. We did the job.

That night, when the city finally quieted down and I had time to breathe, I couldn’t shake the feeling. It wasn’t trauma or fatigue—it was pride. The kind that doesn’t show up in award ceremonies or perfect CPR metrics. The kind that’s earned one shift at a time in the middle of a dark street, with cops and medics and the sound of sirens closing in.

So I wrote it down. Not for clicks. Not for anyone else. Just to capture that moment when the lights were still fading in the mirror, and I thought to myself, man, I love this job.