I worry about the hate sometimes
Being a paramedic isn't hard when you're getting calls where you can see what you're doing actually helps people. Even if it just as simple as talking someone down from the brink of panic by interjecting a bit of inaccessible common sense, you know?
But it's the days and days that go by where you do nothing good. It's the valley of waiting, watching the night stretch long.
It's on the way home from days like this, maybe, where you're on the wind-torn, sleeted, and icy roads, and barely swerve to avoid hitting the car in front of you because you lost control of your vehicle somewhere between the road conditions and exhaustion of driving home at dawn. It's on days like this, maybe, that the asshole behind you in the lane you manage to escape into comes walking up to your window, because it's a red light -- your window that you can't even see through because of the snow drifts and starts telling you off for cutting him off in his utterly capable all-wheel over-compensation mobile.
It's on days like this that your hands shake because it takes every ounce of grace you have not to get out of the car and beat the man into the ground.
And you know that the feelings you have on days like this are an over-reaction, but something somewhere inside of you is eventually going to need to be let out to play.
It's on days like this I try to pray.
