The white patch.

"I'm going to wear my old pair of scrubs." said the artistic director of my improv troupe. He was referring to the presentation that we were going to make to the transplant team of the money (that was raised through a special performance) for the patient's Special Needs fund by the improv troupe a little over a month prior. Being an improv troupe, we were thinking of doing something a little different rather than a straightforward, formal presentation of the $1,400 that was raised. We hit on the idea of presenting this donation in an organ transport box, which I was able to obtain from my old place of employment, the organ donor network here in Rochester. We were going to run in to their weekly meeting as if delivering an organ.

What he asked next however, was wholly unexpected.

"Do you still have your old paramedic uniform?"

I had not been asked that question in a long while, and I felt the blood drain from my face at the question.

"Yeah, I do." I knew where he was headed, and while I silently smirked at the thought, as it was rather funny, but it still scared me. "Great." he said. "I think you should wear that."

Every instinct inside of me was screaming "NO!" Somehow, the word "Okay" came out of my mouth. I don't know why it did, but it did. It has been 12 years since I wore that uniform, 12 years since I was part of a profession and a world that I never envisioned leaving, as I did 10 years ago. Why the number discrepancy? Well, for the better part of the last three years as a paramedic, I was in management, and wore a suit more often than a uniform, and didn't touch a patient.

I tried to convince myself that it was really nothing, that I would put in on, wear it for a couple of hours, and then take it off. It wouldn't mean anything. It was simply a costume for this purpose. I was going to be acting, and why should my old uniform be nothing other than any other stage device that I have used in the past.

The answer, of course, was far more complicated.

So, the morning came for me to prepare for the presentation. Going through the morning ritual of showering, brushing my teeth, taking my transplant medications, and all the other mundane tasks carried an air of tension. I then went down into the basement of my house, and found the box where I keep all my memories of my EMS life, and found my shield and collar bars. Shield #6241. Collar bars with my unit, 35V. The black shield holder and securing pin. I remember this being part of my mrning ritual for so many years.

I went upstairs and found the long sleeve uniform, as this had the perforations above the left breast pocket sewn into the fabric where the securing pin would pass through, pinning the shield to the shirt. The shield holder also had the small metal plaque with my name, and then below it, "PARAMEDIC."

The shirt has two patches. The left sleeve at the shoulder had my hospital's blue and white patch. The right had the one that has been earned by only a comparatively few, the one that said 'EMS-PARAMEDIC - CITY OF NEW YORK." White, with an orange border, orange and blue lettering, and the blue star of life in the middle, it was simply known to us that rode the ambulance as 'the white patch." It was coveted by anyone that worked in EMS, in any capacity, in NYC. There were, and still are, far more EMT's than paramedics. We were an elite group, and we knew it.

I attached the collar bars, pinned the badge on, and slipped the shirt on. As I buttoned it, I was first pleasantly surprised to find that it still fit, and like a glove too. I then went and looked in the mirror, and a wave of emotion overcame me.

I cried. I cried, and cried, and cried. It went on for about 10 minutes.

I missed it. I missed it all. The good, the bad, the silly, the insane, the danger, all of it. I missed my friends, my colleagues, the two partners I had that I worked so closely with for so long, that they became second and third spouses in a way. I was in grief. I was in grief for a life that I left behind so long ago, that I was never able to grieve for, and that I was never able to fully accept that I left behind. I think it was just then that I honestly faced that emotion, as I faced myself in the mirror, in that uniform.

I was grieving for myself.

After I stopped, wiped my tears, and pulled myself together, I went to the presentation. I went into character, and along with my artistic director, made everyone laugh. We presented the money, had some nosh, pressed the flesh with the transplant staff, and then left. I got home, took off the uniform, hung it in my closet, but left the shield and collar bars on. I have yet to remove them and put them away.

I went to my therapist earlier this week, and related this story to him. He just let me talk, not offering any advice, but rather smiling and nodding with each major point that I brought across. We're going to discuss it further next time around.

As I unburdened myself of this grief, I began to realize that this was one of the biggest obstacles, if not the biggest, that has stood in my way all this time. While I was not living in the past, it was always close behind, and impeding my progress in life. I think now however, that I can move forward with more confidence.

The white patch will always be with me. It is part of who I am, a source of pride, and always the greatest title I will ever have, that of NYC Paramedic. From now on however, it won't stand in my way.

I am Sam.

One of my oldest friends (I'll refer to him as "Sam," because of the job he does) was up here in Rochester these past few days as a lecturer to a conference of police hostage negotiators. Sam and I grew up in the Bronx together, met in high school, and have been friends for over 30 years. We have a lot of shared history between us, and though we do communicate somewhat frequently via e-mail, Facebook, etc, we haven't seen each other in a while due to the distance from here to back home in NYC.

Sam is a NYPD detective, which if I were to get into a time machine and look back 30 years on, would have been the most unlikely job that I would have expected him to be involved with. We (meaning friends of his) used to make jokes at his expense along the lines of "They're going to let you carry a gun?" As the years have passed, it seems obvious that Sam chose the right path for himself.

I still remember where we met; We were part of the running crew of "Fiddler On The Roof," which was being staged during our junior year of high school. He was brash, bombastic, outspoken, and knew what he was doing, from a technical standpoint. We became good friends pretty quickly, and he introduced me to the wonders of CB (citizen's band) radio, where I was acquainted with an entirely different circle of people that I would become friendly with. We both joined the local citizen's patrol team, and he joined the local volunteer ambulance corps. I was not to keen on that idea, riding on an ambulance, until the summer of 1976, when I saw an elderly woman get struck and killed by a city bus. I felt helpless, not knowing what to do, and it was Sam that prodded me to take a first-aid course with the corps. Little did I know at the time that it would be my gateway into my 22-year career in emergency medical services.

Sam and I were rambunctious, especially when it came to women. It was the 70's, the age of experimentation of all sorts. We shared many things, including jobs, drugs (nothing too heavy), and girlfriends. I remember his brown, 1974 Grand Torino. I especially remember the backseat on many a night in the parking lot at Orchard Beach. If that backseat could talk...though Sam kept himself occupied with his girlfriend in the front seat as well.

I remember the time we "borrowed" one of our volunteer squad's ambulances, drove it to Orchard Beach around midnight, and pulled up behind a van - very quietly - all lights off. We got close enough to the rear doors, turned on the emergency lights, and yelled over the PA system, "WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER?!!!"

It was fun watching the bodies fly up and down in the back of the van while we peeled away. Nope, we didn't get caught.

Sam became a cop in 1987, the same year I started working in Brooklyn. He had been in the medical field for a time, and was even in physician's assistant school. It was however, not to be. A series of events, including a woman that was psychologically abusing him, dashed those hopes.

Sam made his mark with NYPD, first as a patrol officer, then plainclothes, and then his fascination with communications came back to help him, as he got involved first with the Office Of Emergency Management, as a communications tech supporting multiple specialty police units. The big test of his skills came in on Feb. 26th, 1993, when a bomb was detonated underneath the North Tower of the World Trade Center. This was the scene:
Sam was in the middle of all of it, trying to coordinate all the various agencies that responded to this disaster. One of the problems was that there was not one single frequency that they all could communicate on. It was all a bit chaotic, but Sam was directly responsible for getting everyone involved in understanding each other. It was because of his work this day, he was promoted to detective investigator. He became in demand as a speaker worldwide, and then in 1998, he became part of TARU (Technical Assistance Response Unit), which backs up the Hostage Negotiation Team. (NYPD has the oldest such team in the world.)

Through all this, he has survived divorce, amongst other personal disasters, and then came 9/11. Sam survivied both towers coming down, but spent 12 days in that pit, photographing bodies for identification as they were pulled from the wreckage. It was that event, amongst some other ones that brings us up to today.

The Sam I saw here in Rochester is a shell of the man I knew even just a few years ago. The bombastic, supremely confident (sometimes overly so) over-the-top guy was gone. There were flashes of it when he was lecturing to his fellow officers, and when he would be talking amongst them at the after lecture party, but away from them, with me, he retreated into a shell that I never saw him have at any point in his life.

As it would turn out, he told me that he had been battling depression for some time, and only recently started taking medication to combat it. He is also looking for a therapist to help him. He did battle this once before, while undergoing his divorce, which drove him to the point of putting his gun in his mouth and almost pulling trigger. What saved him, which he related to me back then, was thinking of his kids. He seemed to pull himself together after the divorce, as it was in many ways a weight lifted off his shoulders. As with Sysiphus however, the stone soon rolled back.

Looking into his eyes, I saw parts of myself, of my own battle with depression a few years back, of issues in my life that drove me into therapy, and how I vowed never to go down that rabbit hole for anything - or anyone - ever again. I mentioned that term to him, "rabbit hole," and he liked it a lot. He said that it perfectly described how he was feeling. It was the first time in a long time that we found a common connection in this way.

As I showed him around the city I have called home for the past 10 years, bringing him to my theatre, my house, and having him take myself and Mrs. N. out for breakfast before driving him to the airport, it occurred to me that I needed to keep closer tabs on my old friend.

I called a mutual friend in Long Island, who is still friends with another person that was part of our circle of friends from back in the day. That person is a therapist, and I'm going to see if I can get Sam in touch with her.

All I can do now, is hope.

Another interview meme.

Julia, over at In Java, Literally, has answered an interview meme, and passed along her willingness to do the same. While I did this a few posts ago, I thought it might be nice to try a different one, but will make it my last for a bit.

1. You walk into a room, what do you see?

A mess. A bloody, awful mess. This is my home office, and I really need to make more headway in getting it into shape. The funny thing is, when I was the director of QA back in my medical center in NYC, having a messy office was so anathema to me. I kept it very organized, so I am trying to remember back to my days of yore and figure out what I need to do to get organized.

2. What year changed your entire life?

Easy. 1997, the year I had my liver transplant. Everything changed after that, mostly good, some bad.

3. What are you proud of?

The work I did as a NYC paramedic. I did things and helped people in ways that most others only read about. Of all the titles I may carry, that of NYC-EMS paramedic will always be my proudest. I also am proud of what I see as my growth as an actor. I have been asked to do plays and movies without needing to audition, which tells me I must be doing something right. I also am proud of the things I have written, even though there are many times I really don't believe I'm any good at it.

4. Why do you live where you live?

Quieter life, and because while I miss many things about NYC, I simply can't live there anymore.
I needed to slow down.

5. What is your favorite hobby and why?

Not to beat a dead horse, but acting. It is very, very freeing. It allows me to express things that I have hard time doing in my everyday life. It is also the thrill I get from feeding off the energy of an audience, or the sensation of what can only be akin to an orgasm when I do or say something that makes an audience laugh. I love taking the printed word, creating a character with it, and bringing it to life.

Want to be interviewed?

Follow these instructions:

1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Swelled with pride.

I got home from work tonight to find a message on my voice mail from my old paramedic buddy, Jeff. Seems the guy has gotten himself 15 minutes of fame in the NY Times. Jeff and I go back some years. I got him his job at St. Mary's Hospital in Brooklyn, was his medic partner on occasion, and then his boss. Glad to see him out there, still fighting the good fight.

Jeff, I'm proud of ya buddy! I'm 98 at my PAR!

(I removed the link, at the suggestion of a concerned fellow blogger, for personal reasons.)