Here goes nothing:
After much counseling, and many requests, here it is: insight into my head. The question is, will I tell anyone it's here?
I think the stimulus here was the wreck I went to this weekend. A Saturday night in Chapel Hill, and this kid decided to go out drinking with his buddies and ran his car off the road. (Seawell School Road just past the railroad tracks if you're on the Hill) Long story short, he managed to totally destroy his car, and pin himself in so effectively that it took the FD 2 hours to cut him out of the car. Strong work junior. Amazingly enough, he ended up with nothing more than a broken arm. God watches out for drunks and idiots.
So how did I go from standing on the side of the road (It was cold too.) to deciding to write a blog that likely no one will ever read? The honest truth is, I'm sick of seeing what I see, and knowing what I know, and being in the places I am, and not sharing it with anyone. I talk, and people listen, but the first question is nearly always "What's the most messed up thing you've ever seen?" (Grace Webster get's the nod for being the exception to the rule. I was blown away)
Let me be honest here, I like talking about my job. I like talking about everything really. It doesn't take a whole lot to make me open my mouth. But every time you relive something in your head, it makes the same impact on you again, and again, and again. Remember your first kiss, and you go warm and fuzzy inside. Remember your first funeral, and that sorrow just wells back up inside you. The same is true for every messed up thing I've ever been involved with. This will maybe be a little cathartic. One can hope anyway.
There's a house on Walnut St. in Cary. I drive by it about once a week. More often when I'm working in Cary because it's near the station. There was a 40 year old man who lived there, and his wife found him in the bathroom lying in his own vomit. (You wouldn't believe how many people we find in bathrooms) This guy was so bad off. Puking everywhere, totally unaware of his surroundings, combative, the whole nine yards. I was new at the time, but not so new that I didn't recognize that this guy was in a lot of trouble. When we got to the hospital we found out he'd had a massive stroke. (Sub-arachnoid hemorrhage for the folks who care. Actually displaced his left hemisphere by 3cm) This guy was young. Had 3 young kids and a wife, and was likely either killed, or totally debilitated by this stroke. The reason this house stands out for me, and the reason I tell this story, is that I have no idea what really happened to him. He might've made a full recovery. He might be dead. He might be a vegetable and a total drain on his family. I'll never know, and that bothers me.
I think the stimulus here was the wreck I went to this weekend. A Saturday night in Chapel Hill, and this kid decided to go out drinking with his buddies and ran his car off the road. (Seawell School Road just past the railroad tracks if you're on the Hill) Long story short, he managed to totally destroy his car, and pin himself in so effectively that it took the FD 2 hours to cut him out of the car. Strong work junior. Amazingly enough, he ended up with nothing more than a broken arm. God watches out for drunks and idiots.
So how did I go from standing on the side of the road (It was cold too.) to deciding to write a blog that likely no one will ever read? The honest truth is, I'm sick of seeing what I see, and knowing what I know, and being in the places I am, and not sharing it with anyone. I talk, and people listen, but the first question is nearly always "What's the most messed up thing you've ever seen?" (Grace Webster get's the nod for being the exception to the rule. I was blown away)
Let me be honest here, I like talking about my job. I like talking about everything really. It doesn't take a whole lot to make me open my mouth. But every time you relive something in your head, it makes the same impact on you again, and again, and again. Remember your first kiss, and you go warm and fuzzy inside. Remember your first funeral, and that sorrow just wells back up inside you. The same is true for every messed up thing I've ever been involved with. This will maybe be a little cathartic. One can hope anyway.
There's a house on Walnut St. in Cary. I drive by it about once a week. More often when I'm working in Cary because it's near the station. There was a 40 year old man who lived there, and his wife found him in the bathroom lying in his own vomit. (You wouldn't believe how many people we find in bathrooms) This guy was so bad off. Puking everywhere, totally unaware of his surroundings, combative, the whole nine yards. I was new at the time, but not so new that I didn't recognize that this guy was in a lot of trouble. When we got to the hospital we found out he'd had a massive stroke. (Sub-arachnoid hemorrhage for the folks who care. Actually displaced his left hemisphere by 3cm) This guy was young. Had 3 young kids and a wife, and was likely either killed, or totally debilitated by this stroke. The reason this house stands out for me, and the reason I tell this story, is that I have no idea what really happened to him. He might've made a full recovery. He might be dead. He might be a vegetable and a total drain on his family. I'll never know, and that bothers me.
posted by C at 2:02 AM
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