Some of the stuff that happened while I was doing that job was surreal. Someone phoned up and said, ‘I know where you’re based, I’m gonna be in the car park waiting to kill you when you’re finished.’ It was often impossible to tell whether my abuser was drunk, high on drugs, had mental health problems or was simply an idiot. People would phone and say, ‘Mate, I’ve got no money for a taxi. You’re gonna have to send an ambulance to drop me off at home, otherwise I’m going to die of hypothermia.’ What can you say? I couldn’t help but despair at times.
Very occasionally, an EMD will take a call that is horribly close to home. One colleague was on her very first shift when she took a call from her ex-husband, who had taken an overdose. Imagine that. But I also had my own dose of reality. One day, a call came in from my girls’ nursery. I asked my colleague for the name of the patient and she said, ‘Maddison Farnworth.’ My heart sank. I took the headset off my colleague and the caller told me my daughter was having a fit. I legged it out of the office, jumped in the car and slammed my foot down. If a copper had tried to pull me over, he would have had to follow me all the way to the nursery. I wasn’t stopping for anyone.
When I got to the nursery, just after the ambulance, I was shaking like a leaf. It turned out my daughter was having something called a febrile convulsion. These happen when a child has a fever and their temperature suddenly rises, sending their body haywire and causing them to have a seizure. They’re not usually life-threatening, but I didn’t know that, so was absolutely terrified.
I travelled with my daughter in the back of the ambulance, carried her into hospital and when I put her down, the nurse said, ‘Leave it with me.’
‘No, I’m staying.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m her dad.’
I forgot I was still in my uniform. The nurse thought I was part of the show.
I delivered a baby over the phone once. I said to the bloke, ‘The ambulance is on its way. But it might not make it on time, so I’m going to talk you through it.’ That’s one of the last things a bloke wants to hear. I told him to grab some towels, and I heard him huffing and puffing up the stairs and rummaging around in his airing cupboard with his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. I was sat there thinking, This is ridiculous. I’m sat here in a bright air-conditioned room drinking a brew and this guy’s partner is having a baby. I could hear screaming and yelping in the background, and eventually a baby crying. Suddenly, that feeling of ridiculousness was replaced by a glow of satisfaction.
One time, a woman called from a motorway hard shoulder. Both her children were unconscious in the back of her car and her husband was drowsy and vomiting. That was a tough job, because it’s hard to get a location when someone is on a motorway. Some people don’t have a clue where they are and a few don’t even know which motorway they’re on, which can be very stressful for the EMD and the caller. Having worked out where this lady was, I sent an ambulance out and it transpired that the exhaust was leaking into the car. The kids eventually came to, but if the dad hadn’t started vomiting when he did, they might have died, because they looked like they were just sleeping.
Taking those calls was like reading a particularly vivid book. And it was difficult to know whether the pictures I painted in my head were worse than reality or not. I heard some horrific things and had to talk callers through how to administer CPR on numerous occasions. That’s a hell of a responsibility, and it comes with a heavy dose of impotence. You can tell people how to do something as clearly and calmly as possible – and you can hear them on the other end of the phone – but you have no idea if they’re doing it right.
EMDs hear a lot of screaming and shouting, some of it incomprehensible. But however hysterical the caller was, my job was to stay calm. EMDs are taught ‘repetitive persistence’ and ‘action and reason’. For example, if a caller is screaming down the phone, ‘Help, my dad’s not breathing!’ over and over again, I’d say, ‘I need you to give me your address so we can help your dad.’ And I’d keep saying it until the caller gave me the information I needed. An EMD’s words are fairly scripted, which is why when you listen to 999 documentaries, they often sound quite cold. But if you deviate from the script, you can get into bother. The methods the EMDs use are tried and tested and proven to work, while going off-piste could land you and the patient in trouble.
______
So, this is how I ended up trying to save lives down a telephone, while my twin daughters were fighting for their lives in the hospital. Every now and again someone from the hospital would call to tell us that they’d taken a turn for the worse and we needed to come in immediately. Then they’d rally and I’d go straight back to work. But how are you supposed to concentrate while two of your babies are in intensive care and another one is at home? I was doing twelve-hour shifts, sometimes five days in a row, so I might not see them properly for almost a week. That was soul-destroying.
During that long, agonising period, I became personally acquainted with the NHS and its staff that apparently work miracles, particularly the wonderful doctors and nurses in the neonatal intensive care unit. And eventually, due to their hard work and vigilance, the twins turned the corner. After about six months, they were able to come home, which was an incredible moment. Being able to bring them home was like becoming a father all over again – in more ways than one. Whenever I took them out shopping, I’d have women looking in the pram and saying, ‘Oh, look at these beautiful new-born babies!’ and I’d have to explain that they were actually born the previous year.
Now I had three babies at home and I was still only twenty. It was very difficult to make sense of it. All I could do was try to keep calm, which was easier said than done. Because just when you think that things can’t get any more complicated, life has a habit of chucking a little bit more at you.
3
BURYING TRAUMA
Now me and my girlfriend had three kids together, I thought I needed to make a double effort to keep the relationship going. But things soon started to fall apart, which I had known deep down would happen. It was never going to be easy for a couple so young to bring up three children together. It’s not as if somebody up there flicks a switch and turns you into a perfect parent overnight. That takes a great deal of experience. But then there was the time I got stabbed five times by her mystery bloke, which was harder to get my head around.
I’d been working non-stop when one night I decided to go for a meal and a couple of beers with Neil. I had planned to stay at my mum’s, but when it got to kicking-out time, I decided I might as well go home and see the kids.
When I arrived at the front door, I could hear my eldest screaming her head off. What on earth was going on here? The front door was locked, and I couldn’t get anyone to answer, so eventually I barged it open. I was walking down the hallway when this guy came out of nowhere and attacked me. At first, I thought he’d just punched me, but then I realised I was spurting blood. He’d stabbed me once in the stomach, once in the arm and three times in the chest, before making his escape. Luckily, the last three thrusts of his knife didn’t go in. Unluckily, the first two went in quite deep. As I was standing there, I was thinking, I’m a good guy. I work for the ambulance service. I help people. I don’t deserve this.
I picked up Maddison, gave her a big kiss and a cuddle and said, ‘It’s okay, darling, he’s gone now.’ But when I looked down and saw that my white shirt was now red, reality hit. I felt light-headed, nauseous and befuddled. My girlfriend gathered some towels and phoned 999. One of my colleagues took the call, so they knew straightaway it was me.
An ambulance came, whisked me to the hospital and delivered me to the resuscitation room, where doctors administered investigative surgery. While the doctor was digging around in the wounds to find out if any damage had been done to my organs, my control room manager, Tommy, had his hand on my shoulder and made me feel safe. That was a nice touch and something I stored away for later. Thankfully, no major da
mage had been done. But I still bear the scars to this day, both physical and mental. When the kids ask what happened to me, I tell them I was attacked by a shark.
I didn’t phone my mum and dad until about six hours after I’d been stabbed. Mad as it sounds, I didn’t want to wake them up in the middle of the night. I’d already put them through the wringer – twice – how were they going to react to this? If you think getting stabbed is bad, try telling your folks. I can laugh about it now. But the reality is, if that knife had gone in much deeper, or centimetres to the left or the right, three little kids would have lost their dad and I wouldn’t be telling you this story.
Talk about growing up fast. After I was stabbed, things went a bit jittery, relationship-wise, and I decided it was probably for the best that I end things. I know what some of you older readers are thinking: These kids give up on relationships too easily nowadays. But being stabbed can make you see things in a different way. The girlfriend went off and did her own thing, the kids came home with me and I was now a single parent of three children.
My attacker was soon arrested and, two days after being discharged from hospital, I had to traipse down to the police station in absolute agony. I had stitches in my stomach and arm, cuts all over my chest, and every muscle in my body ached. Regardless, this detective gave me the worst grilling I’d ever had: ‘Did you approach him first? Did you give him any reason to attack you?’ I couldn’t believe it. I felt like crying. At the end she said, ‘I wasn’t doing that to be horrible, but that’s what the questioning would be like if the case went to court. Are you prepared for that to happen?’ I’d just been stabbed five times and become a single parent to three small children, so I replied, ‘You know what, you can stick your court case up your arse, it’s not worth the hassle.’
I should have pursued it all the way, and I’ll never forgive myself for not doing so. But I just wasn’t strong enough, physically or mentally, to fight for justice. As a result, he wasn’t charged. His story was that he wasn’t aware my girlfriend had a partner and that when he heard someone barging through the door, he grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut loose. The sad part is, it’s entirely plausible. If I’d been in a strange house and heard someone kicking the door in, I might have thought it was an intruder and bashed him over the head with something. I sometimes wonder what he’s up to. I only hope he made the most of his second chance.
After the dust had settled, my ex took me to court for full custody. I can only assume that she suddenly had a moment of clarity and realised she’d tossed away a family. Maybe I’m too nice, but I believe that people can change, so I never said she couldn’t see her children. But there was no way she was having them full-time. She lost the case, but it wasn’t pleasant having it all dredged up again. Family court was a stressful place and not somewhere I ever wanted to return to.
It’s difficult to know what kind of psychological effect the attack had on me at the time, because I had no other choice but to bury the trauma. It might sound ridiculous, but other than my family and best mate Neil, I didn’t really tell anyone else about it. No one said to me, ‘Do you need to speak to someone?’ Besides, sharing problems just wasn’t my thing, because I didn’t think anyone would be interested. I enjoyed listening to other people’s stories of glory and woe, and helping out if I could, but I didn’t want to burden anyone with mine. Obviously, people knew what had gone on, but when I met my mates down the pub (not that that was a regular occurrence back then anyway, what with having three babies), the extent of the conversation would be, ‘You all right? Good. What you drinking?’ That’s just the way boys deal with things. Or don’t.
Me and the kids moved back in with Mum and Dad and they became like a second set of parents. And wonderful parents they were too. They had the loft converted, built an extension out the back and went all out to make everything as comfortable as possible. Most parents will do everything they can for their kids, but what they did was above and beyond the call of duty. I can’t even begin to imagine the emotional turmoil I put them through. My sister Lyndsey has a great husband and a perfect family, so I couldn’t help thinking that I was a let-down by comparison and an unwanted burden. But they didn’t make it about them, they made it about me and their grandchildren. I’d never say everything that happened to me was a good thing, but positives came out of it, including bringing us all closer together as a team.
Unfortunately, my mum was away working at the other end of the country, so the help she could offer with childcare was limited. I managed to get a flexible policy through work, but that didn’t go down well with everyone. One female colleague was up in arms that I’d managed to swing a bit of help: ‘A bloke with a flexible working policy? Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I’ve been here for thirty years, and I’ve never had a flexible working policy!’ I felt like sitting her down and saying, ‘I didn’t become a single father of three kids and get stabbed five times on purpose.’ But I decided to get my head down and keep plodding. I haven’t stopped since.
4
A LIFELONG APPRENTICESHIP
Raising three small children as a young single dad was some of the best training for the frontline of the ambulance service I ever had. My alarm would go off at 6 a.m., I’d roll out of bed, grab the kids, line them up, change their nappies, feed them, get them dressed and stagger to the shower. By the time I’d emerged from the bathroom, they’d all be undressed and one, two or three of them would have done a poo or puked. I’d change their nappies and dress them again, while eating a slice of toast, sling them in the car (not literally, although sometimes I felt like it), drive to the nursery, wait for it to open at eight, hand them over and drive to the other side of town to start work in the control room at 8.30.
At 4.30 p.m., I’d finish my shift, attempt to get to the nursery before it closed at six, grab the kids, sling them in the car (again, not literally), take them home, feed them, bath them, put them to bed and fall asleep. And the following day, I’d do almost exactly the same all over again. There might be single mothers reading this and thinking, This is my life! Well, I tip my hat to you. If you can do that every day without losing your marbles, a career in the ambulance service might be for you.
At the time, I thought that my life had been set in stone, that this would be my existence until the end of days: a grinding cycle of long hours at work and domestic drudgery, which is what bringing up babies often felt like to a kid like me. Of course, it wasn’t all a drag. There were those beautiful moments every parent experiences, that made it all seem worthwhile: the first smiles, the first words, the first steps. But it’s not like I had much time to savour them.
Luckily, my mum managed to get relocated and started working nearer to home, which eased some of the pressure and even meant I could go for the odd night out with the boys. But it was around this time that I fell ill. My whole body was in pain like you wouldn’t believe. Every joint and muscle ached, my knee was swollen up like a balloon
and I struggled to get out of bed most mornings.
My doctor referred me to a rheumatologist and he diagnosed something called reactive arthritis, which he said was my body’s response to trauma. Apparently – and I had to take his word for it, rheumatology not being my strong suit – my white blood cells, which are there to fight infection, had started attacking my body for the fun of it, because of the stress it had been under. And they’d got so carried away that they’d started having a go at my joints. The rheumatologist put me on immune suppressants, but when I went back to see him, he told me that I needed to return at 9 a.m. the following morning, because if I didn’t get my knee drained, I might never walk again.
I was due in work the next day, so I phoned my boss, told him what the rheumatologist had told me, suggested I take the day off as leave, and he told me to stop being so silly: ‘It’s just a swollen knee. Can’t it wait a few days?’
‘Not according to the medical professional.’
‘Let me have a word with my bo
ss . . .’
About half an hour later, his boss phoned me: ‘Dan, John’s asked me to call. He’s told me he wants you to know that you’ve got to be in tomorrow. If not, you’ll have to face the consequences.’
I can only assume the apparent lack of understanding was down to a breakdown in communications, but I was in so much pain that I couldn’t ignore it. So I went sick. And when I next saw my consultant, he signed me off work for six months. I’d had three babies in no time at all, split up with my girlfriend, been stabbed five times and was running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to care for the kids and bring some money in. I was a complete wreck and agreed with the consultant that I needed a break. Who wouldn’t in that situation?
Taking that time off was the best thing I ever did. I was able to have a proper sleep during the day while the kids were at nursery. I was able to spend quality time with them, rather than simply get them dressed, wash them and shovel food down their throats.
Having gone through what I went through, I believe that stress can take a bigger toll on the body than the medical world currently understands, perhaps even kill people. But that break gave me the strength I needed to keep carrying on. The illness slowly dissipated and I became myself again. And feeling refreshed, I applied for a job as an emergency medical technician, on the frontline, because I felt I needed a new challenge to go with a new chapter in my life.
999--My Life on the Frontline of the Ambulance Service Page 3