I’ve seen some horrendous things, but my mind is capable of conjuring even worse. I had another nightmare recently in which I was sent to a major incident. When I arrived on the scene, I found a load of my colleagues lying dead. A psychologist would have a field day with that one. It was a horrible vision and I woke up soaked through with sweat. But it’s possible the nightmare had a positive message: what’s the worst thing that can happen if you get ill or have an accident? That there will be nobody there to help you. That tells you how incredibly important ambulance workers are to society.
My brief appearance atop Heat magazine’s Manometer aside, ambulance workers don’t have the sexiest of images among the public. Teenage girls do not have posters on their wall of paramedics stripped to the waist, as they might of a firefighter. Authors do not write books about fictional ambulance workers, and directors rarely make films about the ambulance service, as they often do about the police force. And sometimes when I tell people I’m an ambulance person, they give me a look that says, ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
I sometimes say I became an ambulance person by accident. But it can’t have been that much of an accident, because I’m still doing the job fifteen years later. And I do the job because I want to. The hours and workload are trying, rendering us permanently weary and often stressed. We see things that make us question humanity. And when we think we’ve seen it all – which is a common occurrence – something will happen that makes us realise we probably never will. The work can transform people into emotional wrecks or make them cold and detached, and neither is ideal. The pay is decidedly average and we often feel underappreciated, neglected and disrespected. Sometimes we get punched. Sometimes we get spat at. But most people seem to understand that we’re only trying to help.
It’s easy to become cynical about the ambulance service and the NHS in general when you’re exposed to their inner workings. But when the public needs us, and despite the glitches, we usually come up trumps. I will never forget the people who came to my rescue when I was stabbed and my twins were in special care. Their desperation to make things better was palpable. And most people will have similar stories about the ambulance service.
We’re there when you’re a baby and running a wicked fever, when you fall out of a tree and break your arm, when you drink too much and pass out, when you crash your car, when you’re having a heart attack, when you fall over in the garden, when you can’t get out of bed, when you’re nearing the end and you want someone to help you die in a dignified manner.
I’m tremendously proud to say I work for the ambulance service and I have a deep love for the job. It might not be the sexiest occupation, but it’s one of the most rewarding. How many people can say they arrived home late from work or missed their child’s sports day because they were saving someone’s life? Or making someone’s last moments on earth as comfortable as possible? Or listening to the first cries and splutters of a newborn baby? How many people can say they really make a difference? I care passionately about the people I treat. I’ve had moments when I’ve thought, Do I really need this? But then I think, Even if I don’t need this job, the people I treat need me.
We start out in the job wide-eyed and idealistic, thinking we can save every patient we deal with. That naivety soon gives way to narrow-eyed cynicism and the harsh realisation that some patients are simply beyond help. In some ways, medical professionals are like professional sportspeople. The things they remember most vividly are the things that go wrong. For a footballer, it might be missing a penalty or being sent off in a cup final. For an ambulance person, it might be a murdered child dying in their arms. And, in common with a lot of boxers, an ambulance person’s work can take more than it gives and leave them feeling punch-drunk and gun-shy.
It makes me sad when I hear people say, ‘I’ve got no sympathy for the ambulance service’ – maybe because they had to wait for hours for an ambulance to turn up while a loved one was writhing in pain. It’s nothing personal and, 99.9 per cent of the time, ambulance staff aren’t responsible for turning up late. I’d like people to know what a great set of people ambulance workers are and that despite everything they’re up against, they’re doing a wonderful job. There is no typical frontline ambulance person. They come from all different walks of life, which makes it a diverse, exciting workforce. But they all share one thing in common: a love for their patients, a love for their colleagues and a love for the job.
Ambulance workers tend to be very stoic and very humble. They don’t do the job for praise. They do it because they want to help people. A problem with humble people is that they are easy to ignore, take for granted and take advantage of. I feel huge loyalty to the public and my colleagues. And not just my colleagues in the ambulance service, but also in other parts of the NHS, the fire service, prison service and police force – or indeed any public servant who is doing a difficult job in incredibly trying circumstances. Writing this book was the best present I could give them. I hope my colleagues will read it and say, ‘Thank God someone else has spoken up about the problems we face.’
Ambulance people are doing the best they can with what they’ve got, which is never enough. And it’s important to remember that the ambulance service isn’t just made up of paramedics, technicians and EMDs. There are also mechanics, IT people, telecommunications people, cleaners, people who do the rotas, people who purchase our equipment. Remove one of these branches and the whole ambulance service would come crashing down.
I also hope that people might now understand that when an ambulance person says they’re fine, they might not be fine at all. If you have a mate working in the ambulance or emergency services or the NHS, maybe phone them up and ask them how they are. And don’t take ‘fine’ for an answer.
As for me, things are marginally less stressful on my new patch in the sticks. I’m also studying to become a paramedic, rather than a technician. But will I work for the ambulance service for ever? No, because I know that when I’m sixty-seven, I won’t be able to provide the service my patients deserve. Sometimes I think I’d like to go back and work in a garden centre. No real responsibilities, just chinwagging with people about plant pots and geraniums. Dig the fish net out every now and again and chase a carp around the pond. That’ll do me.
But when I do hang up my keys in the station for the last time, I’ll miss the job and the sheer thrill of helping people like hell. It’s a tough gig, but someone has to do it. And I’m glad it’s me. I feel like the luckiest man in the world.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the folks at Simon & Schuster for giving me the opportunity to write this book, and their subsequent guidance, especially Ian Marshall and Melissa Bond. Thanks to my ghost writer, Ben Dirs, for his passion and commitment in making the scattered parts of an ambulance person’s life into a coherent whole. And thanks to my colleagues in the emergency services and NHS for their incredible work and support when things got tough.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAN FARNWORTH is an ambulance medic based in the north of England who has worked in the emergency services for fifteen years. He is the founder of Our Blue Light, a campaign to raise awareness of mental health issues in the emergency services, and won the ITV NHS Heroes Award for Mental Health Champion of the Year.
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020
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Copyright © Dan Farnworth, 2020
The right of Dan Farnworth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8442-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-8443-7
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