The Paramedic's Daughter

by Tara Lyons

  ‘I don’t usually let her have sweets.’ Despite the continued sobs, the mum seems to have regained some control over her sentences. ‘But it’s a party. The stupid piñata was my idea. How could I be so reckless?’

  ‘No time for all that now, my love. Do you know what Tilly was eating?’ Dave reads my mind – asking the question I would have – as I grab a laryngoscope from the bag, open the girl’s mouth and use it to look deeper in her airway.

  ‘I filled it with loads of different sweets. She must have grabbed one of the bigger ones – what are they called, gobstoppers? – while I wasn’t looking. I called an ambulance straight away, and Mark here even clapped her on the back, but it was… it was…’ The wails return, and the woman buries her face in her brother’s chest again.

  ‘It didn’t work. I couldn’t get it out,’ Mark said. ‘She was gasping for air, the poor mite, and then… just as we heard your sirens, Tilly stopped breathing completely.’

  ‘I can see the sweet,’ I calmly say while picking up the forceps to use alongside the laryngoscope – its small light aiding me also.

  Dave kneels down next to me. ‘It’s already been a few minutes since her last breath, Abi. I think we should do a needle cric–’

  ‘A what?’ The mother spins round and hunches over me. I can feel her hot erratic exhales on the back of my neck. ‘What are you going to do to my baby?’

  ‘We may need to get front-of-neck access to Tilly. It won’t get the sweet out, but the incision in her neck will allow ventilation to her lungs.’

  The mother replies with a high-pitched shriek. The rest of her cries are muffled as Mark pulls his sister away from me.

  Despite my explanation of the procedure, I ignore Dave’s suggestion and continue to use the forceps. ‘No, I’ve got this. I can do it.’

  ‘Abi, there’s no need for risks. We need to get her breathing.’

  Dave’s hovering over me. The beads of sweat building at the front of his forehead are hard to ignore. He’s always had this look of Prince William about him – of a man who aged too soon, lost most of his hair and took the weight of the world on his shoulders too early in life. It occurs to me then that I have no idea how old he is. I’ve always assumed he’s in his forties, like me. Who knows?

  The look of doubt on his face is clear. Doesn’t he believe I can do this? Do I really believe I can do this? Maybe he’s right. I should just use a cannula to create a small hole in the girl’s throat… but no, there’s no need to do that. I lock eyes with him, steady my voice and say, ‘I can get her breathing without needing access to the front of her neck, Dave.’

  I sound so formal in the midst of chaos, I surprise myself – and convince myself too.

  Slowly, my hand hovers over Tilly’s small lips, which now have a hint of blue to them, and I pull her chin down as far as I can. My fingers flex before lowering the forceps into her mouth and throat, her reclining position assisting the movement. The sound of a clock ticking rings in my ears – I have no idea whether it’s a real clock in the room that I was unaware of before, or if my mind has conjured a cruel timer that only I can hear, reminding me that every second longer I take is a second longer that this little girl’s brain is starved of oxygen. Finally, the forceps clink against the hard-boiled sweet, and with swift automatic movements I use the pincers to pull the obstruction from Tilly’s airway.

  ‘Dave, pass me the bag and mask.’

  My partner is ready and waiting, and we swap equipment seamlessly.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Mark calls from behind me.

  ‘Abi managed to reach the sweet, but Tilly is hypoxic–’

  ‘What?’ the mother cries.

  ‘Tilly is lacking oxygen, so Abi is using the bag valve mask which is connected to the oxygen to help her breathe.’ I can hear the calmness in Dave’s voice.

  ‘Oh, baby girl, come on. Breathe for Mummy. Come on, birthday girl. Come on…’

  Drowning out the mother’s voice, which feels very close to my ear again, I continue to give Tilly five rescue breaths. Just as I count the last one, the little girl groans under the mask.

  I breathe myself – one slow, deep exhale – before requesting Dave returns to the ambulance so he can radio ahead to The Royal Free Hospital.

  ‘Tills, baby, can you hear me? It’s Mummy.’

  I hold the mother back from the child slightly. ‘Please, we still need to give Tilly some space. She’s coming around but she’s going to be very groggy and confused because of the hypoxia. We can’t be sure how this affected her body. Just give her some time.’

  ‘W-w-what–’ Tilly’s soft voice is cut off by the roughness of her throat.

  ‘Don’t try to speak, Tilly,’ I whisper softly. ‘You’re safe and your mummy and Uncle Mark are here with you. Don’t you worry.’

  The woman throws her arms around my neck and I have to use my free hand to balance on the floor, so we both don’t topple backwards.

  ‘Thank you so much, Abi. Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she whispers in my ear.

  Dave’s back in the room, and when the woman finally lets me go, I smile. ‘And you are?’

  She frowns. ‘I’m Tilly’s mum.’

  ‘I meant your name.’

  She smiles for the first time. ‘Dee. Dee Williams.’

  ‘Well, Ms Williams, we need to take Tilly to the hospital straight way. You’re more than welcome to ride along with us.’

  The tears return and gush silently down Dee’s face. She shakes her head as Dave and I transfer the weak little girl from the floor to the stretcher. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I could never have done what you just did right in front of us. And thank you for not cutting my baby’s neck open. You’re a hero. No, not just any old hero, you’re my hero. You saved my little girl and she means the world to me.’

  Once outside, greeted by cheer and applause from the relieved family members and friends, I ask Dave to ride in the back with the Williams. It’s only a short journey to the hospital, but I need to be alone, get my heart beating at a normal speed again. My hands didn’t shake once while I held the forceps in little Tilly’s mouth. Now they’re gripped around the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are pure white because… well, because I’m so afraid that if I let go, they’ll shake so much that they’ll never stop.

  It’s an honour to be called a hero, of course it is, yet I never feel like one because this is my job. I’m here to save that small child and anyone else who calls 999, and while it’s not an easy thing to do, the thought of that little girl lying in her living room – during her own birthday party – not making it… that’s what makes me do it. Not every patient is saved, sadly. It does happen, lives are lost. It’s happened to me and most paramedics I know, and we certainly don’t feel like heroes on those days – we’re not called heroes on those days, either. So perhaps I should take it when I can. Take the hugs and kind words from the mums and dads and all the family members, because I gave them that happiness, and in that moment in their lives, I am their hero.

  I sniff back the threatening tears, the overspill of emotion that I had to keep hold of while I was in that house, the overwhelming feeling I had to burst into tears when I heard Tilly inhale the stuffy air surrounding us. The aftermath of a job is intense, but my God it’s easier than losing a patient. Knowing that six-year-old girl is safe in the back of my ambulance with Dave and her mum should bring a smile to my face, and so I let it. I know Tilly and Dee have stamped themselves on my memory – their cries and wails and questions of confusion, their small voices and innocent faces – and I won’t be forgetting the mother and daughter any time soon.

  After what seems like hours since we left the Williams home, we’re finally ready to sign off from the job – now that Tilly and mum Dee are settled in at the hospital. Dave and I took some time in the canteen to grab a bite to eat and fill out our report, but he’s gone off somewhere and I’m left waiting for him once again. Standing alone at the entrance of the A&E, I tuc
k myself behind the van where no one can see me and wait to return to the station. In a world so hectic and full of people – a lot of them wanting your attention, especially when you’re in uniform and looking idle at a hospital – it’s nice to just step back for a minute and watch it all move around you. To go unnoticed can be a good thing, sometimes.

  The hectic day has disappeared behind a cloak of quiet darkness, and the large moon dominates the black, starless sky. My mum had a saying about this, that the crazies came out with a full moon. I’d sigh, explaining her use of language to describe these criminals was offensive and inaccurate, but she was old school and refused to change; her inappropriateness has only magnified since living at the hospice. I also wanted her to understand that I’ve worked many jobs – day and night, full moon, half-moon and no moon – and there are plenty of delinquents out there. The lunar cycle, the weather, the time of the year doesn’t seem to make a difference. I think if something’s destined to happen, it’ll happen, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. We’ve all got our quirky ways of thinking to get us through life, I guess.

  Something Dee said to me earlier rings in my ears like the siren from my ambulance: You saved my little girl and she means the world to me. My heart hurts and I’ve never wanted to be hugged so badly. By my own mum… and by Rose.

  I grab my phone and ring my daughter’s number. There’s a few seconds of ringing before the voicemail kicks in and greets me again. My hand shakes, and I feel the mobile tremble in my fingers as my frustration morphs into fear. Clicking on the WhatsApp icon, I pull up Rose’s profile – the picture shows her gorgeous smiling face, big red lips and poker-straight black hair – and wait for the device to tell me when she was last seen online. Yesterday afternoon. Before she left the voicemail on my phone.

  The wind is knocked right out of me as I slide down the side of the ambulance. You just know – as a parent that is – you just know these things, and this is not a good sign. It’s been two full days since I’ve heard my daughter’s voice, and while I know that isn’t extreme, the fact that she hasn’t been on WhatsApp for well over twenty-four hours is unheard of.

  Deep breaths, Abi. Slowly in and out.

  She’s a grown woman, for crying out loud, so what if she hasn’t been on her phone?

  But when is Rose without her phone? It would need to be surgically removed from her hand.

  Perhaps it’s broken, drunkenly dropped down the loo at some party.

  But then she would have contacted me another way.

  This is trivial. So what if she hasn’t been on WhatsApp?

  But it’s how I’ve always checked in on her. It’s how I know she’s okay. Rose is always on some form of social media.

  ‘Jesus, Abi, are you that dog-tired you need to wait for me on the ground?’ Dave says with a laugh. His face turns serious when I look up at him. ‘Shit, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Rose for two days and her phone keeps going to voicemail,’ I blurt out, and it feels pathetic saying it aloud, especially from my crumbling position down here, but I continue anyway, ‘You’ll think I’m nuts, Dave. But we’re more than just mother and daughter, we’re best friends, and I’ve never gone this long without speaking to her. With everything that happened in the city yesterday, she would have wanted to check I’m okay. It would have been all over the news and–’

  ‘Whoa, calm down,’ he interrupts me, and hands me a packet of pocket tissues from his jacket. He says nothing, just waits for me to sort myself out, then puts his hand out. ‘Come on, I’m not joining you on the ground. My back hates me enough as it is from carting these patients back and forth.’

  His smile is infectious, and I can’t help returning one, as slight as it may be, while taking his hand and letting him pull me up. Dave places a large palm on each of my cheeks and his touch causes an electric shock to pass between us. He stays firm; his blue eyes bore into mine.

  ‘It doesn’t sound stupid that the two of you are best friends. My mum and sister were exactly the same.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Dave. We’ve never had a big family like yours. It’s me and Rose, just the two of us. That’s how it’s always been. We’ve been through so much…’ I stop myself.

  He releases my face and steps back. He’s nodding, as if he agrees and understands, but I can tell he’s about to argue against what I’m feeling.

  ‘Abi, you’re overreacting. I have no doubt how close the two of you are… but she’s caught up in one of life’s biggest rites of passage. It’s university, for heaven’s sake. Rose is busy doing things she doesn’t want her mum to know about. I mean, come on, you have to understand that. You took off completely; Scotland, wasn’t it?’

  I flinch. ‘How do you know that’s where I went to uni?’

  He frowns, but his smile stays in place as he shrugs. ‘Dunno. Adele probably mentioned it to me. My point is, as much as Rose is your best friend – and you hers – she is meeting new people and it’s one big funfair in your first year.’

  I try to let Dave’s sensible words wash over me, convince me that I am overreacting and he’s completely right. But I can’t shake the memory of my first year at university, and the people I met, and that’s exactly what leads me back to panic.

  ‘Look, why don’t we go for a drink, take your mind off everything?’

  He’s sweet and charming, and with his remaining wispy hair and pearly white smile, he really does look like a prince right now. I’ve never wanted a knight in shining armour – or a prince for that matter – to save me. If I had, my life might be completely different today.

  ‘Thanks, Dave, but no. Not tonight, anyway. I just want to get home.’

  ‘Fair dos. You know where I am if you change your mind. Jump in, I’ll drive us back,’ he says, and vanishes into the ambulance.

  Involuntarily, my chest jerks and I heave. I have no control over the retching motion and the bile escaping my mouth. I spit it on the ground, use the tissue to dry my lips and chin and walk round to the passenger door of the van. Regardless of Dave’s calming words, my mind feels numb, with one question spinning in circles around it: why can’t I get in contact with Rose?

  Chapter 7

  I’m home. Not quite sure how I got here – on autopilot, perhaps – but here I am, still wearing my coat. No lights are on in the house, and I’m sat on the sofa with my phone in my hand. I’ve checked them all, all the different ways Rose and I communicate: Facebook, Snapchat, WhatsApp, Instagram. They’re not only the methods we use, but they are her links to the world too; like most people nowadays.

  Yet Rose hasn’t posted one picture, been tagged in one status or sent one message. Why? I’m really trying not to overreact – trying to put Dave’s sensible words on repeat and not let my brain go to the most awful places, but I can’t help it. I’ve seen teenagers and young people on the streets, alone and afraid in London because they’ve lost their friends, they’ve been mugged or beaten up – both, more often than not – or they’ve been knocked down by a speeding car. Sometimes, it’s not their home town and they’re dazed or confused and don’t know what to do. Just like Brighton isn’t Rose’s home town – a town as busy and bustling as London.

  But she has her uni friends, her housemates, and they wouldn’t abandon her, would they?

  My fingers dance across the screen of my phone. They have no purpose. They don’t know which app to select. I’m instructing my digits to contact her friends, press call on their numbers, until I realise I don’t have their contact details. Can that be true? Have I really never asked Rose for an emergency contact number? A friend’s or a housemate’s? I have numbers for her school friends – hell, I even know where some of them live – but none of them went to Brighton University, so what would be the point? Surely she wouldn’t be in contact with one of them before trying to call me again?

  It’s Rose’s first year of university. How could I not have asked for contact numbers? My panic turns to anger, the darkness of
the room enveloping my mood while I grow madder and madder at myself. When she had chosen to rent a large house with four strangers rather than apply for halls of residence on campus, I’d been a bit dubious. As always, Rose talked me round to her way of thinking – it was still close to uni, but it was cheaper, and she wouldn’t have to house search again during her course. Wouldn’t that have been my cue to run a check on who she was actually living with? If she had chosen to live in halls, if I had fought a bit harder against her decision, I could probably ring the campus now and check in on her.

  Really, Abi? Because yes, there’s someone employed by Brighton University to work on campus and shield calls from worried parents up and down the country – overseas probably have their own dedicated hotline, of course – and personally visit each halls of residence to check said child is alive and well and not comatose in a pool of their own hung-over vomit.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I need to get out of my own head before I send myself insane. Okay, it’s a Saturday evening and I’m off rota now for two days. Get your sensible cap on, Abi.

  I switch on the lamp, shed my coat and boots and decide to run a warm bath. The last forty-eight hours have been manic and I’m not thinking straight. While the water’s running, I’ll check the train times to Brighton tomorrow morning and just head up there. Rose is not in any danger. She’s being a forgetful free-spirited student in her first year of uni, and I’m just a cool mum on a surprise visit on my day off.

  Sorted.

  Except my foot isn’t even on the first stair and the landline rings. My entire body is attacked with a voltage of nerves that makes me run to the phone without even thinking. My hand shudders as I reach for it. It can only be bad news. Who calls landlines any more? I only have it because it came as a package deal with the Internet.