Death

CREATIVE WRITING | ISSUE TEN | ISOLATION

Written By Adam McGarvey (he/him) | @harpertownnz | Contributing Writer

Landscape with the crossing of the Styx - by Joachim Patinir (1520-1525)

We had been called to a "potential overdose" - a considerable understatement. I knew before we arrived it would be Zane, our frequent flyer.

Zane had clearly overdosed several days prior and was now assuming room temperature. He'd failed to check in with his parole officer, so the Police had been called. They saw the drug paraphernalia, the homemade tourniquet with a needle hanging precariously out of his vein, then called us.

Standing in the apartment of a drug addict is a humbling experience. It is a stark reminder of a path not taken. This job is invasive. We go into houses, take off clothes and go through drawers but this apartment had nothing to invade. No furniture except a dirty worn mattress in the middle of the floor with a half-torn blanket. No food in the fridge, no books on the shelves, no TV. Just Zane's body and the life he'd left behind.

I felt a familiar mental split, one every paramedic knows. You can approach this job cold, uncaring, burnt out or you can carry the baggage and leave a small piece of your soul behind after every painful job. I've always been the second, despite desperately wanting to be the first. I don't understand how you can be completely disconnected but I'm often criticised for being too involved.

I was trying not to care tonight, but I did. It's just the way I'm wired.

Tonight would be our last night together, Zane and I. I'd spent my entire career interacting with him, watching him transition from a young man suffering acute alcoholism through a slow descent into the gentle warm embrace of heroin. Now he was just another dead patient, sad as that is to say.

Milling around the room was a police officer who I didn't recognise, clearly senior. You can usually tell who is by how they carry themselves around a deceased person. For most of us on frontline, death is a dime a dozen. The first one is awful, the second one less so. Slowly it becomes routine.

The senior officer was on the phone, pacing back and forth. I mouthed to him, "Can I bring your offsider in?" He shrugged and motioned towards the door.

Like any traumatic situation, our first interaction sets a standard that we follow through our lives. No one ever wants death but it's part of the job. I think it's important that we get it right. I remember my first, and for the officer standing outside the apartment, this was her first.

I walked outside. She was leaning up against a wall, early 20s, fresh out of police college. Uniform slightly too big, too much make up, head down. I asked her, "Please come inside, this is important." Reluctantly, she stood up straight and moved to follow me, never looking me in the eye.

I led her towards Zane and stopped.

"I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This was Zane. What made him a person, able to interact and care and love, is gone now."

"What is gone is a thing known by many names. You might call it his spirit, or maybe his soul."

"What is left is the vessel that Zane used in this world."

"The most caring, most loving thing that we can do for Zane is to take care of that vessel for him, not because we want to, but because we have to. We have no other options left."

I paused and looked at her. She looked at the ceiling, then back to the ground without looking at anything in between.

I continued.

"Are you familiar with Greek mythology?" I asked.

She looked at me, puzzled. "Not really."

"Have you seen Hercules?"

"The Disney movie?" she said. "When I was a kid."

"Perfect, you know Greek mythology then."

I walked around Zane and stood opposite her.

"We are standing on the banks of the River Styx, the river that separates the world of the living from the world of the dead. No one else is standing on the banks for Zane tonight. If we weren't here, no one would be. We are here because there is no one else coming. The only thing we can do is the last thing we can do. We are helping Zane cross the river and on to whatever comes next."

She shifted her weight on her legs and dropped her shoulders a touch. Her eyes moved from the floor to Zane's face.

Her breathing had changed, slower now, more purposeful.

I knelt down beside Zane.

"Zane, unfortunately this is our last dance, my friend. The undertakers will come to collect you soon. We will call Mum and let her know what has happened. Do you have any questions?"

Zane didn't respond.

I didn't expect him to.

But you never know.

"Are you going to call his mum?" the young officer asked.

"No, that is actually a job for you guys," I said.

The senior officer interrupted his call. "They've already been dispatched and will be speaking with her shortly."

"What horrible news to receive, she's going to be devastated," she said as she knelt down beside me.

"She will be and the pain will be overwhelming, but I can promise you that the last thing she will feel tonight before she goes to bed is relief." The young officer looked me in the eye for the first time.

"Zane has lived a hard life and has suffered an extraordinary amount of pain. She will mourn his death like any parent would and will wonder what could have been. But most of all, she will be relieved that the pain is over and thankful she doesn't have to spend another night wondering if he is OK. She won't like that she is thankful, but she will be."

She looked at me and I looked at her. Her hand hovered for a moment, uncertain, before she reached down and held Zane's hand.

Her first.