Mulligatawny

Huh?

Fair warning - graphic discriptions ahead, sorry.

Just a fairness disclaimer to anyone launched from gasguy's blog - No. - Its a joke.

It is what it is, a stream of my fertile minds mush of what I do, what I think, and such. Click away, anytime, and aloha.

There are things we all do that give cause to what was done.

Huh, again?

Shit happens, 'cause of shit you do. Karma. Justice. Bad/Good luck.

Bad shit happens to good people, and vice-versa. In the line of work I have, I have really great satisfaction days. When every call is minor, every save happens, and no one dies. People, in my work, die all the time. Sometimes, we rescue them, from incredibly stupid moves they have made. Hopefully, they recover to see ... "hey, that was dumb! Maybe I shouldnt do that/attempt that again!" So not knowing what any readers pre-work thoughts are like, I open my mush to you.
I work a 24 hour shift. Coffee starts every day. And a cigarette. (I know, I tried to do it to get Lady C to quit, and fucked myself up) Take the anti-smoke rant elsewhere, Thanks! First impressions on a bad day - what are you up against? Did the family have a fucker of a day yesterday? Did the Hotel De Hell job crimp my attitude into a foil ball? Yes to both?

Well I better get OVER it, 'cause that shit dont matter squat to the public.

And they pay me to help them.

We clean, we fix, we drill. We cook for the guys in the 'house. We teach the public CPR. We inspect buildings, business'.

We bandage, aid, and assist invalids. We clean up fuel. We clean up oil.

By God, we even put out fires!

And we clean up and try to put back together ... people.

So i try to have a fairly decent attitude before going to the 'house. Mine, and others lives depend on it.

I have only myself, and these words to support my toxic mush that comes from the things I see. I leave Lady C out of it, for the most part, 'cause it isnt the most pleasant subject when your time is limited together. But at times, I talk shit with her.

Mostly, it sits in a package, stuffed in a corner, brought out only to remember why I do what I do.

The first time I performed CPR on a Gramma, and I broke almost all her ribs, now there is a sound you wont hear everyday. So much so, that it doesnt. And that is doing CPR correctly. But that sound, is planted. There are other times, as well, that the sound comes back, and it reminds me to train as hard as possible to be the best I can at the task.

A crispy critter is what we affectionately call burned corpses. Not nice, but black humor is what it is. It is Black. This isnt a playground, and recess is not in session. The job is to put out a fire, and if the deceased, could have been saved, probably would have been. Sometimes we lose. What would your feelings be if you steeped into their chest, and did not know it? Trying to extinguish the flames, the ones that took his life? What would you do if that same boot knocked open the contents of his brain, and scattered them all over the same boot? And you didnt know it, till overhauling the room? Would you feel guilty? Foolish? Uncaring? Pack it away in the package in the back, please.

The child is blue. There is froth coming from the mouth. There is no time for personal protective equipment. Do you let the child die? Really. Do you? Because according to procedures, you wont be covered for injury, if you dont use city issued protective devices at a call. So in that split second, do you risk getting anything from AIDS to HEP A, B, C or what other disease? Or do you grab the child, cradle them in your arms, cover the mouth, suck out the disgusting mix of puke, mucus, and what else, and start CPR? If the child lives, what? If you get sick? What then?

What do you do in a split second?

Where do you put that fear, that extended feeling of helping?

Pack it up, and stow it away.

Part of the head is one way, and the neck is facing the other. And the coagulating blood is forming a large blue-black mass of color. It is Thick. Stick your gloved hand in there, and feel for a pulse. None? Come back later, after the morgue guys pick up the victim, and clean the body parts, and brain matter, up. Box the feelings up.

I am sorry if it disgusts, any readers.

The boxing up permits me to do my job a step at a time. I have to, segment the stuff away, so that I can help those at the immediate time. 'Cause I aint good for shit, if my ass isnt on straight.

So I go surf, wash all the shit off.

Go to work.

Have a cup of coffee.

A cig.

Look at the sun shine.

Smile.

And thank God, the universe, my kids, my Lady C...

That they all have faith in me, and I them.

Really.

Aloha.