The End

She was face down at the bottom of the brick stairs leading up to the house and even from the sidewalk it was clear to see that her neck was broken, and this would be a non-transport.  Good.  I had to pee, needed another cup of coffee, and was already three pieces of paperwork behind.  The day sucked.

 
The cops had beaten us to the scene and were diligently performing the stare of life at the body.  Also good.  Had they decided that today was the day to try out any of the skills they had learned in their first responder class, we would have had to continue care and work up this very dead corpse.  

 
I hefted the first in bag over my shoulder, cursing its weight and the ache that immediately returned to my back as we ambled down the front walkway to the dead lady.  With a curt nod to the cops, I knelt down, and put my fingers on her neck, checking for the pulse that wouldn’t be there.  Then, got out my stethoscope, and placed it on her back, listening for the sounds of breathing that wouldn’t be there.  Right.  Done and done.  Time to go.

Standing up, I took a step back to where my partner John was joking with the cops about the drunk we had transported earlier.  Standing quietly and staring at the dead woman was a wizened old man, his face sporting the deep lines and permanent tan of a person who had spent his life outside working.  

“Did you know her?  Can you give us some information about her?  I need to do some paperwork.”

He was silent, still looking at the woman.  Then he turned his face to me, and in his eyes was a grief so overwhelming that it would have had another, weaker human being on their knees wailing.  It had never occurred to me that this man standing quietly next to the officers without the least trace of histrionics was her husband.  

I took in her recently permed gray hair, and the flower print apron tied neatly in a bow at her back.  I saw the broom lying askew at the bottom of the perfectly clean stairs that she had fallen down while trying to sweep.  I saw the flower beds surrounding the door, lovingly tended and free of weeds.  I heard the keening of a dog from inside of the house, vocalizing the grief that the husband couldn’t put sound to.  I saw a lifetime of loving care given to husband, children and grandchildren.  Casseroles delivered to neighbors.  Cups of tea handed to laughing friends.  Once strong hands continuing to tend to her home despite the arthritic knots threatening their function.  

I was surprised to feel hot tears pouring out of my eyes.  I was even more surprised to feel my arms wrapping around her husband.  He began to shudder, and clung to me with the desperation of a drowning man.  

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.  “I am so very sorry.”  I was apologizing for his loss.  But also for so much more.  I was appalled at the lack of decency we had brought to the scene of his wife’s death.  Through his eyes, I saw how our behavior appeared; our callous lack of concern for the woman at the bottom of the stairs.  My curtness, John’s joking, and the cop’s disinterest.  We were disgusting and inhuman.  I couldn’t do this anymore.  I had become someone I didn’t recognize and didn’t like.  I was done.