by Steven P. VelasquezDecember 2005
'Twas the night of the squad call when all through the town,
Not a “hero” responded, not one could be found.
Her chest had felt pressure, her lungs short of air,
Praying for an ambulance soon to be there.
The “heroes” were all nestled all snug in their beds,
While images of heroism danced in their heads.
And Mama in her jumpsuit and I, a job shirt
Heard the pager & rolled over – “It’s your third alert!”
When out on my scanner there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to view what’s the matter?!
Away to the scanner I staggered – then belched,
Raised up the volume and lowered the squelch.
The dispatcher yelled to the officers on scene
“Step it up! They called back. The patient’s not breathing!”
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But career Paramedics, no sign of volunteers?
No little old drivers – jump - suits or blue lights,
I knew in a moment our end was in sight.
More rapid than eagles, their medicines came,
As they pushed them, with confidence, and called them by name:
“Now bag her! Now tube her!
Now, Epi Now Fluids!
No breathing! No pulses!
No BLS? How stupid!
To have no responders
Nobody at all?
She’s passed away, passed away
Maybe next call.
