Dear Paramedic Clearly On Her Break

Don't worry, we're fine

(Don’t worry, we’re fine over here)

Dear Paramedic, Clearly On Your Break,

Little did you know, your act of kindness this weekend made a world of difference to a relatively new mother who decided to bring her 20-month-old along to a bang trim.

I felt extra proud of myself for choosing to bring C on this outing. I had little room for error—the salon is one of those intimate single stylist studios in a Salon Republic, so there was nowhere for C to wander, a bang trim takes 15 minutes max, and my purse looked like the snack aisle at Sprouts. About 10 minutes from the salon, you noticed me turn into the fire station, a bit aggressively. You sat in the driver’s seat of the ambulance with the door hung open, and you scrolled on your phone as any of us would do on our break.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, “my daughter threw up all over herself. I’ll just be a minute to clean it up if it’s ok I park here.” This wasn’t my first rodeo with car throw-up. I knew I wouldn’t be able to make my appointment and that my stylist would thankfully understand this particular plight of motherhood.

Instead of nodding or simply saying, “ok,” you asked to help. You proceeded to walk into the fire station and bring back a roll of paper towels, disinfectant wipes (not to be used on the face, you reminded me), trash bags, and latex gloves. You handed me paper towels as I carefully reached into the pool of vomit that layered the car seat buckle. You asked me where I was off to and I noticed that you, also, had bangs (and, might I say, beautiful voluminous dark brown hair).

“Thank you so much,” I offered. “You probably have to deal with throw up more than you’d like to.”

“Yes, but I don’t mind when it’s from a kid.” You told me about how you wore your vomited-on clothes for the rest of the day after helping a boy who was having a seizure. Saint.

I’m not sure if you intended it, but you helped me feel grateful for a healthy kid (minus the car sickness) in an otherwise tough moment.

You continued to hand me supplies, alternating between paper towels and disinfectant wipes, as I pulled C out of the car and stripped her down to her diaper. You held one trash bag open for vomit-soaked paper towels and another trash bag open for C’s vomit-soaked Gap t-shirt with a lemon on it. I knew the clothes would need to be hosed down before machine washing, risking a fishy smell that would linger in the machine for weeks (yes, I know this from experience). These trash bags were paper, the material of a medical gown worn at the gynecologist. I thought about how often they were filled with clothes soiled with bodily fluids and again felt lucky it was only vomit.

You offered to stand with C as I grabbed an extra set of clothes from the trunk (which I still need to replace). You tried for a high five, but C felt too shy. Exposed. I understood. But you didn’t take it personally. You said, “that’s ok, sweet girl.” I replaced C’s shirt with another that was far too small and used disinfectant wipes to clean the car seat straps as much as possible. I layered paper towels on the seat to protect C from more wet discomfort. I felt your empathy as I struggled to put a still-crying C back into the smelly car seat. You told me my teary-eyed, smelly toddler with vomit crusted on her mouth was adorable.

You told me I could keep the rest of the roll of paper towels in my car. They’re still there and I will think of you whenever I use them. You helped us feel safe in an unsafe moment on the side of the road.

Thank you for the kindness, for the support. Thank you for helping me mother, for making the derailment feel tolerable. Thank you for curbing the negative thoughts I otherwise would’ve battled about how I should have chosen the slightly longer, less windy route. Thank you for reminding me that good humans fill the world, especially after a week of war-related nightmares.

My only regret is that I didn’t take you up on the latex gloves.

With gratitude,

The woman in the white Mazda

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