love letter

To the Brandeis community,

This is what happens when you call BEMCo.

When the pager goes off, I will most likely swear, sometimes rather loudly, since I’m probably being interrupted. I might be making dinner or watching a movie or trying to finish that lab report that is due tomorrow and why didn’t I start sooner? But I will turn on my radio, put on my shoes and jacket, and wait for someone to come get me to take me to you.

I will see you at your worst: sick, scared, drunk, unresponsive, covered in your own vomit, bleeding, alone, embarrassed—sometimes, just having a bad day. These things happen to everyone—everyone falls down or drinks too much or just doesn’t feel well sometimes. I will sit with you, hold your hand, and say just that. “Don’t apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong,” I find myself saying so much.

People often complain about how boring it is to be the secondary—on paper, our duty is to fill out the paperwork. Our job is to ask you, “Where do you live? What’s your social security number? Do you have Brandeis insurance?” It gets boring. We stand around, get things from the truck, get in the way. I’ve realized that this is the absolute bare minimum for what the secondary should do. The primary’s job is to direct medical care—and you will be well cared for in that respect, I assure you—and the tertiary’s is to take vitals. I’ve taken it upon myself to care for you. I want to make sure that even if you do not remember my name, remember my face, you will remember that you did not feel alone.

I will explain things to you in a way that you will understand. If you need to go, I will try to find your wallet, your phone, your shoes. No one likes being in the hospital without these things. Depending on what happened, I may ride with you to the hospital, or I may help take you down to the ambulance. Whatever happens, I will tell you what is happening every step of the way, and when we get there, I will say to you, “I hope that when we see each other again, it will be under better circumstances.” Or I may say to you as they load you into the ambulance, “Feel better—” and I will call you by your name. I do not want you to be just a call statistic number.

I will return to my life, and eventually, you will return to yours. Perhaps our paths will cross. Like middle schoolers who like each other, I cannot make the first move. So you may—I’ve been hugged, thanked, apologized to. I never expect it, so when it happens, it’s the highlight of my week. Just seeing you back on campus and healthy is reward enough—everything else is a bonus. I really cannot express this in words.

Or you may not remember me, which is what I generally expect. I’ll probably look at you a little longer than most when I scan the room, perhaps passing over twice—yes, it really is you. You’re back on campus, and seemingly doing well, and that will be satisfaction enough for me.

Forever yours,

Mariah