Ambulance: (n) a vehicle equipped for taking sick or injured people to and from the hospital, especially in emergencies
I’ve only been in an ambulance once.
I’ve seen them on TV. I’ve watched shows about those who drive them and care for the injured.
But many years ago, when my son was hit by a car and they placed his dramatically injured body into the back of that howling van, the reality of its purpose, function and destiny became quite clear to me.
I didn’t know what to do.
When I get confused, frustrated or totally wacked out of my mind, I always talk too much. I probably should have sat there, silent and stunned. But somehow, as I perched by the side of my child and the attendant was working on him, trying to revive him, putting tubes into his body, I felt as if I needed to speak.
Maybe it was similar to letting the pressure off of a steam engine to keep it from blowing up. I don’t remember all of what I said–I’m sure some of it was stupid, because the technician occasionally looked up, surprised at my perception or question.,
I looked down at my son’s compound fracture in his left leg and I asked the gentleman if it would be difficult to fix it.
Without missing a beat, between checking pulse and heart rate, he replied, “They’re good with bones. What you need to pray about is the head injury.”
I felt like someone shot me with a gun.
Even though I’ve never had that experience, it is the closest way I can think of to describe how those words pierced.
I was quiet the rest of the way.
Ambulances are like so many other things in life: they should be avoided at all costs.
But mercy should be given to those who find themselves within.