I spent the past few months preparing for and passing my aidman exam, certifying that I can call the shots in the back of an ambulance. Before I passed my exam, there was a period in which I was provisionally running calls -- "pre-aiding" in the lexicon of my squad. I passed the test, and entered a period in which I was getting "aid reports" -- evaluations of my performance on calls completed by the driver, who is the Officer in Charge on every call. I had been sufficiently tested and evaluated by every standard but one: real life. I hadn't had a truly awful call, the kind that threatens to pierce your armor of professionalism and inject sheer panic.

On Friday I had two, back-to-back. It was just two of us: the driver and me. This is the odd thing about the worst calls: they're also the best, because they're often the ones in which calm and fast action can change or save a life. They can haunt you for months, years, but all that time there may be someone out there in the world with your invisible mark, someone whose life was momentarily held up in your hands.

In the dispatch office at the rescue squad there's a blank book we use as a central means of communication. News, standing orders, and other important pieces of information necessary for all members are written in the book, and most people check the latest entries as a matter of habit when they arrive at the squad. I was surprised to see that a note was placed in the book commending our actions on one of the calls. I've spent so long being a useless probationary member that it felt funny to be recognized. And it felt like everything I'd gone through to get into the back of that ambulance was worth it. I believe most anyone with my training would have done exactly what I did on those calls, and I was just lucky enough to be the one who got to show up. Strange: I see responding to need as part of the responsibility inherent in being alive, but when you get to help, it comes as a privilege.

Even days later, I can still catch the elation I felt the next morning. Susan and I headed down to my childhood home in Virginia to meet my mom, sister, and nephew and celebrate my birthday. There were these moments on the drive when, unbidden, memories came back of things which are not pleasant to think about. I know they won't go away and I don't try to avoid them. There are moments I remember from calls I went on eight years ago, memories that are probably more complete and detailed than those of anything else that happened to me that year. That's the price of admission.