I was slated to be on overnight duty at the rescue squad Christmas Eve. I could have looked for someone to take my shift for me, but I didn't work too hard at it. I'm sure every Jewish member of the squad had already been besieged by plaintive appeals from other people on my night crew. If I were Jewish, I'd be driving some hard bargains in trade for those precious Christmas eve shifts.

I was actually interested in what a Christmas eve shift might be like. What else could I be doing that would be more memorable? Being at the rescue squad can be like standing in the rush of activity backstage at a big performance where everyone else is simply enjoying the spectacle.

I also suggested to Susan that she ride along on the ambulance as an observer for the early part of the night. The idea had come up casually before, but she'd never been very enthused by it in the nearly four years I've been with the squad. I fear my hearty tales of puke and gristle had dissuaded her. But on this occasion, she allowed that it might be worth a look.

Usually when we have observers riding along, we experience an anomalous absence of calls. It's like a curse, although I recognize that it could more charitably be viewed as a blessing for the communities we serve. In any case, the mere presence of an observer always seems to lower our call volume. Then the observer is scarcely out the door before the backlash hits, and we run call after call. I know this is basically superstition, like the belief that you run more bizarre calls on the full moon, but I've seen it happen over and over again and have come to expect it.

No deep meaning, just a picture I like

It began to snow in the late afternoon on Christmas eve, and soon the weather reporters' predictions that the precipitation would quickly change to rain were looking faulty. Although holiday traffic was relatively light, before long the cars started leaving the roads, and we stayed busy for the whole evening. The snow seemed to catch the county by surprise, creating a significant delay before the sand trucks and plows appeared. I drove slowly on calls, the tires muffled, lights firing red and white spotlights out through the falling snow. It was really quite beautiful, and if I hadn't been white-knuckled to the wheel with concern that the ambulance would fishtail and skid while turning, I'd have spent a little more time enjoying it.

It wasn't an unusually dramatic evening, but Susan got the chance to stand on the slick highway exit ramp next to a wrecked car and hold a flashlight and extrication bag while the charge EMT treated a patient, and climb in the back of the ambulance to observe patient care while I drove everyone to the hospital. And, I admit, I was a little proud to have her see me doing this thing I love. She's always been interested in the squad, but it's my thing, one of the places where my individual life remains separate from the relationship. She has the same kind of spaces in her many pursuits. But I guess I was still a little nervous at the idea of having her there at all. It's always odd when you introduce people who know you from the various sides of your life and realize you have entirely different interactions with them -- you've allowed each environment to nurture the expression of a different side of your personality. I think I might once have seen that as a failure, a sign that I wasn't being completely myself with any given group. But now I encourage it; I don't feel whole without these loose ends, these particulars of personality elicited by one person or institution: the stress of driving an ambulance or the comfort of coffee at home. It's a funny thing to discover not only that your house has more rooms in it than you'd imagined, but that they can only be reached through separate entrances. Sometimes, deep inside the structure, you discover hidden hallways that connect disparate wings, but sometimes you must venture outside again to get back into yourself.