Copy of The Day Before Forever: The Last Call

So that others may live...

This entry is dedicated to Critical Care Paramedic Kori White and Critical Care Paramedic Larry Nunnery — heroes who gave everything to their patients but lost their own battle with burnout.

Your names matter. Your stories matter. And you deserved rest long before the end.

By the time the clock struck noon, I was running on fumes. Three calls deep into the shift, adrenaline had burned off, caffeine was wearing thin, and the turkey sandwich in my cooler was still whispering sweet promises I couldn’t keep.

EMS life isn’t glamorous. It’s not the TV shows, with dramatic music and perfect hair. It’s sweat-stained job shirts, 5.11 EMS pants with too many pockets, and tactical boots that never fully dry out after the last storm call. It’s broken equipment, bad coffee, and wondering if your paycheck can stretch to cover both rent and groceries. It’s joking with your partner about how you’ll both retire at forty-five — knowing damn well you won’t live that long.

And yet, there I was. Gloves pulled tight, boots hitting pavement, trauma bag slung over my shoulder. The call came in: industrial accident. Multiple injuries. Scene unsafe. The kind of wording that makes your stomach twist even if you’ve heard it a hundred times before.

I remember glancing at my partner. He was humming again, something out of tune, probably to distract himself. Me? I kept my eyes on the road and my hands clenched around the wheel, telling myself I was fine.

I wasn’t.

That’s the thing about burnout — you get good at lying. To yourself, to your partner, to the world. “I’m fine. I can handle it. I’ve got this.”

Even now, I catch myself muttering it when the sirens wail through the city. The problem is, the body doesn’t care how many times you repeat the lie. It keeps the receipts.

When I hear sirens today, as Steve-the-Reaper, it’s not just noise. It’s the echo of every unspoken confession, every skipped meal, every hour of sleep I traded for “just one more call.” It’s the reminder that I died tired, and not just from falling debris.

When we arrived, the world looked broken. Scaffolding leaned like drunken towers. Glass sparkled across the asphalt like glitter at a funeral. Dust choked the air, thick and metallic, and underneath it all was the smell of blood.

Workers were running in every direction, their voices blending into a single shrill note of chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, but up close the only sounds were groans, screams, and the metallic scrape of collapsing steel.

We split up. My partner sprinted to the far side, shouting orders. I grabbed the trauma bag and ran toward the man pinned under a section of collapsed scaffolding. His chest rose shallowly, his skin slick with sweat and crimson. His eyes found mine and clung to me like I was his last lifeline.

I crouched low, tried to calm him. My hands worked fast — airway, bleeding, stabilizing what I could — but even then, I felt it. That stare. Half here, half gone.

I’d seen it before. Too many times. But this one stuck.

Looking back, I think that was the moment Death brushed past me.

Before I ever held a scythe, before I signed the contract, before Janet Killjoy introduced herself as “Head of HR for the Dead”… I felt it. That weight. That inevitability.

You never forget the first time Death stares you in the face. You just hope you’re not the punchline. Spoiler: I was.

It happened fast. Too fast.

A sound — low, groaning, like the earth itself was cracking. My partner shouted, waving his arms, pointing up. I turned my head and saw the scaffolding above shift. Just slightly. Just enough to realize what was coming.

There wasn’t time to run. Not really. I thought about it, of course. Fight or flight doesn’t care if you’re wearing a job shirt and boots. But the man pinned beneath the debris looked at me with such raw terror, and my body decided for me.

I stayed.

The world came down.

Steel crashed like thunder. Dust erupted like a bomb. Weight slammed into me, crushing, smothering, endless.

There was no time for fear, no dramatic montage of my life flashing before my eyes. Just one last, bitter thought:

“Guess lunch really isn’t happening.”

And then — silence.

If you think death is dignified, you’ve been reading the wrong pamphlets.

I didn’t rise into a glowing tunnel. I didn’t meet a kindly figure to usher me across. I woke up in a beige conference room with flickering fluorescent lights, a half-stale box of donuts, and an HR rep in a blazer that screamed “middle management.”

Dead Inside Co. Orientation.

“Congratulations,” she said, handing me a scythe like it was a free pen. “You’re hired.”

And that was that. Life over. Career change secured. Benefits package not included.

I never got that sandwich.

The man I was trying to save… I don’t know what happened to him. I remember his hand gripping my wrist, weak, trembling, and then nothing.

The world dimmed. Sounds faded. For once, I didn’t hear sirens.

And I was gone.

So here’s the truth: I didn’t die a hero. I didn’t die saving the day. I died like every other burned-out medic does — tired, hungry, and thinking about a sandwich.

That’s what burnout does. It takes you piece by piece until all it takes is one crack, one collapse, one bad Tuesday.

If you’re reading this and you’re still in the living world, still wearing the uniform, still pulling 24-hour shifts and ignoring how heavy you feel: don’t. Don’t wait until you’re dead to say you’re tired. Don’t lie to yourself the way I did.

You deserve to rest while you’re still alive.

“That’s enough honesty for one blog. I’ll be back next time with more tales of bad coffee, worse decisions, and how Tuesdays will be the death of you… literally. Until then, don’t let the sirens catch you.”

⚠️ PSA from Dead Inside Co. ⚠️If you’re still working the living side of things — EMS, fire, dispatch, hospital shifts — and this one felt too real: don’t go it alone. Burnout isn’t weakness, exhaustion isn’t failure, and you’re not broken for needing backup.

📞 In the U.S., you can dial or text 988 to connect with the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.📱 For EMS-specific support, Code Green Campaign (thecodegreenproject.org) has resources and peer support for first responders.

Because you don’t have to wait until you’re dead to ask for help.

“For Kori. For Larry. For every medic who fought until they couldn’t anymore. This one’s for you. Rest easy — I’ll take it from here.”