a little excursion

short shift last night; only 8 hours. In that time, two alcohol poisonings, two intentional ODs (tubed one of 'em), three little kids who got into their parents' aspirin and/or tylenol. Three years in EMS and I've never seen activated charcoal used, but the black goop was flying last night, I tell ya.
Had to take a run to imaging to restart an IV for a woman undergoing an MRI. I got in there and unloaded all my metal medic paraphernalia--trauma shears, clamps, name badge and key, retractable lanyard, watch, spiral ER pocket guide. Got next to the MRI and felt my Who hair ponytails vwoom toward it. Shit! Bobby pins! About 5o of them! No way was I taking all of them out. So I made the tech stand between me and the imager while I got a nice little IV in the patient's upper arm. It was a beauty.
Today, my daughter and I took a walk in the neighborhood. I am trying to make up for my inattention during the last three years of school and work, when I spent the days I wasn't commuting two hours to the coast for twenty-four hour shifts recovering from those 24 hour shifts. I am also trying to make up for the shoddiness of our neighborhood, the sheltered indoor life we seem to lead most of the time. We turned out our driveway, went east instead of west because the shooting last month was in the cul de sac to the west, and walked the sidewalks to get to the playground nestled in between several other duplexes. I almost cried when I saw the empty playground; broken glass covered the decrepit tennis court, and all that was left of the swing set was a rusty slide with bolts sticking out of it. The rings and the swings were gone, stolen or broken, and had never been replaced. I looked around at all the backyard fences, saw gang tags on every one. I don't know when this happened.
Nervous about the three men circling us on bicycles, I convinced Miss Diva to walk home with me sooner than we planned, promising we'd make a list of all the things we'll do this week. "Yeah," she said, "like go to Disneyland!" I held her hand tightly, my other hand locked around my phone in the front pocket of my hoodie zip-up. As we walked, I noticed the garbage stacked in front of houses, under bushes, spilling out of cardboard boxes. I noticed the peeling paint on the duplexes, the worthless cars in yards, parked haphazardly across overgrown grass; stray bedraggled cats missing chunks of fur. Here and there I noticed little secret gardens, plants and flowers in pots, and I wondered at the absurdity of it all, wondered why we even bother, when hell and poverty are closing in all around us.
Some days, I don't know how I do this. I don't know how I manage as a single parent with two children and four cats in this shit hole neighborhood, where my attempts at a flower garden seem pointless, where I can hear the sirens and the music booming in cars and babies crying and people screaming at all hours, even through my double paned windows, even with the doors double locked and curtains closed against the sound. Some days, I don't know how I do it. Some days, I don't know why I bother. But I do bother, and I do it, every day, because gardening and mothering are my little attempts at revolution. I wake up and I try to smile at the kids, even before coffee, which is no small feat. I pour their milk and cereal. I drink my coffee. And every day turns out okay in the end.