Hubby was an ambulance driver in Houston, Texas. Over the years, he became worse than burnt out from witnessing horror after horror. He remembers each and every accident, shooting and assault victim that he couldn't save, though his record then - and now - is way WAY above the average. While he has sublimated those memories (mostly) in order to save his sanity, he prefers to talk only of the babies he delivered, or about the kid who came to the house he shared with his sister and brother-in-law while they were off duty and asked him to take him to the hostital. He'd been shot four times in stomach. Some gang thing. The boy lived, which is why Hubby can talk about the incident occasionally.
Unfortunately, he refuses to join an ambulance company here at home. He has kept up his EMT license, which is good because he's been first on the scene of several accidents up here, saved quite a few lives, and once doubled as ambulance attendent when they took me to the hospital. He'll never be a member of the ambulance association again though. He believes he can't handle it, especially since he's related to so many of the people up here. Sad, but a lot of them get that way. It's shell shock. Literally.