It happened during one of my shifts as a paramedic. The day had been grueling, and all I wanted was to stretch my aching, exhausted legs on a cot somewhere. But, as luck would have it, a fire broke out at a school in the Maykuduk district of Karaganda. At that moment, every other ambulance crew was tied up with calls, so it fell to me to respond. Meanwhile, a fierce blizzard was raging over the city…
The radio crackled with news that during the fire, the school’s security guard had jumped from a third-floor window.
Firefighters, rushing through the building with high-pressure hoses, didn’t find him right away. When they did, they called for an ambulance, dragged the guard inside, and hurried back to battle the flames.
For this shift, I was paired with an intern—a completely inexperienced trainee who was also eight months pregnant. I’d never met anyone more timid or unsure of themselves.
Thankfully, our driver was a calm, easygoing man, perfectly suited to his surname—Peacelove. As we approached the Botagoz cinema, not far from our destination, we spotted a fire truck parked on the road.
— Is there a road to the school? — my driver asked the firefighters.
— No, — they replied. — Head to the factory and take the detour. Even then, you might have to walk to the school.
Our van crawled along, constantly slipping and sliding in the snow.
— That’s it, we’re done! — the driver sighed, defeated. — We’ve got a flat tire. Gotta change it.
The darkness was impenetrable; the streetlights had gone out due to downed power lines. It was an eerie, almost apocalyptic scene. We had to climb out while the driver swapped the tire. The wind mercilessly whipped my old work coat, cutting through it as if it were made of gauze instead of synthetic fur. I pulled out my pocket flashlight to illuminate the wheel. The driver grabbed the spare and a jack. The cold stiffened his hands, making his movements slow and clumsy.
His fingers, curled from the cold, refused to cooperate, and working in gloves was awkward. After struggling to unscrew the lug nuts, he finally managed to change the tire.
Freezing, soaked, and shivering uncontrollably, we climbed back into the van. The snow that had packed into every fold of our clothes began to melt in the warmth, leaving our boots and clothes drenched. The dampness made us feel even colder. Snowflakes pounded the windshield with such ferocity that my eyes blurred. The wipers smeared the slush across the glass. It had been at least two hours since the call came in, and we still hadn’t reached the scene. In that time, the victim could have died, and the cursed school could have burned to the ground. All because of this wretched weather!
Finally, in the distance, we saw the faint glow of flashing lights. A fire truck stood on the road, but the path ended there—we’d have to go on foot. Gusts of wind hurled stinging snow into our faces. Walking was brutal; snow filled our boots and crept down our collars. We couldn’t see a gate or even a fence, everything hidden behind a white veil. Wading through loose snow up to our waists, we stumbled forward blindly. At last, we found the school and its main entrance. In the lobby, soot-covered firefighters darted back and forth, dragging long hoses. The air reeked of smoke, and the floor was slick with water.
— Where’s the victim?
— Over there, on the floor.
The sight that greeted us was not for the faint of heart. A young man, about twenty-five, lay flat on his back, soaked to the bone, his face ashen, teeth chattering from the cold. His jacket and shirt had ridden up, exposing a goosebump-covered stomach, his lips blue…
— How long has he been lying here? Why didn’t you cover him or move him to a dry spot? He’s in shock!
The response I got floored me:
— Our job is to put out fires, not treat people! We’re not doctors!
— And what about basic human decency? Just covering him or moving him out of a puddle?
There was no reply. The man had an open femur fracture with displacement—the bone protruded from his torn pant leg—along with multiple broken ribs and a concussion. I had to work alone; the intern hovered nearby, useless, choosing to be a spectator instead of helping.
What a helper I’ve got, I thought. Pregnant and all. She’d be better off at home than trailing me in this weather.
— Tell me what happened here, — I asked the senior firefighter.
— Instead of guarding the school, — he explained, — he invited his buddies over and threw a party. They thought no one would find out. They broke into the military training classroom, got their hands on some rifles, and started shooting at targets. Then they accidentally set something on fire. They couldn’t put it out themselves, and here we are.
— He’s already paid a price, believe me. He’s in bad shape, — I said. — He’ll have to answer for his stunt, but right now, he needs help. We’ll need at least four people to carry the stretcher.
The blizzard showed no signs of letting up; if anything, the wind grew fiercer. At the senior firefighter’s command, the crew brought a stretcher from the ambulance, placed the victim on it, and briskly carried him toward the vehicle. Gusts of wind kept tearing off the coat I’d used to cover him.
— Thank you so much, — I said to the firefighters. — Please, if you’re allowed, help us get him to the hospital. You can see the situation we’re in!
I nodded pointedly toward the intern, who hadn’t uttered a word the entire time.
— We understand, — they replied, — but we can’t leave the site. It’s protocol.
The trip back was uneventful until a new obstacle arose: the road from the hospital gates to the emergency room was completely buried in snow. When we tried to drive through, the van got stuck, all four wheels mired. I opened the door and immediately sank knee-deep into loose snow. Struggling to move, I trudged to the emergency room to borrow a shovel. Armed with shovels—our driver had his own—we started digging to at least back the van out.
How are we going to carry him? I wondered.
Finally, I couldn’t hold back and snapped at the intern:
— Why did you even come out for training in this weather?
She just shrugged.
Then I noticed, through the snowy haze, a gray sedan nearby with two men inside. They must have gotten stuck too and, realizing the futility of their situation, decided to wait out the storm with the engine and heater running to stay warm.
— Please, kind people, help us carry the stretcher to the emergency room, — I pleaded with the men in the car.
— How could we not help? We’ll do it!
When the patient was finally on a gurney in the emergency room, a dull apathy washed over me. My body felt leaden, my eyelids heavy, my legs barely moved, as if weighed down by iron. My wet clothes dragged me toward the ground, and my mind was sluggish. In the warm room, I grew so drowsy I was in a half-sleep, ready to collapse and pass out on the floor. But I had to keep going, work until morning. I’d chosen this profession myself—no one to blame. I should’ve listened to my mom when she said, “Study to be a pharmacist.” But I wanted adventure. I never could’ve imagined there’d be this much drama in what I thought was a perfectly civilian job.
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