A Good Run for Your Money

Author © Scott D. Zachary

If you had suggested at any time in my life that I would even consider becoming a nurse, I would have bluntly told you, “You’re stupid. You obviously don’t know me at all. You should seek psychiatric help.”

So why am I now looking into becoming a nurse?

Persistent suicidal depression shattered me in the fall of 2009. I had never known this kind of gloom before, this level of worthlessness, this desperate desire to die. I had been on a manic roll throughout my entire adult life, shooting for the stars, and periodically—most often nightly—bringing myself back to earth with large doses of alcohol. Medicating a bipolar disorder that I didn’t know I had, I later learned that the alcoholic binges chopped the top off my episodes of mania, substituting hangovers for the characteristic swings into severe depression.

I quit drinking alcohol in April 2009 and spiraled into five months of mania. During this time, I tried to save the world, and I made a pretty good whack in that direction. While I didn’t do anything illegal or dishonest, my extreme behavior leapfrogged my usual outlandishness. For example, Bobbie and I had been sponsoring eight children through Love-A-Child in Haiti. A school administrator told us that James and Eduardo, whom we’d been sponsoring, left their program to search for jobs. I inquired as to what marketable skills the boys had learned. The administrator replied, “They don’t have any particular work skills.”

       With far too little money and skimpy consideration for Bobbie, I launched full-force into building a technical school for young Haitian men and women on our 74-acre farm. That, along with my numerous other philanthropic ventures during that time, dwindled our savings to nothing. Worse yet, I stopped working to earn money and delegated that chore to God. Simply put, my grandiose visions had eclipsed reality.

I totally, completely crashed and burned in August. I collapsed into suicidal depression and tried to kill myself to escape my desperation. Sitting in my office late one night staring out the window at the multi-colored fountain lights in the pond behind my shop, I opened my desk drawer, pulled out my .38 caliber revolver, and placed the muzzle on my temple. I repeatedly tried to pull the trigger, but I couldn’t do it. A big furry angel growled and barked at me. I looked down at Woofie who had never growled at me before. A lucid moment washed over me. I ran out the door, stumbled through the tall grass down the hill, and threw my revolver into the deepest part of the pond.

       For seven weeks, I languished in seclusion. That span of time ranks as the most horrible duration of my entire life, and no one in the whole world was there for me—not one single person. (You will see how my choices would transform my suffering into the best thing that ever happened to me!)

I struggled horribly through the following months. A volcano of black hopelessness erupted inside me. Broken by my horrific torment, I teetered on the floor trying and trying to slash my wrist with a box knife, but I couldn’t even touch my skin with the blade. I grabbed the phone and desperately called number after number after number in the emergency section of the telephone book and greeted them with “Help me, please!” They all referred me to someone else.

My life was over.

Done.

Finished.

The END.

Finally, I called my Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor, Jerry N, who took me to RiverValley Behavioral Health. There, Dr. Vance and the team of nurses and mental therapists saved my life. I learned about my manic-depressive malady during the grueling months that it took to climb out of that dark hole. Several attempts to medicate my extreme depression failed with terrible side effects. Then, Eureka! We discovered that lithium catalyzed my virtual F-16 into permanent cruise mode.

       During my recovery, I realized I wanted to be there for other people who had no one there for them. This epiphany motivated me to volunteer as a “companion” overseeing St. Benedict’s Homeless Shelter and their guests, and to provide and serve meals at the Shelter. I also volunteered with Hosparus (Hospice) so that I could visit with patients who have no one coming to spend time with them and to comfort them in their last days.

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In the summer of 2011, while searching for charitable causes, it somehow occurred to me that I should go back to school to become a nurse in preparation for going on Christian medical missions. Certifiably not my inclination, I attributed this urge as being God’s push. I squinched skyward. “Really, Lord? Nursing school? You gotta be kidding me!”

I had spent my whole life obstinately trying not to learn anything whatsoever related to medicine. I rationalized my disdain for medical knowledge by saying that much of what you hear from others is wrong—old wives’ tales and distorted rumors, which is true. It originated partly from my realization that you can never know all there is to know about anything medical. That’s one of the reasons computer programming appealed to me so much: Computers, albeit complicated, are finite.

My categorical distaste for medical matters jousted relentlessly with my desire to lift up the underprivileged and disheartened.

The continual poking at my conscience over those months had to be the Lord’s calling because I had zero desire to become a nurse. In fact, I detested the idea. Finally, the week before Labor Day weekend 2011, I capitulated, “Lord, whatever You want me to do, I’ll do it. All I ask is that You please try to make it perfectly clear to me what You want me to do.”

Bobbie and I spent all day that Friday researching nursing schools on the internet and calling them. Rebecca, a good friend and nurse who lived next door, suggested that Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) school might be a more practical approach toward becoming a medical missionary. Her suggestion made perfect sense considering that I’d likely be working in the field much like an EMT. Further research settled me on the highly reputed five-month EMT school offered by Life-Savers, Inc. I signed up for their next available course starting on November 7^th at St. Matthews Fire Department, a few miles from where I lived in Louisville, Kentucky.

Remember, in all my experience, I had rigidly prevented myself from learning anything related to the medical field, including bodily processes, ailments, treatments, and medications. I had successfully blocked it all out. I didn’t even know what ibuprofen meant. Plus, I’d been blessed with near perfect health all my life, so I hadn’t even accidentally learned anything medical in that way. I experienced precisely one medical problem in my entire life: a bump on my shoulder that a doctor in South Africa described as a lump of fatty tissue. The doctor said I could leave it or we could go into the next room where he’d cut it off. He finished sewing it up twenty minutes later. Other than physical examinations with spotless results, that lump of fat constituted the only intrusion through my mental medical blockade.

Not only am I lifting all previous medical sanctions, but I will also usher in swarms of loathsome medical words, too. What a switch!

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With two months to go before EMT classes would start in November, I decided to fill my free time intensively studying Spanish in case my medical missions would take me to Central or South America. I still didn’t know the first thing about Christian medical missionaries—I just knew that God called me to be one!

Bobbie and I went to the big Barnes & Noble bookstore in Louisville in search of a novel that I could translate from Spanish into English. My only criterion required that there be enough space between the lines in the book where I could write the English translation above the Spanish words I didn’t know. Then I’d memorize all of those words.

Out of the hundreds of Spanish novels, I pulled El Cielo Es Real from the shelf. I had studied hard in my high school Spanish classes 40 years earlier with resolute intent to use my Spanish as I traveled the world. Except for a few days when I vacationed in a little town two hours by train west of Valencia, Spain, I never did use my Spanish. Perhaps, now I will. I guessed the translation of the book title to be “The Sky is Real.” Yes, “cielo” does mean “sky”; however, “El Cielo” means “heaven.”

It just so happens that this best-selling novel—the first one I picked out—is packed full of medical terminology. The preacher in the book experiences so many injuries, illnesses, and surgeries during a short period that all the other pastors in his district begin calling him Job. A medical emergency also struck his son, during which the boy briefly died on the operating table, visited heaven, and then revived. Both spiritual and medical in its content, I couldn’t have chosen a better book to prepare myself for speaking Spanish on Christian medical missions.

I finished the translation in three and a half months. In the first chapter, I counted an average of 59 words per page that I didn’t know and couldn’t figure out from the context. That average dropped to 12 in the last chapter.

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One middle-aged policeman in dress uniform stood out prominently among the dozens of students. I looked around at the young men and women dressed in firefighter T-shirts, nursing scrubs, and EMT uniforms. Their eagerness clashed with my wholehearted uncertainty about being here. I felt like a jagged rock in a bag of polished marbles. My level of discord that day reminds me of the first day of my Intermediate Accounting class at New Hampshire College. Glancing around that classroom, I felt similarly intimidated. Most of those accounting students were older men wearing business suits adorned with their snappy neckties—bankers, accountants, and such. I felt out of uniform wearing my Air Force fatigues in their presence.

       Nope, on second thought, my first day of EMT school stands unchallenged as my most awkward moment ever.

Three students to a table, we totaled 36 in all. My age conspicuously doubled most and tripled some of the other students’ years. I graduated from college before the next oldest student took his first breath.

Seven instructors stood around the periphery of the classroom, all wearing EMS or formal firefighters’ uniforms. The lead instructor, Kathy Dorman, introduced herself. She told the class about her life-long experience as an EMT and her decades of teaching EMT classes. Each of the other six instructors, two full-time and four part-time, then voiced a summary of their credentials.

Kathy asked us to describe our backgrounds briefly and to share our reasons for taking Life-Savers’ Emergency Medical Technician course. About two-thirds of the class preceded me in voicing their perspectives. They all aspired to either become EMTs or enhance their skills in their related professions. I stood by my chair and described my position as a programmer at ZirMed, a medical data processing firm in downtown Louisville. I concluded, “My reason for attending EMT school is part of my preparation for going on Christian medical missions around the world.”

Kathy narrowed her focus. “Interesting.” Her tone spoke that she’d never heard of such a plan in her decades of teaching EMT classes. Nearly all the other students had varying degrees of experience in the medical field or emergency response services, or both: a long-time paramedic whose licenses lapsed while serving in the Army, a couple of ER technicians, nurses, a cop, many firefighters and firefighter trainees, already licensed EMTs, and one programmer—me.

Kathy and the other instructors handed out our respirator masks and stethoscopes. They also gave each of us a three-inch-thick textbook—1,505 oversized pages of small print, and that’s not including the appendixes, glossary, and index! Kathy stated that we would be responsible for learning the entire book. She told us that our grades would be the sum of six cumulative exams sprinkled with pop quizzes. We would be removed from the class if the average of our exam scores drops below 70% at any time. More than three absences during the five-month course would result in dismissal—no exceptions.

Captain Monahan, a full-time EMT instructor and a captain at St. Matthews Fire Department, where we attended the EMT classes, sternly addressed the class. He forewarned us that at least 25% of the students in previous courses failed. The Captain explained that Life-Savers’ EMT course is known to be one of the most difficult in the state; thus, they have one of the highest placement rates upon graduation.

The instructors handed out a booklet that contained more than fifty EMT practical skills worksheets, listing as many as forty procedural steps for each skill. Kathy specified that an instructor would have to sign off on every one of those skills, confirming our proficiency. She emphasized that we should not put off getting those signatures as they are required by the last day of class to participate in the day-long final skills certification.

       Beyond our classroom training, we are required to ride with an EMS team at either Louisville or Anchorage Fire and EMS for at least eight hours. During that time, we must assist in the emergency care of at least five patients. The EMS team will then assess our performance. Their recommendation is necessary to pass the course.

I wasn’t concerned about passing the written exams because I had always excelled academically in college and in my Air Force classes. My anticipation of the practical skills evaluations as Kathy described, however, did put me on edge. I had never been good at doing verbal presentations of any sort—they terrified me! I recalled one time in the Air Force as a second lieutenant when my voice had nauseatingly waffled while reading a commendation citation in front of several senior officers during an awards ceremony. I avoided public speaking at all costs after that. Now, I would not only have to speak in front of who knows how many people, but I would also have to act out numerous emergency medical procedures while doing so.    Heavens to Murgatroyd! If I proceed with this course, it will be proof positive that I’m a devout masochist.

The pace started off at full speed and never slowed down for five months. Air Force Officer Training School (OTS) included, this would be the most challenging class I’ve ever taken. OTS was harder than EMT School, but I wanted to become an officer. On this hand, I was ambivalent about wanting to complete Emergency Medical Technician training. That is, until shortly before the fourth written exam.

The instructors divided the class into small groups of three or four in which to practice our skills procedures. Our schedule allocated one- to two-hour periods for that training at the end of each class. My group included Joe, a firefighter trainee, and Scott, the long-time paramedic whose licenses had lapsed while stationed in Afghanistan as an Army paramedic.

“I don’t know why I have to do this crap,” griped Scott Paramedic. “I already know all this stuff.” Instead of practicing skills, he burned up much of our limited skills practice time telling war stories. Joe didn’t seem to mind at all and even encouraged Scott to continue blabbering. In response to one of Scott’s yarns, I shared with him an experience I had as an Air Force officer. That dramatically inflated his already condescending attitude toward me. His impudence wasn’t the first time an Army sergeant showered my Air Force commission with contempt.

Condescension sets me on fire! I frequently debated about quitting this EMT course until Scott Paramedic flipped my switch that Monday night. It was now just a matter of when I’d quit, not if.

The next morning while shaving, a stern reflection glared at me. “You’re doing it, so get over it!”

“Fine.”

“And you’re going to like it!” demanded my no-nonsense twin.

“Yes, sir!”

All the instructors hammered home the fact that the fourth exam is far-and-away the most difficult. I had one week to study for it. We could expect a substantial number of questions to have more than one correct answer from which to choose. Kathy had announced the top score on the three previous exams, and every time it was Scott Paramedic. My determination on the warpath, I will funnel my festered indignation into toppling His Highness.

       I arrived at work that Tuesday morning and scheduled Thursday and Friday as vacation time. During Wednesday’s EMT class, I talked with Ryan Shannon, one of the other students. He agreed to review for the test with me on Sunday from noon till whenever. I went straight home after class let out at 10:00 p.m. and hit the sack.

Starting at 6:00 a.m. Thursday morning, I studied intensively for fourteen solid hours. I chanted the way football teams do whenever I began to weary: “Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!” ramping up the volume and intensity with each “Go!” I cheered excitedly, “Beat Scott! Go, Scott, go!”

       Those chants, periodic three-minute cold showers, and quarts of coffee put my determination on the moon. Another zealous fourteen hours on Friday, thirteen on Saturday, five on Sunday morning, and Scott Paramedic’s well-deserved chastisement loomed precariously over his unsuspecting kingdom. Seven intensive hours of my quizzing Ryan on Sunday afternoon plastered my conquest to the wall of certainty!

Monday night, I felt as though a herd of stallions reared to unleash me. Two hours later, those wild horses had trampled me. By the time I completed the exam, over half of the class had already finished and gone down to the fire station to practice skills. I reviewed my answers until only two other students remained. Disheartened, I walked up to Kathy’s desk and laid my exam on the stack, doubtful of having achieved a passing grade.

Kathy looked up at me, and I overtly sighed, stressing, “That was tough!”

She smiled.

I slowly trudged to the restroom at the rear of the class, splashed my face with cold water, and relieved myself. This comprehensive exam covered a thousand pages of our textbook. These multiple choice questions presented an elaborate scenario with four possible solutions. A large percentage had at least two seemingly correct answers. Many of them had three, or even four, relatively correct answers. I had to comb through the scenario over and over to pinpoint a clue that made one of the solutions slightly more on target than the others. All previous exams considered, Advanced Calculus included, this one rated the most difficult by far—and I had crammed for 53 hours!

I returned to my desk. Flinging my backpack over my shoulder, I glanced toward Kathy. She looked at me with an enormous smile and gave me two thumbs-up akin to the way a football referee would signal a touchdown. Bewildered by Kathy’s antics, I walked up to her desk where she held up my paper for me to view. “TOP SCORE!!” blazed in bold red. WOW!!!

Drunk on elation, I waltzed down to the fire station to practice skills until they called us back up to class. Everyone streamed back to their seats. Kathy announced, “Top score was Scott...” She paused at length, grinned, and then riveted her attention on me. “ZACHARY!!”

       And the crowd went wild!

I’d have swapped almost anything to look and see the dethroned response on Scott Paramedic’s face, but I refused to concede that it mattered to me.

The instructors handed out the exams, and Kathy reviewed the answers. Several of the instructors also took the exam, including Captain Monahan who sat behind me in one of the now vacant student’s seats. “You beat me, Scott!” he touted.

“I spent fifty-three hours intensively studying over the last four days.”

“Ah-hah, I don’t feel so bad now.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That painstaking fourth exam inflicted a noticeable toll. On the following Wednesday evening, Kathy commented about the number of empty seats. I tried not to be obvious about it as I counted the number of people remaining. Twenty-seven students are still here out of the original thirty-six—a quarter of the class eliminated, and we have two more exams and skills testing to survive.

       Before my resounding triumph over that fourth exam, many of the youngsters’ eyes seemed to ask, “What are you doing in here, old man?” Respect now supplanted their offhanded disdain.

Our classes progressed, and I became increasingly anxious about our limited skills practice time. That evening, Scott Paramedic stated, “I can’t be bothered with practicing; I’m just gonna wait until everybody else flunks out, and then I’ll get checked off on all the skills—bing, bing, bing.”

That did it for me. I wandered off to find another skills practice group.

Click here to read Part 2 of “A Good Run for Your Money”