…yeah, nah—let’s stop tiptoeing around it.
This ain’t about hurt feelings. This is about reality smacking you in the mouth at 3 AM while you’re knee-deep in someone else’s worst day.
I’ve been on that chest.
Hands locked, elbows straight, driving down—crack—there goes a rib. Good. Means you’re deep enough. Counting out loud, sweat stinging your eyes, lungs working but controlled. This is what it’s supposed to look like. Clean. Relentless. Textbook stuff—depth, recoil, don’t stop unless you absolutely have to.
That’s the standard.
Not “pretty good.” Not “I tried.”
Now flip it.
You’ve seen it—I know you have.
Big medic drops on the chest… first 20 seconds look alright… then the bounce starts. Arms bending. Depth getting shallow. Rate all over the damn place like a drunk metronome.
And nobody says it out loud, but everybody’s thinking it—
“This ain’t working.”
So now what?
Now someone’s gotta tap ‘em out. And it’s awkward. And it sucks. And yeah—it stings the ego.
But you know what sucks worse?
A dead patient because we were too polite to fix the problem.
Let’s Bring It All the Way Home
I was 125 when I started—felt like I could outrun death itself.
Then I blinked—years, shifts, bad habits—and I’m 205 laying on a table getting a CABG x4. Chest cracked open like a damn toolbox.
That’s not motivational poster stuff.
That’s consequences.
I earned every bit of it.
So when I see someone climbing outta the truck at 275… 300… sucking wind before we even hit the door?
I’m not judging.
I’m looking at a preview.
I’m looking at future patient number two.
Yeah, I said it.
Because I’ve watched it get damn close to happening. Partner goes pale, says “I’m good,” sits down mid-call… and now you’re splitting your brain between a code on the floor and the guy who’s supposed to be helping you.
That’s how scenes spiral.
That’s how bad days get worse.
And don’t hide behind “but I’m a good medic.”
Cool. Me too.
Still ended up with four bypasses.
This job doesn’t care how smart you are when your heart decides it’s done carrying your bad decisions.
Raw and Ugly
Here’s the deal—raw and ugly:
If you’re hauling 300 pounds and telling yourself you’re fine?
You’re lying.
Not to me. I don’t matter.
You’re lying to the crew that’s gonna have to pick up the slack when you gas out. You’re lying to the patient who needs full-depth compressions, not half-assed bounces. And worst of all—you’re lying to yourself.
But—and here’s the part people forget—
You’re not stuck.
I wasn’t.
I dragged my ass from 205 post-surgery down to 175. Not magic. Not pretty. Just consistent, stubborn, sometimes miserable work.
Walk. Lift. Eat like an adult instead of a raccoon behind a gas station. Say no to the easy crap more often than you say yes.
It’s boring.
Do it anyway.
The Truth Nobody Can Sugarcoat
Because here’s the truth nobody can sugarcoat for you:
If you don’t make the hard choices now…
One day you’re gonna be staring up at the ceiling lights, hearing someone else count—
“1, 2, 3, 4…”
—and those hands on your chest?
They belong to someone who made better choices than you did.
Yeah. That’s harsh.
Good.
It’s supposed to be.
This job already tries to kill us—stress, sleep, crap food, all of it.
Don’t help it.
Be the medic who can finish the call.
Be the one who doesn’t need to be swapped out early. Be the one your partner doesn’t have to worry about. Be the one who walks off the scene instead of getting wheeled out.
Or don’t.
But don’t pretend there’s no consequence.
Because I’ve seen the end of that road.
Hell… I lived it.
…and I’m not going back.