I can honestly say that I have never driven an Ambulance as hard as I did when we got this call.

I can’t tell you his name, but I can tell you he was young, too young to die.

I can tell you that he meant for it to happen. I can tell you this because even with the noose around his neck, he could still touch the floor, but chose not to.

I can tell you he was found by a loved one who knew that he had been there too long for anything to be done.

We sped through the streets, we grabbed our kit, we ran into the house, sprinted up stairs and within one second of seeing him, knew it was too late.

I stood and watched as a family was ripped apart by the horrific realisation of what he had done.

We comforted the family with words which must have seemed hollow, but were in fact sincere.

We completed the paperwork; a cold black and white recollection of a highly emotional event.

We silently left the house and a grieving family; a tight-knit community in tears – pensioners and children alike.

Sometimes life is cruel and sometimes this job is really shitty.

My crew mate and I drive back to station with no words spoken, our dispatcher checks on our welfare. We ask if we can head back for a cup of tea – we all know that what this means in the service, it means you need some time to recover before heading out on your next call. We weren’t sent out again that day.

I’m so sorry for the family, especially the person who found him. I feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself, but like ripples in a lake, wider and wider groups of people are affected.

I’ve left this purposefully untitled with no tags or categories. I don’t have anything else to say on the matter.

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