In August 2006 I wrote:

An anniversary is approaching and my PTSD is twitching.

I get it every year around September 11. Problems sleeping. Heightened anxiety. Wanting to have the scanner on all the time yet not being able to bear the reports I hear.

The arrests in England last week started the process. It brought back a lot of the feelings I had that first September 11. It ain’t gonna get any better.

I remember standing there in my airmask, watching the flames blow straight out from Ernie’s trailer for thirty feet or more. We knew right away that someone was inside. When they finally cut through the outside wall into the bedroom and we knew that Ernie and his grandson were dead…

I think about taking Midnight and Smokey and Shadow to the vet. Hearing them crying in fear and pain and knowing that each of these three good friends would be gone so very soon. Three trips I wish I never had to make.

I remember my first CPR call. We couldn’t get the body to lay flat because it was stooped with age.

I remember the 43 year old man who died in front of me. When I was 43.

I remember the traffic accident in Brighton, and the brains scattered around the scene and the blue tarp covering the woman they belonged to. It looked like someone had tossed a pot of macaroni around. Her sister sat right next to the body, in the car, and didn’t know what was wrong. I sat there, too.

I remember Randy and Bev, friends, EMT’s, each killed by something no one could do anything about, heart disease and cancer.

EMT’s lose some battles.

I remember September 11. Sitting at the ambulance base, ready to send whatever help was needed the five hours to the city. None was needed. There was nothing we could do.

Don’t tell me to get over it. Don’t tell me to forget it. A piece of my soul is a part of every life I tried to save, wanted to help, and could not. As much as I hate this time of year, I love it too. A part of me comes back for a little while and tells me that it’s not gone forever.