Life as a Paramedic: When the Door Finally Opened

While I was working in dispatch and grinding through paramedic school, another door started to creak open.

I’d heard someone was retiring in Lawrence County—specifically in Mount Vernon.

Ironically, that was the town we were in the middle of moving to.

We had just been approved for first-time homebuyer financing, with a little help from my mom. At the time, asking “mommy” for help felt embarrassing. Looking back now—as a parent myself—it makes complete sense. Helping your kid build a stable life is rewarding, not shameful. Having a co-signer made it possible for us to afford a house, get into the school district we wanted, and—if things worked out—maybe even work in the town we lived in.

Everything was happening quickly. And almost too smoothly.

When you’re a young family living paycheck to paycheck, you spend a lot of time waiting for the other shoe to drop. So instead of getting excited, I was cautious. Almost afraid to be happy.

Remember that “door” analogy from earlier?

We were standing right in front of it.

The job you don’t expect to actually get

I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Full-time ambulance jobs were rare back then. You didn’t just stumble into one.

I applied anyway.

I interviewed, felt good about it, and immediately tried to convince myself it wouldn’t happen. Nervously excited is probably the best way to describe it.

Then they offered me the job.

I still don’t know if it’s because I’m genuinely likable or just a decent bullshitter—but I took it.

Welcome to 24-hour shifts

The change was immediate and drastic.

I went from:

• 12-hour shifts

• A 40-mile commute

to:

• 24- and 48-hour shifts

• Ten minutes from home

Long shifts have perks… and some serious downsides.

The biggest downside was pay.

At the time—and I still don’t know how this was legal—we weren’t guaranteed pay for the full 24 hours. Shifts ran from 0700 to 0700. We were guaranteed pay from 0700 to 2300, but unless we were actively on a call, we had to clock out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

It still doesn’t make sense to me.

But that was early EMS.

Everything at once, all the time

So now I’m:

• Moving into a new house

• Working 24-hour shifts

• Still attending paramedic school

• Still completing 1,000+ unpaid clinical hours

It was brutal.

The only reason I survived it was the support at home.

That doesn’t mean it was peaceful.

My wife and I had plenty of “disagreements” about everyday life. Being awake for a full 24-hour shift and then driving 40 minutes to class the next day will wreck any sense of balance. Home life took a hit.

But we pushed through it.

It was hard.

We made it.

Who’s left standing?

By the time we reached the end of the program, we were down to about 14 students.

We started with over 30.

Some dropped out for personal reasons. Some couldn’t keep up with the volume of information. Some couldn’t juggle work, school, and life.

Programs like this aren’t just academically hard—they’re logistically and emotionally brutal.

It takes a special person to finish.

Momma always said I was special… 😏

The final gatekeeper: NREMT

Graduation isn’t the finish line.

Next comes the National Registry.

Back then, the NREMT wasn’t convenient. No online scheduling. No instant results. No nearby testing centers.

You traveled.

I went to Memphis, Tennessee for my hands-on testing.
I took my written exam in Vincennes, Indiana.

The hands-on portion didn’t worry me. Bob had prepared us well. I passed it without much stress.

The written exam?

Different animal.

Those tests are designed to mess with your head. Two answers are kind of right. Two are wrong. You have to choose the most right answer. On top of that, you had to pass the overall exam and meet minimum scores in each individual section.

It was stressful as hell.

I’ll admit it—I was worried.

Not passing on the first try is common. It doesn’t mean you’re dumb. Sometimes it’s test anxiety. Sometimes it’s nerves.

And yeah… sometimes someone really is dumb. 😆

Waiting on the mail

There were no instant results back then.

Paper and pencil. No smartphones. No calculators. Just math, memory, and anxiety.

You waited for the mail.

And there were two kinds of envelopes.

A large manila envelope meant you passed—it contained your certificate.

A small standard envelope meant “nice try, see you again… bring your wallet.”

I checked the mail.

I couldn’t believe it.

Large envelope.

Relief hit hard.

And then, almost immediately, fear followed.

Because now the excuses were gone.

I wasn’t a student anymore.

I was about to have to prove myself as a paramedic.

Tell the story

If you remember the job you almost didn’t apply for…
The shift schedule that nearly broke you…
The test results that changed everything…

Tell the story.

No patient identifiers. Everything else is fair game.