Took an old guy home the other day. Well, not "home" as in his private residence, but "home" as in his very expensive, clean-smelling senior living facility. This is the kind of place in an affluent neighborhood, that costs $10,000 a month just for a room. Well, a suite, really.
These are fun calls for me. They take me out of the 911 system, and I can relax for a few minutes.
He is somewhat hard of hearing, but really nothing is wrong with him. He certainly doesn't meet Medicare guidelines for non-emergent ambulance transportation. That's not my problem though.
He and I talk. He was married for 63 years, until his wife died recently. He still considers himself married, and still wears his wedding band. He has 4 children, 11 grandchildren, 27 great-grandchildren and 2 great-great-grandchildren. He knows each and every one of their names, where they live, and what they do for a living. He also knows which ones come and visit him, and which ones don't. He says I remind him of one of his grandchildren, and that he likes me.
I tell my partner to drive slower and take the long way.
We talk some more. He tells me his secret to staying married for so long was to smile at his wife and say "I'm sorry" alot. He says he married his best friend, and that they never spent a single night apart. He doesn't tear up, but he is visibly saddened that his bride isn't with him any more. He smiles when he talks about her.
We get to his senior-living facility, and wheel him inside. He is obviously very popular with the staff and residents. Every single person says hello to him. His suite is very nice. He has lots of pictures of his family, and they all are attractive people, with big smiles on their faces.
Slimm and I lower the stretcher, and I help him to his chair. He asks me for a favor; to go to his bar and make him a scotch and water. I like this guy even more now.
I bring him his drink and notice a shadow box on the wall. In this shadow box I notice some military insignia, medals, ribbons and such. I notice a Silver Star, Bronze Star, 2 Purple Hearts, and various other medals and ribbons. I count 18 ribbons in the shadow box. I don't recognize the first one. It's blue, with thin red stripes on the ends, with a smaller white strip between the red and blue. I put that image in the back of my head for Wikipedia later.
I notice his Colonel insignia, and I feel mildly ashamed that I called him "Mister" instead of "Colonel." I prefer to call veterans by their rank. I may not have been born in this country, but I certainly feel admiration and respect for veterans.
"What did you get all this ribbons and medals for?"
"Killing all of those damned Germans."
Damned Germans, indeed, Colonel.
Slimm and I both shake his hand, and he gives a manly, respectful handshake, and makes eye contact, and says "thank you" while he does. We bid him goodbye, and make it back to the ambulance to go in service for the next call.
I pull out my iPhone and look up the ribbon online. It's the Distinguished Service Cross. It is the second-highest decoration, only behind the Medal of Honor. I feel honored to have spent time with a true American hero.
Damned Germans, indeed.
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