Daydream

/ Jeff Cann

The helicopter blades build speed. The gaping side door, slid open like a minivan’s, offers a glimpse of the working space inside. When Eli finishes his EMT training, he could join an air ambulance crew. The paramedics load gear, or possibly a cooler chilling a liver for transplant in York. Transplants don’t happen here. We’re an organ source, not the destination. I notice the people working under the churning propeller don’t crouch like they do in war movies. I think I would duck. Instinct? Fear? I would duck. The hospital where Susan’s mom died sits behind the helipad across the street. I expected her to take this ride. CPR restarted her heart, but her faulty valve stopped it. Again, and again.

The sun bakes and burns me. The skin on my neck stings. My throat is parched, My head throbs. Water and sunblock are a text message away. I’m guarding the handicapped parking area, making sure the people who park here need to park here. Last year at this event, we caught hell. We didn’t reserve spaces for disabled participants. Wheelchairs and canes are tricky in a grass field.

I question how dehydrated I am. Once, bike-packing into Santa Fe, my stomach cramped and my head spun. I squatted above the scorching tarmac as I held my laden bike upright. My tires sank into the melting highway shoulder. Too much hassle to hitch a ride. I drank a half gallon of water and struggled to keep it down.

The helicopter rises in the air. The hospital seems to sink into the ground. With my father-in-law in shock, stunned by the chaos that night, by watching his life-partner slip away, we grilled the doctor. His answers squelched any remaining hope.

We can’t replace her valve here.

We won’t transport her until her heart stabilizes.

Her heart won’t stabilize without a new valve. 

The helicopter clears the tallest trees. I wonder for an instant if they’ll fly low over the park to give the kids a thrill. Of course they won’t. They have lives to save.

“Hey! Can I park here?” I’m yanked from my daydream. A blue SUV idles by my side. The driver, a heavy-set guy around forty, scowls at my inattentiveness.

“No, we’re trying to keep paved parking available for disabled people.” He sets his jaw, punches the accelerator, swings a U-turn, and passes by me without a glance.

~ ~ ~ 

Georgia Kreiger’s recent post about micro-memoirs made me want to give the genre a try. Based on my understanding, micro-memoirs are creative vignettes, an artful attempt to capture an important moment. I had one of these moments on Friday. My micro-memoir attempt wound up being about three times longer than I hoped it would, but I didn’t want to cut anything. I’m happy with the result, even if I didn’t necessarily nail the genre.

17 thoughts on “Daydream”

    • You’re welcome for the mention. I think your blog should have way more followers. Do you use ‘tags’? A couple I use frequently are ‘writing’ and ‘memoir’. They attract people with similar interests in writing. I’m fairly buzzing about my post. I’m happier with it than I thought I would be when I came up with the idea.

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      • You should be happy with it!

        I’ve been using “writing,” “memoir,” “creative nonfiction,” and sometimes “writing about family secrets” and “therapeutic writing” as tags, depending on the posts.

        I’m hoping to get more followers. I got three more after your mention, so thanks again.

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  3. I think I’d rather read something in your style than a piece trimmed to fit in someone else’s standard box size. Mind you, I will probably have a browse at that link. And I won’t complain if you do write something with a box cutter ‘dipped in tar’.

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    • Besides her educational pieces, she has some really outstanding memoir-based creative nonfiction stories here and there. They are definitely worth a read.

      I think I enjoy rambling too much to make a true style change. I get the point of sparseness, but it’s not as fun to write.

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    • I’ve written very little about my cross country bike trip. I should probably pull out the journal I kept and see what’s in there. There must be a few good stories waiting to be told. I’m sure I’ll be really embarrassed by the writing.

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