We were forced to introduce ourselves to the group, lay out our gang colors (MICU project) as it were. She stood up; long hair flipped into huge Farrah-esque wings and proceeded to tell us that she was the youngest living kidney donor on the east coast. She had allowed them to saw her in half at the ripe old age of 18 and take one of her kidneys for her brother.
Obviously we survived school, though not without effort. Forced to do a mandatory class presentation it became apparent that this was not going to be one of her strong points. To this day I can tell you the topic she had to cover – “Differential Diagnosis of Chest Pain.” How do I remember this? Because in her usual thorough manner she had prepared a comprehensive handout to accompany her talk. Which was fortunate, because she lost all ability to speak when at the podium. As a group we took pity on her terror and with the help of her handout the rest of us helped coach her through “her” presentation. Now? She’s a poised and articulate presenter, able to educate and relate to people of all levels of education.
We graduated and set out to settle into our new professions, but never once were we really apart. When I started per diem at Clara Maass during its “Golden Age” (and yes I’m sorry, it really did have one), she was there – and our friendship, our partnership, began to develop. The alumni know the time I’m talking about. When practical jokes were the name of the game – when you had to dismantle booby traps before entering the office, or scramble frantically to locate “misplaced” equipment. Or the powder … always with the freakin’ baby powder.
She and I tried to deliberately OD on caffeine at the Arlington Diner, only to have to try and start an IV on an elderly woman in Lyndhurst after NINE cups of coffee in a row. We got “grounded” and confined to the office, so proceeded to put prison bars on the door and stage a sit-in in the parking lot. When my car got broken into in the parking lot, we went to the Belleville police station where she proceeded to make the car thieves cry with her ferocious diatribe on what would happen if she ever caught them on the wrong side of her grill. It was a good time to be young and learning your craft, it was truly fun. And every Monday night it was off to the Park Pub in Nutley for wings and laughs.
With a little arm-twisting I convinced her to come to UMD, and she’s been there ever since. And so things went. We’ve been partners, roommates, best friends, and completely fed up with each other. We’ve gone sledding in stokes baskets, been commandeered by the police, and set ambulances on fire. We’ve laughed and cried and couldn’t stand the sight of each other, year after year. We’ve been drunk together, sober together, driven a thousand miles together – just to heal a broken heart. Beyond those thousand miles are a thousand little stories, laughs shared and small adventures that make life a sphere and not a straight line. And of course the ones of which I shall never speak of aloud (though she might, she tends to fold under interrogation). Then of course, there’s Mexico …
There are friends who you know and can walk away from. Then there are those where you can have a huge gap in time, and pick up exactly where you left off. Distance doesn’t matter, time doesn’t matter, your histories are so intertwined that they are the family that fate forgets to give you – they are just there. She went on to other tours and other partners and so did I. Eventually she made it onto the flight team and started a whole new aspect of her career. But just like everything else that she sets out for, she did her best to do well and succeeded.
It is so funny how short people’s memories are. The nature of the job, and of life I guess, is that it never stops. Jobs come in, units go out and the faces change. There are legends that get handed down but over time even they lose their impact, save to a precious few. A few that gets less and less with each year and each generation. It’s like we just fade into the background, even well before we’re actually gone.
You know her as Nancy Orlowski. I know her as Nancy Souza. A whole generation ago she was known as “Sweaty,” “Short Stack” and the “Pit Bull.” You know her as the senior medic, the flight medic, or perhaps you haven’t met her or spoken with her at all. I know her as she was, and as she is – one of the best paramedics I’ve worked with. We are losing a resource that cannot be replaced, and that’s the part that I grieve for.
Today was her last day, and with the exception of a few the “system” will not notice.
But I will.
Our cert numbers are just 31 apart; we are just 6 months apart in age. We got married a year apart, had our children with a year of each other. We were in each other’s weddings and at one point or another have shared everything in our lives. And tomorrow when I go to work – for the first time in twenty years she won’t be there.
Nancy – I wish you love, I wish you luck. This was a good decision for you and for your family. I understand how hard this was for you to do, more than most. Don’t be afraid, you’ve never backed down from a challenge and you’ve accomplished more with sheer tenacity than anyone I’ve met. I wish I had the drive that you do. We'll keep the light on for you.
We’re all still here for you.
I am still here for you.
Love always, your friend
– Tracey
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