Pat’s wake was held on Wednesday night. The line out of the funeral parlor stretched for four blocks. There were EMTs, commercial and volunteer, police, fire, nurses and other people from the hospitals. I even saw some patients he’d treated, who must have recognized his photo in the papers or on the news.
Inside the funeral home, there was a display of pictures and memento’s from Pat’s life. A smiling four-year old made Popeye muscles at the beach. A Little Leaguer looked determined, batting helmet on his head, as he waited for the pitch. A sophomore in high school, hair to his shoulders, played the guitar. A high school senior posed for his class photo, his hair shorter, quite a handsome young man, the world before him. With Troy in Colorado, they both wore ten-gallon hats. Pat stood with his arm around Allison at Carbone’s just a few nights before, a ring around her finger, a smile of amazement on his face.
There were blue ribbons, a report card with A’s, an essay about his father he’d published in his college literary magazine, a copy of his paramedic license, postcards to his family from the places he’d traveled. There was a framed newspaper article -- the front page of the Courant the day Pat appeared on the cover carrying a child out of a burning building.
Allison stood next to his mother. She looked tired, strained, but they both stood and shook hands and talked with everyone who came through, thanking them for coming, hearing their remembrances of Pat.
Ahead of me in the line, a young EMT shook Allison’s hand and said, “Pat was a role model for all of us. He belongs to the city now.”
“No, he doesn’t,” she snapped. “He belongs to us.” She turned to hide her tears. Pat’s mother, touched the shocked young man on the shoulder and taking his hand, said, “You’re nice to come.”
“I’m sorry,” Allison said, composing herself. “This is just hard.”
Pat’s father had been in the receiving line, but he sat now in a chair before the casket. He was considerably older than Pat’s mom. He looked feeble.
I saw Troy out in the parking lot, smoking a rare cigarette. He’d been a part of the reception line, but had had to take a break. I mentioned how frail Pat’s father looked.
“He’s seventy-five years old,” Troy said. “He used to play baseball with us when we were kids. He’d be out there for hours throwing tennis balls at us as hard as he could. By the time we got to Little League, we could hit anything. He coached us and took us to the state’s regions, which was quite an accomplishment for a town of our size. He’s a doctor. Up until a couple days ago, he was still going into his office everyday.”
“How about you? How are you doing?”
He shook his head. “I should have been there,” he said.
“They shot him in the heart, Troy. You couldn’t have saved him.”
“I still should have been there.” He threw his cigarette down. “I’ve got to go back inside.”
They held the funeral service the next day in West Hartford. The turnout was remarkable. Police, Fire, and EMS came in full dress uniform. Ambulances came from every service in the state and from as far away as Georgia and Iowa – such was the bond of those who put their lives on the line in EMS. Services differences aside, fire, volunteer, municipal, or private ambulance, it didn’t matter, the people who did what Pat did -- worked the streets -- they came out.
The ambulances staged in a vast empty parking lot on Washington Street in Hartford. There were still ambulances in the parking lot when the first ambulances were reaching the church in West Hartford where the ceremony was held. The line of ambulances was over five miles long.
They closed down South Main Street and had us line up service by service in formation on the road in front of the church. The ceremony was broadcast by loudspeaker. The space in the church was limited. I chose to stand outside. I didn’t want to be in a confined space, didn’t want to have look again at the grief on the faces of Pat’s family. And besides I wanted to honor him and what he did with his life by standing with those he was a hero to – his brothers and sisters who worked the streets.
Billy Dalton gave the eulogy, his voice clear and strong through the speakers. “Pat was all of us on our best days. He taught us that there was as much glory in holding a patient’s hand, as in putting a tube down their throat, as much grace in a simple touch of a forehead as in compressing a dying heart. Because he stood among us, no one could look down on us. Because he was our partner, no one could say were not the best.
“Don’t think for a moment that he won’t live on within us -- that what Pat taught us will not be used and passed on. When a child is sick, when a grandmother struggles for breath, when a father is injured, and we are called upon to respond, Pat will be there with us, in our touch, in our words, in our belief in ourselves and what we are capable of. And on quiet nights when we grieve his loss as we will, close our eyes and listen, and his voice will be on the wind. “451, roger Laurel Street on a 1...451 clearing Hartford, George-11... 451, copy the backup on Bellevue.
“Pat always had our backs, now God has his.
“Watch out for our friend.”
As people filed out of the church, Scott Dykema and Scott Cummings played “Amazing Grace” on their bagpipes.
The Life Star helicopter made a pass overhead.
That night, we went out for beers and to reminisce about Pat. I don’t know if we went back to the Brickyard Pub to feel the pain of his passing or to remember the warmth that filled the place just a few nights before when we had all gathered there in what now seemed like a different age of our lives. There was no music, no dancing on this night. We were the only customers there.
People told stories about him; about the lives he’d saved, his amazing skills, the things he and Troy had done.
“Why Pat?” Audrey asked. “If you had to pick anyone who earned the right to live, I mean he didn’t have a single mean thing in him. If there were any job that would make you a nonbeliever it would be this. How can you believe in anything but death? How can you believe that you will ever be rewarded by anything but suffering? It makes me want to go out and drink, and fuck every good looking guy, and blow my money on Caribbean vacations and not give a good god dammed about anything.”
“Hey, I’m with you on that,” Victor said, “When do we leave?”
She punched his shoulder. “I’m serious. This isn’t right, it being Pat. He had so much more to give.”
“Maybe it’s a message,” Andrew said.
“What the fuck kind of message would that be?’ Audrey was hot. She was right up in Andrew’s face. “Like ‘Eat Shit and Die’ or ‘Have a Nice Life Go Fuck Yourself!’ Or ‘Be a Decent Guy -- Get Shot in the Heart!’”
“Easy,” Andrew held up his hand. “Maybe it just means live your life.”
“Hey, we’ll all drink to that,” Victor said, filling our beers from one of the pitchers on the table. “We can all drink to that.” He put his arm around Audrey, who wept. “We all miss him,” he said to her and gently kissed her head.
“It’ll never be the same without him and Troy on the street, that’s for sure,” she said.
At last call, Victor talked the bartender into selling us a six-pack to go wrapped in a brown bag. We got into our cars and drove to Lawrence Street. The drug dealers came out as we approached.
“Yo yo yo, I got Red Dancer,” one dealer said. “Red Dancer.”
“Fuck off,” Victor said.
We stood in the yard. Victor had taken a small wooden shrine out of his trunk. He’d built it out of plywood. Its roof was slanted like a church. Its front was open. Pat’s picture was taped inside. Victor lit a candle that illuminated the photo.
We each held a beer up in salute.
“To our brother,” Victor said.
“To Pat.”
We tipped our beers, spilling a taste into the earth.
“Always in our hearts. Never to be forgotten.”
We left offerings -- a Red Sox hat, a paramedic rocker, a book of matches from the Brickyard. Our bottles made a circle around the shrine.
