Jamie Morton spends a shift with St John Ambulance's Steven Pasquali and Michelle Doughty as they deal with life or death situations.
The steel stretcher shudders and rattles. A backpack slides across the floor.
Outside, Cameron Rd floats by in a 75km/h blur as our Mercedes Sprinter cleaves a path through a crowded intersection, its sirens blasting through the din of midday traffic.
I'm sitting in the moving office of Steven Pasquali and Michelle Doughty, and the patient we're racing to - a person suffering chest pains in Chadwick Rd - seems a typical client for this busy Mount Maunganui St John ambulance crew.
But then something different happens.
Pager alerts whoop above the wail of the siren and the ambulance's mobile data terminal - the dashboard-mounted screen they call the MDT - flashes white and red with a surprise reassignment order.
The near drowning of a 9-year-old boy has taken urgent priority and the crew has to drive straight past the people in Chadwick Rd desperately trying to wave the ambulance down.
Doughty, unable to tell them their ambulance has been diverted and that another will be there right away, feels terrible as we roar past them to the Greerton Pools.
Two hours earlier, just before 10am, Pasquali and Doughty are sipping coffee at the station, waiting for the alarm bells to smash the calm.
They're more than three hours into their 7am-7pm shift with just one trip, an emergency assist for the Te Puke crew, scribbled down on the log sheet dangling from the MDT.
Things are going well for them so far and I'm loath to jinx them with the word "quiet" - a curse in paramedic folklore.
So I flip open my notepad and begin firing away. Why do you do it? How? Since when?
"About eight years," answers Doughty, a warm, kind-eyed Mount Maunganui mother.
"I started off as a volunteer, before that I was doing office work. At the time, I was training for the Half Ironman. I'd put myself through first aid and hated the thought of going to an accident and not knowing what to do. So I put an application in and it's gone from there. I was hoping to get in, but then I wasn't worried if I didn't."
Why?
"The unknown. Just the unknown around not knowing what you're going to be dealing with ... that had sort of become an obsession."
Now with her paramedic's arm badge, she admits the person wearing it has changed much in eight years.
"We see a side of life most people never see and you have to learn how to deal with that. Sometimes, on the inside you're thinking, 'sheesh, this person is really sick' but on the outside you're saying 'right, I'm going to do this and I'm going to do this'. You can't afford to lose control."
Their own emotions can be dealt with later, often with a good talk over coffee.
For 47-year-old Doughty, standing atop Mauao gives her the release she needs after a tough few shifts.
It's a place where she can laugh, cry and dislocate herself from the mad world below.
Pasquali, aged 48, has been "riding the bus" more than twice as long, having started in 1995 with the Royal Berkshire Ambulance NHS Trust based near London and it took him two years to get back to the level of intensive care paramedic when he shifted here to Tauranga in 2004.
Pasquali also needs his release - and for the diehard West Ham United fan, what better way than football, "or soccer as you call it over here".
Both have many memories that will stay with them forever.
The worst ones - usually horrific trauma cases - aren't something they want to discuss, so I don't pry.
But there have been funny stories too. Like the time that Pasquali leapt into a river with his uniform on.
Or the paramedic - not either of them - who had to stop at the Maungatapu BP service station a few years ago when he got caught short with a case of violent diarrhoea.
At the precise time he and his crew member drove the ambulance into the service station, one of the employees developed severe chest pains and was crawling through to the workshop, urging his workmates to call an ambulance.
No sooner had the staff dialled 111 than the paramedic with severe stomach gripes was seen making a beeline to the service station loo - totally unaware of the drama unfolding inside. The hugely relieved staff couldn't believe the speed at which their 111 call had been answered.
"People relax when they know they're secure and that's part of our job," Pasquali said.
"People say, how can you be so calm? But usually we've had four or five minutes to think about it on the way there."
I wonder if there's such thing as an average shift for a St John paramedic, but as soon as I ask I know my question is foolish.
A day might bring nine or 10 jobs - an exceedingly busy shift - or Pasquali and Doughty might be lucky enough to get two calls, and spend the rest of time going over paperwork, watching TV and looking out for reports in the Bay of Plenty Times of the accidents they went to the day before.
Suddenly, the station speakers start blaring and I immediately wonder what the call might be. Is it a fatal car crash? A house fire? A near drowning at a beach? A cruise ship passenger having breathing difficulties? A heart attack halfway up Mauao? Or has someone had a fall in a rest home?
It's 11.38am and the callout is for a 76-year-old woman in Mount Maunganui is slumped across her sofa and her worried husband has raised the alarm. The call is classified Priority 1 - which means lights, sirens, and the authority to travel at 30km/h above the speed limit as we speed through Maunganui Rd traffic.
When we arrive at the house, Pasquali lugs in his heavy backpack and defibrillator and Doughty gets straight to work.
Kneeling at her side, they ask about her medication, her medical history, how she's feeling at the moment. Her husband stands back, watching with concern but also in admiration.
"They're amazing, the job these guys do is absolutely top quality," he says.
Within minutes, the patient is en route to Tauranga Hospital's Emergency Department and Doughty is sitting beside her in the back. Doughty gives her 20ml of paracetamol to help her feel more comfortable.
Then she lays the patient's arm upon her lap and speaks to her gently, her black sneakers resting on the base of the stretcher, her kind eyes only rarely glancing away.
Doughty asks a series of questions: You're 76 years young are you? And what's your date of birth? Your pupils are very small, is that normal for you? Are you allergic to anything? How are you doing? Okay? How are you feeling right at this moment?
She adds: "It's a lot of questions I know but because it's not something I can see I need to ask questions, okay?"
A long aryhthmia chart, revealing the patient has an irregular heart beat, dangles from Doughty's knees to the floor.
We've now arrived at ED and the patient is wheeled through the ambulance bay. A few minutes later, we're off again with lights flashing and sirens wailing - to Chadwick Rd.
It's an urgent job waiting - and I'm told the patient is having chest pains and changing colour. Then the reassignment order comes through and Doughty steers the ambulance off the main road and into the back streets of Greerton.
It's about 11.15am, and a 9-year-old boy has become fatigued and began struggling at the deep end of the pool at Bethlehem School's swimming sports day. A teacher pulled him out and he's lying down in the first aid room, moaning and dripping wet when we arrive.
The scene is noisy, with teachers and pool staff crowded around the room, and Pasquali can tell by the way the boy is heaving in his stomach muscles that he's having trouble breathing. His blue lips indicate a lack of oxygen.
Ever so calmly, Pasquali works through his ABCs. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Because it's difficult to tell how much water the boy has swallowed, he's classified as Status 2 - meaning the patient condition is potentially serious.
The boy's mother arrives just as he is being taken into the ambulance. This is where the job can get challenging for ambulance paramedics treating children - not only must they manage the patient, but their concerned parents as well.
"We've been to a few situations where the child is a Status 4 [minor condition] and happy as Larry, but the parents are more a Status 2. So you're looking after mum and dad as much as you are the child."
But teacher Angela Cochrane meets the mother and offers to drive her to the hospital.
Along the way, Pasquali is in the back talking to the boy, trying to make him know what has happened, trying to keep him calm and relaxed.
"What event were you in? Are you a good swimmer?"
Outside the ambulance bay, Cochrane agrees how St John paramedics can bring instant calm to an emergency scene.
"They're just fabulous, they always are."
Pasquali returns a few minutes later and reports the boy is having an X-ray. If his lungs are fine, hopefully he'll be clear to go home.
"A place like that is crowded and noisy. But they all did really well. It's good for us to get the patient somewhere quiet and private," he adds.
I ask whether he was following black-and-white textbook guidelines for near drowning cases.
"No, because no two incidents are ever the same. There's no textbook way of doing these things. You've just got to improvise and adapt to the situation you're in."
It's 1.20pm. The dispatcher clears us and it's back to the station for a lunch break. But Pasquali barely gets a mouthful of his soup and croutons when the alarm sound again.
A 91-year-old woman is having heart problems. We find her lying in bed. The gentle questions commence once more.
Pasquali packs up his defibrillator pack and our patient is lifted on to the stretcher and wheeled down a ramp to the ambulance.
We're away by 2.45pm and arrive at the hospital at 3.02pm.
Then a Priority 1 call to Welcome Bay comes in. A 59-year-old man has suffered kidney failure.
The sirens wail again and off we go, with just one oblivious driver the only thing to slow our journey.
The patient, a diabetic, is having trouble breathing and we find him lying on his bed in pain. Blood pressure: 100 over 60. Pulse: 88 beats per minute. Blood-sugar levels: 3.3 milimoles per litre of blood.
The patient needs some sugar to boost his levels and a family member fetches a bag of giant jellybeans. Doughty brings the patient out in a collapsible chair and we head back to the now familiar entrance to Tauranga Hospital's Emergency Department.
On our way back to the station, the MDT snaps to life amid a symphony of alarms.
Someone has been found unconscious in their vehicle at the Bayfair Doctors' car park. But we are stood down again - it turns out our next patient was just someone catching a nap - and Pasquali can resume his neglected soup and croutons.
It's now 5pm and Pasquali and Doughty have still got another two hours - and another two call-outs - left in the shift before they can go home.
With nine calls on the log sheet, it's been Pasquali's idea of a busy day.
"It's hard work - and it never gets easier," Doughty says.
It begs my question - what's the average retirement age for a paramedic?
Pasquali answers with a chuckle,"98, isn't it?
"No, the time to stop is when you stop loving what you're doing.
"When that goes, it's time to go."
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