The Goldenrod: A Paramedic’s Unforgettable Encounter with a Bridge Jumper
It’s a curious thing, what can evoke a memory. This morning, it was a garden weed. A Goldenrod, or Solidago, as I’ve come to know it. From my stance at the kitchen window, halfway down my road, flanked and tall, swaying menacingly in the morning breeze among a smart of other unkempt florals, was that simple little foliage. Its deep green leaves pulled upward toward its vibrant yellow bloom. A deceitful throng of nature’s will — by appearance alone, many might find attractiveness in its verdant leaves and playful sway. One may choose to ignore its invasive classification and simply leave it be. I applaud those people, because unlike them, I am held captive every time the light catches one just right. As it did this morning.
Let me take you back, the way my memory took me…
In the city, there’s this bridge; it connects the North and South sides like some sprawling iron giant. A massive metal skeleton with riveted joints and weathered girders. Most days, it’s just a simple conveyor of people and traffic, but on that cloudy day in late summer, it bore witness to something it had become known for — a man standing on its ledge with hopeless eyes and a pained heart.
I was situated on a quiet side road that gave a flawless view of this architectural marvel. We’d been dispatched at the behest of police who, upon our arrival, were already high up on the bridge pleading with this sullen figure that stood precariously on the dangerous side of the railing. After some time, and to no avail of reason, the man jumped. I watched as he flailed, flapped, and fell…
We heard a request spill out from our radio: “Paramedics, regroup to our position, please.” We obliged.
We would join in search efforts. Firefighters and police scoured the angry waters of the river, and my partner and I carefully walked the muddy banks of the shoreline. There is no happy ending to this story; the man was not found on our watch — some days later and several miles downstream, I believe.
The scene commander relayed that we could depart the scene and return to service, but prior to walking up the steep embankment away from the humming waters, I peered down at my feet, observing as mud swallowed the soles of my boots. Surrounding me was a bevy of swaying Goldenrod. That innocent little weed has never felt more sinister to me than in that moment. And it has never felt the same to me since.
Especially early in the morning on a temperate in late Spring just before the rain falls.
It’s a curious thing — memory. It too can act as a swaying weed in the recesses of a tired mind burdened by the invasive floral of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Curious indeed.
