As a non-emergency medical
transport service, we see it all; hope in the eyes
of those headed for treatment, gratitude from the
elderly who are able to make their appointments,
love in families who are transported home for
recovery, and even the overwhelming grief of
families who respectfully prepare for one last
hospice transport. This profession sees a myriad of
emotions within a diverse spectrum of life
experiences, but it is one transport, one night,
that defines AMT’s commitment to all who travel with
us.
The night was not long after the
birth of our small, minority-owned business. I was
coming home from dropping off my last transport,
wearing the fatigue of long hours and many miles,
when I got a call from one of my drivers. His voice
was quick and uncharacteristically anxious. He
needed help beyond what he could convey in short
radio bursts. I knew this call was different.
Immediately, I shrugged off my needs, changed
course, and headed directly to him. It wasn’t long before I began to
feel the changing energy of the night. Electrifying
chills ran through me. Tonight was more than
important; it was everything. Maybe it was the
somber darkness of the Tucson night, maybe it was
the crisp air as I opened my window for a burst of
refreshment, but probably it was the complete
reverence I felt as I reentered the hallowed grounds
of the Pascua Yaqui Nation. This reservation is a
quiet kingdom of strength and honor just outside the
bustling city lights of Tucson, Arizona. They are a
proud people who have given so much to the
preservation of their heritage as well as to the
community they share. I meandered through the
unlit, unmarked lanes, feeling the mood and my
anxiety grow.
It was then that I made one last
turn and the darkness made way for a scene of
lights, cars, and reverent, saddened faces. There,
too, was my AMT vehicle, back doors opened, our
driver next to its occupant, in a stretcher, all
eyes on him. I hopped out and felt the sting
of desperate anger in the air. My inspection of the
scene clarified why. Lying very still in the back
of my AMT transport was a hospice patient. He was a
well-respected tribal leader, a medicine man, a
healer, an honored elder of the Pascua Yaqui
Nation. He was dying. He had agreed to transport
home so that he could die among his people, on his
land, surrounded by all things that could connect
him spiritually to this next journey he would soon
pass into. This is not what happened. Instead,
paperwork mix-ups had sent him to his daughter’s
house instead of his own home in Guadalupe, just
outside of Phoenix. His daughter, as well as all
the relatives gathered, refused to accept his
release anywhere except at his home. After many
phone calls between hospice and the family and
hospice and me, we remained at a stalemate. The
hospice worker wasn’t authorized to approve
transport to any other location, the distance was
too far, out of their jurisdiction. The list went
on and on.
This is when I knew,
definitively, that AMT isn’t defined by what it
does, but by what it refuses to do. We refuse to
let culture be sacrificed to paperwork. We refuse
to let a noble man depart this life away from his
home and his people because of an address error. We
refuse to be bound by formalities instead of
honor. We refuse to accept that there is nothing we
can do. Instead, we did what was right. We loaded
more oxygen tanks for the longer journey, gathered
up the rest of the Tucson family members, told
hospice we were taking him home, and began the
caravan to Guadalupe. The drive itself seemed
surreal; this tribal elder, this spiritual man, in
a white and red transport vehicle being followed
respectfully by a parade of mini-vans for an almost
two-hour trek. It wasn’t until we arrived at his
home that I realized the full impact of the night
Mass numbers of
family and friends had been waiting for his arrival,
had been celebrating his life and memories in
anticipation of his return. Those throngs of people
parted for us to maneuver the van in and deftly
carry him into his living room, where his grateful
wife and a blanket of pictures surrounded his bed.
His people flocked to his side, but they were not
mourners. They were celebrants, tossing memories
and lessons learned to each other and sharing all of
him with all who would listen.
We listened too, and I discovered
that I had gone to school with people there, had
shared my childhood with people there, and had
family connections to them too. They looked at AMT
as family and were grateful in a way that only
family can be. Our refusal to accept status quo
made a difference that night and has defined what
AMT does ever since.
We left that night, relishing the
currents of energy that lingered, and we knew that
our eyes had been opened and that our business had
been redefined. When the call came the next day, I
wasn’t surprised to hear that he had passed. He had
had only a few hours left, but he had still managed
to be a leader to his people, and through this
experience taught our company the importance of an
individual’s right to die at home surrounded by his
culture, his customs, his family and friends in his
community.
I felt no grief or regret, only
honor and personal gratitude for the experience. I
knew then with absolute certainty what my life’s
work would be. (And that AMT would transform the way
non-emergency transportation has been viewed and
that our company’s philosophy would be about doing the right thing.) More calls came in from
his family members, some of thank you and some for
new business for us. We had made a difference, and
that experience made a difference in our business
too. To this day, AMT is defined by what we refuse
to accept as status quo. We make connections,
provide dignity to all who ride with us, offer
assurance that no one will be forgotten, and give to
others as we would our own family.
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