Dad sat in a chair wearing a yellow collared short sleeve shirt, green and navy plaid pajama bottoms, and navy and white plaid flannel-like buttoned down sweater. Both arms on arm rests of the EZ chair. Legs crossed. He wore grey socks, and tan slippers. Eyes closed.
As he sat, two people came in — one white and one black — both kind faces, young. They wore navy-grey jackets bearing the Bell ambulance logo. Their coats, I’m not sure of the material, but they swooshed — A LOT. Lots of swooshing. Like a light coat you might wear for windy weather rubbing against itself.
A nurse gave him morphine. He appeared to be in a daze.
They got him up, he kind of mumbled. They helped him scuffle into the stretcher. Again, that swooshing sound of the coats.
Once on the stretcher, they draped him with five straps to keep him secure. The straps also gave a sound — a similar sound to the jackets, except when pulled tight. When pulled, the straps sounded like cord being pulled taut before being knotted.
The stretcher, under its own power, rose from the ground — it sounded like a wench. When it hit its appropriate height it locked into place.
The two people, whose faces I shall never forget, cleared the path and took Dad out.