For those of you who don't already know, my husband works in emergency medicine as a paramedic. You've heard it said that sometimes a person is born for a particular job? My husband was born for this job. Not necessarily paramedic work but emergency response in general. His response to an emergency is something like, "Out of the way! I know exactly what to do!" while my response typically involves closing my eyes and crying. You know, different talents and all.

So in this regard, I respect and appreciate my husband's job a great deal. However, in many other ways I despise it. Actually, I only despise one small part of it: the god. damned. pager. For his actual paramedic profession, he only has to respond to pages sent out while he's at work. Nevertheless, the pager gets to sing its pesky tune every day at 6 a.m. since it doubles as an alarm clock. I realize this is probably part of the design, but does it have to be so reliable? And you'd think that with the money I've dropped on post-high degrees I could demystify the inner workings of a 3x2 piece of plastic, but it ain't happenin. I rue the day I suggested we simply use the pager as our alarm clock rather than replacing our old alarm.

Unlike his duties at work, as a first responder hubby potentially has to respond to a page at any hour of the day. Or night. Of course, he only has to cover a specific geographical area, but since there's no such thing as a Smart Pager (yet), we hear every page. At every hour. Are you starting to see the big picture here? And let's not forget that pager tones are designed to shock the body out of slumber faster than you can say, "Who drooled on my pillow?" Therefore, Mr. Emergency is not the only one roused when Old Man Wilson's ticker is giving him trouble at 3 a.m.

I realize I sound insensitive. I know I should be proud that my husband is there to help the community. And I am. No, really. I am! However, 97% of the pages that come through are outside of his "Response Zone" yet still wake me up. When hubby is home and the pager goes off, I can quickly roll over and groan my disapproval while he fumbles for the silencer. But when he's working and has left the pager on--MAX VOLUME--I start to take issue with his role as "servant of the community." I have bruises on my thighs that rival Grobachev's birthmark from running into our footboard while frantically trying to get to the pager. Yes, logic says the pager would be off when hubby is working, but that requires a kind of attentiveness that is simply not part of my character. Although irate at the time, I forget about the whole incident within 24 hours...only to relive it 24 hours after that.

But we all have our crosses to bear, and I guess this is mine. *insert heavy sigh of a martyr* I try to limit my complaints about the pager--especially after having the "what if it was our child choking and a first responder had his pager off because it was an in-con-veeeenience?" card played. Instead, I find my own ways of coping with the situation which I've recently learned are not always appreciated. A couple mornings ago, while getting ready for work, my hubby said with concern in his voice, "I just don't know what I did with my pager. I have to find it!" This was his work pager--Old Faithful, if you will. And then something fluttered through my memory.

I cautiously peeked around the bedroom door and said, "I think I know where it is." I had his attention. "Um, I'm pretty sure it's wrapped up in a couple pieces of paper toweling and tucked inside the Ziplock sandwich bag box in the kitchen drawer."

A bit of a head shake. "Nice, babe."

It seemed like a good idea at the time: hubby is already asleep, he has the next day off (e.g. doesn't have to get up early), and I spot the pager on the kitchen counter on my way to bed. Memories of me dashing down the hall to the kitchen to push any and every button so as to turn the screeching off before the girls are awoken flood my mind, and I know I have to do something. The key is to muffle the sound so none of us will ever hear it, and that takes more work than one would think. So I wrapped that bad boy up like it was a week-old fish and tucked it into the further recess of our kitchen drawer.

Sure, it wasn't an ideal situation for hubby to find himself in ("Uh, sorry boss. I just can't find the thing. Yes, I know it's an important part of the job"), but how about some props to me for an outstanding hiding place! Three days passed before I had to think about that thing. Three peaceful, serene, quiet days.