Author Matthew Heneghan

Another painful day looms just beyond the clouds…

“Us military brats gotta stick together…” This turn of phrase plays from in my ears with a melodic heft that brings both joy and sorrow to my heart. An utterance so innocuous at the time has gone on to become something so achingly haunting and solemn.

Some days, when I sit in quiet contemplation of all those I have served with that no longer remain, the air around me begins to feel a little thinner. The world a little more empty, and the functionality of day to day life that I have learned to carve out for myself starts to wane ever so slightly. You’d be 43 come February — you old bastard! 😉

But you didn’t quite make it. Your world got a little too heavy, didn’t it, brother… I’m so sorry it did.

I first met you days removed from my time in the army. I still had that ridiculous high & tight haircut. But neither my appearance nor unassurredness seemed to bother you. Quite the opposite, actually. I remember your introduction; you walked over to me with that swagger you had. With one hand, you removed your sunglasses and placed them onto your forehead. With that goofy Atkin smile, you initiated cordialities. You looked like something right off the beaches of California. To be honest, that’s what I called you for a long time — Surfer Chris. Though, I don’t think you ever knew that.

Your voice was almost a caricature of a stereotypical beach bum, but it made you approachable, and all of the crazy things that seemed to fall out of your mouth all the more humorous. It also helped on those crazy calls we’d attend as paramedics. Something about hearing a surfer voice state in earnest, “yeah… legs aren’t supposed to bend like that — we’ll take ya’ to the hospital, my dude,” made almost any serious call that much less stressful. Especially when you’d call an eighty-something year old man, “dude.” 🤣😂

My first overnight shift at the ambulance station, you must have seen that I claimed a room at the far end of the hall by myself, because when I returned to where I’d left my stuff, it wasn’t there. At first, I thought that I may be the recipient of “new guy” station pranks, but the reality was that you had moved my stuff to an empty bunk in your room.

“Hey, Henny — I moved your stuff in here with me… us military brats gotta to stick together!” Something about that gesture and sentiment made me feel a little more at ease with all the uncertainty of my new position as a medic. You never served in the army, as I’d come to find out, but you had family members that did, and you seemed to fancy yourself something of a Call of Duty Veteran.

Man! You were great at that game.

When we both got jobs in the city, I always loved seeing you in the hallways of whatever hospital we were in. You always had some kind of funny story that could cure whatever introspective vexation I was navigating at the time. You were a good man, Chris. I didn’t tell you that enough in life. My hope is that somewhere out there among the unknown, you hear me say it now.

October 20th, 2019, a day I will always remember in the worst of ways. It’s the day you left us — all of us. I miss you, brother. Every day.

Be still now. I’ll see you someday, paramedic Chris Atkin. Like you said… us military brats gotta stick together. 🚑❤️🪖