After EMS: Home Work
Editor’s Note: This article is part of an ongoing series from Mike Rubin. In this series, he’ll reflect on his career and share practical retirement advice for emergency medical personnel. Catch up on articles you missed.
One question I’m never asked is, “How do you keep your youthful glow?” That’s because I rarely glow, youthfully or otherwise. It’s undignified.
Older folks care less about glowing than, say, bathroom convenience. If you think you see us glowing, we’re probably blushing because of something concerning a bathroom or the absence of one.
Another question I’m never asked is, “What do you like best about retirement?” That’s easy: being home—and not just because of the bathrooms.
Home is where I’m as stealthy and inconsequential to the rest of the world as a beer-drinker on a barstool. It’s the least demanding place I know. I don’t have to impress anyone or struggle to be sociable. If retirement is necessary, which it is, I’m glad I found such a senior-friendly setting to ease the adjustment.
I didn’t expect to exit EMS so soon. I assumed I’d keep working as a paramedic into my 70s, then seek friends and adventure in distant places. Treating myself to a dose of Do No Harm was a luxury I could hardly imagine. What about my patients? There weren’t any—just kids and grandkids plus The Lovely Helen, who’s been living la vida tranquila since retiring from public service almost 15 years ago. She and I even discussed crisscrossing the country in an RV with nothing scheduled except the next day’s drive.
On the way to wanderlust, our plans fell apart. There are too many health and safety issues to name without sounding pathetic. I’ll just say it’s equally difficult for me to work or travel. Being a medic in name only offered hope for a while, but no solutions.
Now I’m in a better place. I’m talking about my house north of Nashville. I spend lots of time here winding down comfortably. Gone are the days of rotating shifts, pants with many pockets, CEUs, W-2s, and half-eaten takeout, but that doesn’t mean I’m idle. I’m retired, not catatonic. I work at this and that, some of it for money, all of it from a 10x10 spare bedroom I call my office. Helen doesn’t mind as long as I don’t call her my secretary.
Working for myself is different from working for anyone else, mostly in good ways:
- I can play to my strengths without getting sidetracked by office politics. My office isn’t big enough for politics.
- The hours are flexible. All I have to do is whatever I promise my customers—this column, for example.
- I’m taxed twice as much for Social Security and Medicare (my share plus “my employer’s”), but I get to deduct business expenses from revenue. It evens out.
- Nobody grades my performance on some silly 1-5 scale where 1 and 5 seem too extreme.
- I’m solely responsible for my success or failure. What could be fairer?
I should mention I’m not new to self-employment. I started a one-man consulting business four decades ago, eight years before I became an EMT. Back then I worked two jobs to pay bills. Now I’m just keeping busy, although extra income is helpful.
If you haven’t tried being your own boss—part-time, at least—perhaps you should. Think of it as investing in your retirement. To start, you’ll need at least one skill others value, accounting software or someone to help with basic bookkeeping, and willingness to sacrifice downtime for money. As wisecracking capitalist Groucho Marx said, “The harder I work, the more luck I seem to have.”
Business aside, it’s nice to be around when needed. Helen approves. Willie the cat shows his appreciation by clawing me less. But the best part of being home is my grandkids climbing onto the sofa to sit with me for no particular reason. To them I say hello. I must be glowing.
Mike’s Exit Poll #6: What was the strangest job you ever had?
Several of mine qualify. Within EMS, it would have to be five years as a paramedic at the Grand Ole Opry—country music’s mecca and a wicked strange place for a Boston boy to end up. Everyone treated me well, although there was polite amusement among famous performers whenever I asked their names. Within a year I met them all, beginning with Roy Clark—one of the few I’d listened to yesterday, when I was young.
If you’re tempted to apply, don’t bother. The Opry no longer hires in-house paramedics, possibly because there’s a Nashville fire station right across the street. But if you can sing like Vince Gill or Carrie Underwood, step into my office.
Mike Rubin is a retired paramedic and the author of Life Support, a collection of EMS stories. Contact him at mgr22@prodigy.net.
