The Sound Blood Makes

I hear a lot about blood.

When I'm not writing books, I'm a 911 fire/medical dispatcher. People call me when their loved ones are bleeding from places they shouldn't be. Even though I have the computer in front of me to give me the cues to read, I have the responses memorized. "Do you know where the finger is? Get a clean, dry plastic bag. No, DON'T put it on ice. That can damage the tissues. No, really, no ice, I mean it."

I hang up and look at my own fingers, grateful they're still neatly attached, still able to tap the keys on the keyboard, still able to move stitches across my knitting needles.

Or maybe their elderly mother has just fallen and cut her head open: "Get a clean, dry cloth or towel," I say as I press the mute switch and take another bite of my oatmeal -- I'm on hold while they look for a towel. "Got one? Good. Now press it firmly against the wound. Don't lift up. If it bleeds through, just get another towel."

Or maybe it's multiple gunshots. "He's GUSHING blood," they say. "Blood is EVERYWHERE. I can't STOP it. Which wound do I pick?"

"Just push more firmly. Pick the worst one. Do your best. I know you can do it."

The paramedics arrive. I disconnect. Finish my scrambled eggs. Take the next call.

And it just goes with the territory, I suppose, that with the disconnection, I remain so disconnected. I'm able to hear people screaming and crying, and then go back to chatting with my coworkers about what we're planning for the weekend. I can hear the vivid descriptions of pain and blood and gore, can hear the ribs breaking when I give effective CPR instructions, can hear the sobs as people realize that this is it, this is moment their life will be changed forever, and I can really, truly honor the fact that I'm the one with them in this important moment, and we're both doing the very, very best that we can, but then I'm the one that gets to hang up and remain unbloodied.

I don't have to clean anything up.

I don't have to figure out whether to wash the towel or throw it out.

911 is the first call. I don't have to decide who to call second.

My desk remains clean, and somewhere a siren is screaming.

Hell, it might be part of the reason I write romance. I saw District 9 over the weekend, and I was truly freaked out by it -- all that blood, pain, sadness. I know it's a good movie. Maybe even a great one. But while it's a science fiction movie about aliens, it's also about how awfully badly humans can behave, and how much pain people can end up in. Is it wrong that I don't really want to be reminded of that? I get enough of that at work. So I combat that with episodes of Glee and The Amazing Race and romance novels and happily ever afters. Blood stays inside the body and kisses heal everything.

Nothing wrong with happily ever after, in my book.

For a chance to win an advanced reader's copy of Rachael's first novel HOW TO KNIT A LOVE SONG, please visit her at Yarnagogo.com. Spoiler alert: Happy ending guaranteed.