As a trainee on a volunteer ambulance service years ago, I went to a scene where a man had committed suicide. It was not my first or only suicide call, but it made a significant impression on me. The ability and necessity of emergency workers, reporters and others to respond to tragedy without getting emotionally engaged has always fascinated me. It may appear callous to the casual reader, but the depth and strength of emotion present runs deep. How any of us deal with death is personal - but for the workers who must deal with death daily - staying outside the pain doesn’t mean they don’t care, only that they hide it better.

Five more minutes…

“Second door on the left, but trust me, you don’t want to go in there,” he said, his face pale as he passed by me.

Two flashes. A third. The police photographer stepped back into the hall.

“Okay,” someone said.

Then there he was. A bloom of brain and blood spread up the wall. The barrel of the shotgun sprawled across one leg. the chest was naked, his face was gone. A red gaping hole was left. The arms splayed out to either side, palms up.

The smell of fresh baked brownies filtered through the open door.

Behind me was the clatter of the ambulance stretcher, the loud zip of a bag.

“We’ve got this one,” the paramedic said, watching, waving the trainees out of the room.

We waited, standing in the kitchen, listening to the murmur of voices down the hall.

“He said wake him when the brownies are done,” a woman said.

“I was taking them out of the oven and I heard this boom. We thought the bookcase fell over or something. Then we checked on him…” her voice trailed off.

She pushed the plate of brownies towards me.

“He didn’t even wait. Five more minutes and he could have been eating a brownie and talking to us and it would have been okay. Five more minutes.”

She stared at the plate.

“Please. Have a brownie.”

I shook my head.

“Just one. I’ll wrap it up for you.”

I watched her tear off the Saran wrap and wrap a brownie and force it into my hand.

Tears ran out her eyes.

“Five more minutes.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

The stretcher rolled past us.

I tucked the brownie into my jacket pocket.

I followed the crew back to the ambulance.

“Five more minutes,” I said to the three officers standing outside.

“She said five more minutes and he’d have been eating a brownie and talking.”

“Yeah – did you get one?” a younger officer asked.

I tossed him the brownie.

“Thanks! I didn’t have breakfast,” he said.

“Five more minutes and we’d have been at McDonalds,” his partner jibed, holding his hand out for part of the brownie.

They split it, eating it as they got back in their patrol car.