

Of all the spots in the world to find work as a paramedic, fate brought Michael Julius to Putnam County– one of the poorest places in Florida. This strange and forgotten locale, which Julius characterizes as a sprawling, sandy 827 square mile plot of land “pocked with hundreds of small lakes, and tucked in tangly forests,” provides Julius’ on-the-job photo series, Rescuing Putnam, with a shockingly vivid sense of physical space. It’s the lurking presence of Putnam’s residents, living (and dying) “in trailers and shacks, along webs of unpaved roads,” that provides Rescuing Putnam with its resigned, melancholy psychological space.
Throughout a decade of bloody ambulance rides and smoldering ranch homes, Julius’ camera served as his closest confidante, silently sharing both the madness of these unsettling emergency response calls, as well as the warm, intimate world of the medics and firemen who commit themselves to this stressful way of life. Insig.ht conducted a fascinating interview with Julius, where he reflects on the growing sense of disillusionment that crept up on him over the years:
Statistically, this is a career that doesn’t lend itself to a lengthy service. The average career span for your basic garden-variety medic is 3-5 years. For me, the burnout was as much about the physical toll on the body as anything. Every three days I would essentially stay up all night. This, compounded by the repetitive aspect of the job, is exhausting. By repetitive I mean that I eventually realized that I was seeing the same people over and over. Some are actually sick though many are not, or at least not in an emergent sense. The skill-set to evaluate the needs of your sick and hurt patients eventually became a hindrance because I saw how so many of them were in fact not sick at all. It’s frustrating. Towards the end of my career I told a drug seeking patient, who had just finished performing a hilariously bad seizure, “You know, seizure patients usually urinate on themselves.” I wanted to see her piss herself. That’s pretty cynical.
We end up at the same houses. Houses full of thieves and alcoholics, with the same adolescent boys sitting on fence posts, or car hoods, or tossing footballs; and, when we arrive they pitch their thumbs, mumbling, “They’re in the back.” And in the back are the same old patients, face down in their vomit. It breaks my heart to see these boys conditioned to this. The very last patient of my career spit on me and said, “Clean that up, bitch”. It’s a river of misery and it goes on forever.
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