A few weeks ago, my dad had a fall at home. He was alone, but fortunately was able to call me on the phone. “I’m okay,” he said. “But I’ve cut my face and I’m bleeding.”

Now, for the average person this might not be a real big problem. But my dad cannot be described as average. Nineteen years ago this month he had a massive MI and subsequent cardiac arrest. The ER doc at St. Mike’s defibrillated him nine times and gave him back to us. Literally. It was like a gift. And he’s still with us, albeit miraculously, given the amount of damage to his heart he suffered that day. A fall for my dad is not an insignificant occurrence.

There I was on the phone with him, standing in my kitchen at home, contemplating all the possibilities. Why did he fall? Syncope or stumble? Hypoglycemia? Hypotension? How bad was he bleeding? (He’s on Coumadin, of course.) Will he need stitches, or a Band-Aid? I felt alone and so far away. On a good day, I might be able to get to my parents’ downtown condominium in twenty minutes. Or, with Toronto traffic, it could be an hour. What’s his heart rhythm? Is he stable?

So I did what thousands upon thousands of Canadians do every day across our country—I called an ambulance. I spoke with someone in the communications centre who I’ve known for years and explained the situation. I was comforted immediately by her tone and demeanour. She knew I was worried and I felt like she shared my concerns. “Don’t worry, Steve,” she said. “We’ll get somebody over there right away.”

A few minutes later I answered the phone again. “Hi, Steve, it’s André,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “Lisa and I are with your dad. He’s okay.” He then proceeded to give me a rundown of their very thorough assessment. Heart rate, rhythm, blood pressure, blood sugar, neuro status, et cetera. He described the cuts on my dad’s face, and said they probably wouldn’t need a stitch.

But here’s the thing: André didn’t have to tell me any of that to put my mind at ease. Just knowing that he and Lisa were there and looking after my dad made all the difference in the world. Why? More on that in a second.

Fast forward a few weeks. Faculty in the paramedic program at Humber College in Toronto recently came up with the idea that the paramedic program needs a motto. So, the faculty asked the students to submit their ideas in a contest to come up with the new motto. There were many excellent submissions. The best of them were then put to the students to decide the winner. Out of all the entries, one was chosen by an overwhelming plurality of votes. The winner submitted by second-year student Kirk Snider is:

“Care. Competence. Compassion.”

Three words that galvanize the essence of what we do. Three words that stand alone, yet each by itself would not be representative of our profession—or of a student body of soon-to-be paramedics. These three simple words share an interdependence. There is a suggestion that they are forever linked; that their bonds are strong. Together, they represent the profession and its noble pursuit.

Care can be defined many ways. It can mean concern for something, as in the expression “take care.” It can mean serious attention; solicitude; heed; caution: “She devotes great care to her work.” Or, it can denote protection, as in “He is under the care of a doctor.” It can be a noun. We don’t just care for our patients, but we provide care. In this way, it represents a body of knowledge; a skill set.

Competence is defined as the state or quality of being adequately or well qualified. It also means a specific range of skill, knowledge, or ability, as well as the quality or condition of being legally qualified to perform an act.

Compassion is a noun that means a deep awareness of the suffering of another, coupled with the wish to relieve it. To have compassion means that we empathize with our patients. That, without reservation or judgment, we do the right thing. We comfort them. We treat them as if they were one of our own.

But what would compassion be without competence? Or competence be without care? If we are to be truly good medics we require all three elements. They are an inescapable blend of what we do and who we are. Together, like a spiritual tonic, they allow us to reach further inside of ourselves to help a stranger.

To possess all three, one must give up caring so much about oneself. I must care beyond myself, not just about myself. In putting the needs of others above our own, we are able to go the extra mile; to lift and carry a patient when we are inclined to walk them; to treat them when we are inclined to dislike them; to transport them despite our stomach’s insistence that we eat first and despite the knowledge that doing so will most certainly cause us to be parked for hours in the back hallway of an emergency department waiting for a bed into which to off-load our patient.

In an increasingly hectic workplace—and EMS clearly fits the definition of a hectic workplace—it becomes more and more difficult to aspire to the ideals set out in this motto. In services where missed meals are the norm; where wait times to off-load patients to ER beds is measured in hours; where medics are made to stay mobile or are posted to street corners for interminable periods of time; where significant adversity on the frontline is met with cynical public opinion, it becomes easy to fall into a trap. We lose our altruistic desire to provide the best care, because our focus shifts to self-preservation.

Maybe it is best, then, that it would be paramedic student Kirk Snider who conceived the motto for an academic institution that teaches and molds the progeny of our industry. For it is in the idealistic mind of a student that the seeds of such values are sown. He reminds us all of these simple core values that should guide us in our daily work. Perhaps laying this foundation early will help sustain a student in the harder days when he or she finds themselves out on the streets, struggling to live by this mantra of optimism which so often and easily falls by the wayside, as we struggle to keep our heads above the chasm.

Now, back to André and Lisa. André has been a paramedic for many years; Lisa, only a few. But both of them have the capability to restore confidence in others that everything will be alright. Just their presence is reassuring. They don’t strut with an affected swagger. Instead, they care and are compassionate in giving of that care. I know they are more than competent, so I know that they are the real deal—what paramedics should aspire to be. Whether they know it or not, they are Humber’s motto personified: Care. Competence. Compassion.

Thank you to all the Andrés and Lisas out there.

[Author’s note: My father passed away on November 1, 2009, but not before receiving excellent care on many occasions by Toronto paramedics and the staff at St. Michael’s Hospital.]