(The names have been changed to protect the guilty)
In retrospect the whole situation was quite funny. At the time though, I questioned many of the decisions I had made in my life. Generally, why I had decided to pursue a career in EMS, and specifically, why I had agreed to partner with Brad. The owners of the small private ambulance service that I worked for were quite taken with Brad. He was a newly graduated paramedic who wowed the medical board during his interview. His knowledge of the academics of pre-hospital medicine was indeed impressive. Unfortunately, he was having difficulty translating that knowledge to the field and was failing miserably at applying it to the actual treatment of patients.
I’ll call Brad colorful, though that adjective doesn’t really paint the picture of this slight pompous little man. My grandmother would have described him as a “Banty Rooster”, strutting around, sticking his neck into places better left undisturbed. He had a decided effeminate air and never hesitated to espouse his opinion in his high-pitched, Southern drawl. I had to remain on high alert to keep Brad from turning a routine call into a fiasco while still performing all of the skills necessary for treating heart attacks and accident victims.
That Thursday morning had been quiet. We served a rural area, and the pace was usually relaxed. We occasionally had horrendous accidents on the interstate, and had the usual cardiac and medical calls, but the low population base meant that we didn’t experience the abuse of the 911 system seen by many larger areas. The one exception to this was Windward Estates. The auspicious title belied the fact that it was assigned to one of the filthiest, most run down trailer parks I have ever seen. Here is where we usually responded to the few shootings, stabbings and domestic calls that came into our tiny dispatch center. When we were called to an “unknown medical” at an address that I recognized, I anticipated that it could involve more than just first aid and transport to the hospital, but never dreamed that I would be wondering if I would get out of that trailer alive.
The inhabitant of this hovel was Melva Lackland, a tiny, profane, raisin of a woman who called 911 on a regular basis for all sorts of emergencies, both real and imagined. Let’s just say that if Melva’s brain was a credit card, it would have been maxed out years ago. It was just past 10 am when we turned into the patch of dirt that served as a yard for her mobile home. My pulse quickened when I saw the gathering of men loitering in her front yard. I had heard that the biggest, the meanest of her grandsons had just gotten out of prison, where he had spent far too little time for the crime of killing his brother. It was apparent that he and his remaining siblings were celebrating. I guess if you are known for fratricide, your surviving brothers are hesitant to cross you. So, in spite of the fact that he had eliminated one of their own, he and his family were pretty much wasted in reverie. I guess when no one has a job, you don’t have to wait till the weekend to party, and any old weekday morning will do!
When we exited the ambulance, Melva came running onto the rotting redwood deck, her coke-bottle bottomed glasses magnifying her already wild looking eyes. She was even more agitated than normal and screeching the following demand…”Gitcher ditty bag ‘n here, there’s sumptin’ comin’ outta this girl’s asshole!”…”Okayyy”, I thought. “What the heck have we gotten ourselves into?”
I grabbed my medical bag and hurried into the dilapidated dwelling, where I found a plump young woman, fully clothed, in no apparent distress sitting on the couch watching a soap opera in total boredom. As I was trying to ascertain the exact nature of her emergency, Melva was flitting around like a mosquito, buzzing something about the girl being pregnant and things seeping from orifices that shouldn’t be presenting themselves, when Brad brought the entire drama to a dead silence with the following order, “Ma’am! Ma’am! You must exit the residence while we examine the patient…you must leave NOW!!!
Now, the condition the dwelling notwithstanding, it was still Melva’s home and no one could make her leave, save the police on the frequent occasions she had to be arrested or committed, and then it took two or more of them to restrain and remove this 100 pound woman. As she began to hyperventilate into an inevitable eruption, a shadow darkened the room as the silhouette of the recent parolee filled the open doorway.
He had been lurking just outside and had heard Brad order his grandmother out of her abode. He stooped as his 6 foot 5 inch frame stepped through the door. The unmistakable bouquet of Jim Beam and B.O. stung my nostrils and I think I saw the minute movement of lice burrowing into the rope of braided hair hanging down his back.
I heard a “click” and it caused me to freeze. The source of my inertia was the gleaming switchblade that had just been flicked open. It shined like a beacon, the only clean thing in the trailer, and he cracked a decaying smile as he tossed the weapon from hand to hand.
He staggered toward Brad, his newfound anger in direct conflict with his drunken delight in the pain he was going to inflict. I was trying to think of something to say to deter the felon from resuming his career, when he growled, “I’m gonna kill you”… he then turned his putrid grin in my direction…”and rape her”. I could have sworn the lump in my throat was my heart, but nothing prepared me for what happened next. Brad squared off with my would be rapist, puffed out his chest, placed his hands on his hips; arms akimbo and countered…”You can’t hurt us…we have a radio!”
The utter ridiculousness of the statement caused all of us to ponder and scratch our heads, but I quickly saw our window of escape. For once Brad followed my lead without question, and we both bolted out the door. I vaulted the deck railing like a pommel horse and covered the littered yard in a few short leaps and bounds. As I threw the rig into a reverse spin, Brad swung the passenger door open and nearly climbed into my lap as I put the Lacklands’ in our dust.
We radioed for police as we raced to the safety of our station. When we arrived we gave our statements and the law took over. I guess communicating threats and brandishing a weapon were minor offenses for someone so steeped in crime and we never had to testify against our near assailant. I heard later that he had killed someone else and had returned to prison…hopefully for life this time.
I had a newfound respect for Brad, in spite of the fact that his retort was foolhardy and made absolutely no sense, his willingness to stand up for me warmed my heart and we enjoyed our partnership and became good friends as well. The one question that remains unanswered to this day involves the young woman who was the subject of the original 911 call. When the police arrived at the scene that day, she was nowhere to be found and Melva and the rest of the family denied her existence. We never discovered who she was, and never found out what was coming from her derriere that day.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Q is for Quixotic
I remember my first year in EMS. I wondered if my palms would ever stop sweating every time the pager went off and I remember I thought I was going to save the world. I envisioned my days spent averting tragedy at every turn. In reality, I discovered that they were filled with long stretches of exhaustion and boredom occasionally punctuated by moments of sheer terror. I found that I was OK with that.
Idealism is a necessary trait when entering this profession. I was a field training officer for twelve years. It was a revolving door of eager fledglings who felt much as I did in the beginning, and it was my job to teach them the mundane and mind numbing parts of the job and help them to function and deal with the harsh realities of emergency work. Many of my trainees went on to become fine paramedics. Most did not. There aren't many who make a career out of EMS. Some leave to go on to bigger and better things, most just leave because it wasn't what they expected.
I could always tell when a new employee wouldn't stick around long. They were the Don Quixote's who thought that they would achieve adulation and glory, get to drive the ambulance real fast, make lots of noise and force people off the road...WOOHOO! One such young man jumped in the driver's seat his first day, turned the radio to a hard rock station and shouted..."YOU READY TO LOCK AND LOAD!?!?!". I told him to get in the passenger seat, turned the radio to the classical station and very quietly explained that this is an ambulance, not a Humvee. We are medics, not combat soldiers. We don't carry weapons, and we... dont...lock...and...load. He was gone after a couple of months.
I had made myself a promise that when I could no longer remember what it felt like to not know how to do this job, I would no longer be an FTO. I reached that point several years ago. It became like reading. I can't remember what it was like to look at a page in a book and not know what the letters meant, and I don't remember what its like to look at a sick person and not be able to decifer what is wrong with them (usually). I knew that when I lost that empathy for a rookie's greeness, that I would no longer be effective as a trainer, so I passed the baton to other FTOs.
I am happy with the balance in my career. I like the calm, sedateness that the majority of our calls bring and there is just enough excitement to make it interesting and keep me working well into my third decade as a paramedic. But, occasionally I still feel my palms get sweaty and I'll tilt my lance toward a windmill. After all, though I never force people off the road (not cool), I still get to drive the ambulance fast and make lots of noise, WhooHoo!
Idealism is a necessary trait when entering this profession. I was a field training officer for twelve years. It was a revolving door of eager fledglings who felt much as I did in the beginning, and it was my job to teach them the mundane and mind numbing parts of the job and help them to function and deal with the harsh realities of emergency work. Many of my trainees went on to become fine paramedics. Most did not. There aren't many who make a career out of EMS. Some leave to go on to bigger and better things, most just leave because it wasn't what they expected.
I could always tell when a new employee wouldn't stick around long. They were the Don Quixote's who thought that they would achieve adulation and glory, get to drive the ambulance real fast, make lots of noise and force people off the road...WOOHOO! One such young man jumped in the driver's seat his first day, turned the radio to a hard rock station and shouted..."YOU READY TO LOCK AND LOAD!?!?!". I told him to get in the passenger seat, turned the radio to the classical station and very quietly explained that this is an ambulance, not a Humvee. We are medics, not combat soldiers. We don't carry weapons, and we... dont...lock...and...load. He was gone after a couple of months.
I had made myself a promise that when I could no longer remember what it felt like to not know how to do this job, I would no longer be an FTO. I reached that point several years ago. It became like reading. I can't remember what it was like to look at a page in a book and not know what the letters meant, and I don't remember what its like to look at a sick person and not be able to decifer what is wrong with them (usually). I knew that when I lost that empathy for a rookie's greeness, that I would no longer be effective as a trainer, so I passed the baton to other FTOs.
I am happy with the balance in my career. I like the calm, sedateness that the majority of our calls bring and there is just enough excitement to make it interesting and keep me working well into my third decade as a paramedic. But, occasionally I still feel my palms get sweaty and I'll tilt my lance toward a windmill. After all, though I never force people off the road (not cool), I still get to drive the ambulance fast and make lots of noise, WhooHoo!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
R is for Reunions
I got that sinking feeling as we pulled into the intersection. Anyone who has ever worked in EMS knows the feeling I'm talking about. It's the one you get when you first see the scene and you immediately know that this is going to be bad...real bad.
The front of the four door sedan was untouched. The driver, a beautiful young mother and her young son, who had been sitting in the passenger seat, were fine. Well, I guess I should say that they were uninjured because they were far from fine. The right rear of the car, the area that had taken the impact of the three-quarter ton pick-up that had run the light, was crushed, and judging from the woman's anguished hysteria, I knew that there must be someone back there.
There was...it was her thirteen year old daughter. They were on their way to basketball practice. The girl was a nationally ranked youth league player, and college scouts had already discovered her. She was an excellent student, a devout Christian, and a bright and successful future seemed to be a sure thing. It wasn't. In the blink of an eye, this child's, this mother's, this entire family's future had been horribly altered.
She was alive, but barely. Just before the crash, her mother had reminded her to put on her knee brace. She had just recovered from a sports injury and was wearing one as a precaution during practices and games. She had taken her seat belt off briefly to do this and that is when the truck hit them. Seat belts have saved countless lives but in this very rare instance, not having one on saved hers. The impact threw her to the other side of the back seat, and had she been wearing her belt, she would have been secured to the right of the car and would have been crushed.
She was still breathing but had sustained a very serious head injury and was unconscious and bleeding profusely…we had to load and go. I began suctioning her airway immediately, my partner quickly stabilized her neck and spine and we took off for the trauma center. In route, it was all that I could do to keep her airway clear. Blood was pouring from her nose, mouth and ears and as it spread across the white stretcher sheet, I saw an unmistakable yellow haloing…cerebrospinal fluid. The blood was coming from her brain.
At the hospital, she was immediately taken to surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain, and later that evening I went to the ICU to check on her and found that precious child bruised, swollen and on a ventilator. She was in a deep coma and her prognosis was not good. Dozens of family members were in the waiting room engaged in deep and fervent prayer. Her mother saw me and we fell into each other’s’ arms. I don’t typically become involved in the aftermath of calls that I run. It would be logistically and emotionally impossible to follow up on patients on a regular basis, but I felt a strong connection to this family. I had a thirteen year old daughter of my own and I not only felt professionally responsible for this girl’s life, I felt maternally responsible as well.
Her mother and I formed an immediate bond. I became a regular visitor to the ICU and got to know her father and other family members as well. The waiting room was never empty, and a prayer chain of thousands had spread across the country. Weeks went by with no improvement. The doctors were giving very little hope that she would ever regain consciousness, much less have any kind of normal life, but her family never wavered in their belief that God had something else in store for this sweet child.
We soon discovered that our daughters’ birthdays were only two weeks apart. I suggested that we have a combined fourteenth birthday party for the two girls and we excitedly began planning one. When I left the hospital I thought that maybe I shouldn’t have committed to something that wasn’t likely to happen. I too was beginning to think that she would never recover, and I felt that it was irresponsible of me to suggest such a happy event that would probably never take place.
I was wrong. The family’s prayers were answered and just a few months after the accident, she went home. She had indeed regained consciousness and in a miracle that stunned even the doctors she made a complete recovery. She was unable to return to basketball, but she graduated high school and college and is a remarkable young woman today.
We did have that birthday party. I was talking about it at work and someone suggested that MEDIC sponsor it. It was held at our headquarters and there was a cake with both girls’ names and “Happy 14th!” spread across it in gooey icing. All of the people who had been thrown together in tragedy were reunited in celebration that day.
That party started a tradition at my agency. Patient reunions have become a yearly event here. A man who a suffered cardiac arrest and was resuscitated, a baby who couldn’t wait to get to the hospital to be born, and a child who would have choked to death had it not been for a paramedic are just a few of the patients who have had reunions with their rescuers. It is an uplifting event and helps us to remember why we do what we do, and it’s all because one little girl refused to give up, and one family never stopped praying.
The front of the four door sedan was untouched. The driver, a beautiful young mother and her young son, who had been sitting in the passenger seat, were fine. Well, I guess I should say that they were uninjured because they were far from fine. The right rear of the car, the area that had taken the impact of the three-quarter ton pick-up that had run the light, was crushed, and judging from the woman's anguished hysteria, I knew that there must be someone back there.
There was...it was her thirteen year old daughter. They were on their way to basketball practice. The girl was a nationally ranked youth league player, and college scouts had already discovered her. She was an excellent student, a devout Christian, and a bright and successful future seemed to be a sure thing. It wasn't. In the blink of an eye, this child's, this mother's, this entire family's future had been horribly altered.
She was alive, but barely. Just before the crash, her mother had reminded her to put on her knee brace. She had just recovered from a sports injury and was wearing one as a precaution during practices and games. She had taken her seat belt off briefly to do this and that is when the truck hit them. Seat belts have saved countless lives but in this very rare instance, not having one on saved hers. The impact threw her to the other side of the back seat, and had she been wearing her belt, she would have been secured to the right of the car and would have been crushed.
She was still breathing but had sustained a very serious head injury and was unconscious and bleeding profusely…we had to load and go. I began suctioning her airway immediately, my partner quickly stabilized her neck and spine and we took off for the trauma center. In route, it was all that I could do to keep her airway clear. Blood was pouring from her nose, mouth and ears and as it spread across the white stretcher sheet, I saw an unmistakable yellow haloing…cerebrospinal fluid. The blood was coming from her brain.
At the hospital, she was immediately taken to surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain, and later that evening I went to the ICU to check on her and found that precious child bruised, swollen and on a ventilator. She was in a deep coma and her prognosis was not good. Dozens of family members were in the waiting room engaged in deep and fervent prayer. Her mother saw me and we fell into each other’s’ arms. I don’t typically become involved in the aftermath of calls that I run. It would be logistically and emotionally impossible to follow up on patients on a regular basis, but I felt a strong connection to this family. I had a thirteen year old daughter of my own and I not only felt professionally responsible for this girl’s life, I felt maternally responsible as well.
Her mother and I formed an immediate bond. I became a regular visitor to the ICU and got to know her father and other family members as well. The waiting room was never empty, and a prayer chain of thousands had spread across the country. Weeks went by with no improvement. The doctors were giving very little hope that she would ever regain consciousness, much less have any kind of normal life, but her family never wavered in their belief that God had something else in store for this sweet child.
We soon discovered that our daughters’ birthdays were only two weeks apart. I suggested that we have a combined fourteenth birthday party for the two girls and we excitedly began planning one. When I left the hospital I thought that maybe I shouldn’t have committed to something that wasn’t likely to happen. I too was beginning to think that she would never recover, and I felt that it was irresponsible of me to suggest such a happy event that would probably never take place.
I was wrong. The family’s prayers were answered and just a few months after the accident, she went home. She had indeed regained consciousness and in a miracle that stunned even the doctors she made a complete recovery. She was unable to return to basketball, but she graduated high school and college and is a remarkable young woman today.
We did have that birthday party. I was talking about it at work and someone suggested that MEDIC sponsor it. It was held at our headquarters and there was a cake with both girls’ names and “Happy 14th!” spread across it in gooey icing. All of the people who had been thrown together in tragedy were reunited in celebration that day.
That party started a tradition at my agency. Patient reunions have become a yearly event here. A man who a suffered cardiac arrest and was resuscitated, a baby who couldn’t wait to get to the hospital to be born, and a child who would have choked to death had it not been for a paramedic are just a few of the patients who have had reunions with their rescuers. It is an uplifting event and helps us to remember why we do what we do, and it’s all because one little girl refused to give up, and one family never stopped praying.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
S is for Suicide: A Paramedic's Perspective
It was a typical evening downtown for my partner and me. Running a paramedic unit in an urban area is an exhausting job, and this night was no exception. The normally high call volume was even further burdened by an incessant downpour, broken only by spontaneous lightening flashes and deafening claps of thunder. Hollywood couldn’t have produced a more appropriate setting for the call we received shortly after midnight. We were dispatched to “one unresponsive” on the outskirts of town. Unfortunately, all units were busy that night and even though we were a good distance away, we were the only unit available and had to take the call. We were wet and tired, and the extended response time put us on edge, so we weren’t in the best of moods as we turned into the gravel driveway leading to the darkened address.
Set far off the road in a grove of trees, the monstrous old mansion stood three stories high. Adorned with gables, eaves and a rounded tower jutting off the northern wall; it presented an eerie picture as we approached. The house looked abandoned. There were no street lights this far out, and the interior was totally dark. In fact, there were no lights on anywhere, and I figured the storm must have knocked out the power. As I climbed out of the ambulance, I noticed that I stood in a parking lot. I then saw a sign at the bottom of the front porch steps. My initial assessment of the house had been colored by the gothic atmosphere. It wasn’t the sinister home of some eccentric old spinster. Instead, the Victorian structure had been renovated and sectioned, and was now home to several small businesses.
First responders and police were already on the scene. I approached the fire captain and asked what he knew. He told me a man had come to check on his father, an architect, who had not been heard from since the day before. His office was housed in the building, but when the son arrived, the place was locked up tight. Not having access to a key, he climbed the porch railing, followed the broken roof line, and looked in his father’s office window. He thought he saw a pair of feet sticking out from behind a partition, so he called 911.
I asked the captain if he had gained access, but he informed me that the place was a fortress. It would take a battering ram to enter through the front door, so his men were trying to gain access through the man’s office window. “So, where is the office?” I asked. The captain turned toward the northern wall of the house, and that’s when I saw the two fire-fighters perched on the narrow ledge outside the tower window. It was clear we were going to have to access the most treacherous part of the building. I asked my partner to get the cot and equipment ready and wait at the front door. I took a jump kit and headed for the ladder that the fire department had set up. At least I didn’t have to climb the porch railing.
I tightened my rain gear and started the climb. I don’t usually suffer from a fear of heights, but as I picked my way across the rain slick roof, I felt the unmistakable paralysis of acrophobia trying to needle its way into my brain. I somehow kept it at bay and when I reached the tower, the fire fighters had pried the window open about twelve inches, and were standing there looking at me. It was clear that this was as good as it was going to get. I looked at the two Charles Atlas types and quietly handed one of them my jump kit. Dimensions and logistics had silently voted me most likely to fit through the window. As I squeezed through the foot high opening, I suddenly had a strong urge to backtrack down the roof and return to the safety of my ambulance, but I didn’t.
Once inside, the men handed me my kit and a flashlight that had seen better days. I trained the light on my surroundings and it took me a minute to get my bearings. The high ceiling room was a jumble of drafting tables, easels and partitions haphazardly placed in a makeshift attempt to create separate work areas. I concentrated on the partitions since one of them reportedly sported a pair of “feet”. After what seemed like an eternity of following the weak beam of light as it attempted to slice through the darkness, the beacon passed over a pair of Nikes, toes up, protruding from the corner of a cubicle.
I turned to the fire fighters for support, and all that I could see were two hulking silhouettes in the window, occasionally being framed by flashes of lightening. I took a deep breath and turned toward the running shoes. After all, I am a professional…this man needs my help. I sensed the futility of calling to the man, but I tried anyway. Silence. As I made my way across the room, I was thinking of the possible directions this scenario could take, but I was totally unprepared for what was hidden behind the carpeted particle board.
He wasn’t exactly old. Well maybe, it was hard to tell. He had that trim, well preserved look from the neck down. Designer jeans, new athletic shoes, he was definitely a man who kept up with the times. The flashlight beam traveled the length of the man’s body. When it finally illuminated his head, I stumbled back, almost knocking the partition over.
His face was barely visible through the plastic bag. His lips were retracted, leaving his mouth in a gaping, half-grin. The eyes were open, staring through a milky film. His entire face was engorged, swollen, filled with blood. Blood that was frozen by the tourniquet effect of the wide rubber band that was buried in the man’s neck, holding the bag in place. The rubber band that created the vacuum that caused the man to die.
When you are a paramedic, you think you are immune to the horror of death, then when you least expect it, all the elements come together and your entire death repertoire seems to culminate in one call. Not the specifics. Pictures of blood and gore didn’t flash through my mind. Instead, I found myself longing for a time when I thought of death in abstract terms. That romantically frightening journey that we all are destined to take at the end of long and happy lives. Blessed ignorance was gone forever, and I was overwhelmed with the inevitability of my own death and the death of those closest to me.
I shouted to the waiting firemen that we had a 10-67, “one dead one the scene”. The silhouettes left the frame of the window and I was totally alone with the victim. I was suddenly frightened. Though the man had obviously been dead for quite some time, I hastily scanned the room to insure that I was truly alone. My light revealed several drafting tables in various stages of disarray…except one. The table nearest the dead man was completely clear, save one small piece of paper. I looked. It contained only three short lines…
the pain
the pain
I can’t take any more pain
The man had taken a plastic bag, placed it over his head, and secured it with the rubber band. With his succinct note in place, he had lain on the floor and allowed his lungs to slowly be deprived of oxygen until his body could no longer function, and he died.
At that moment the door opened and a bevy of people entered the room. The man’s wife had arrived with a spare key and the police had come upstairs to investigate. I addressed the sergeant in command, pronounced the man dead, and returned to my ambulance.
I never heard what had happened to him. Such is the nature of my job. I shared with him the few private moments between his desperate and lonely act, and the shift in the universe that undoubtedly happened as the reality of his decision hit the ones who loved him. I left just as that universe was unfolding and went on to the next call and went on with my life, but I have thought about him often since that night. The note he left raised more questions than it answered. Was the man ill, his pain so great that he chose death over tolerance? Or, was his pain in his heart? Had he suffered a loss too great to bear? Perhaps he just didn’t want to live with himself any longer. This possibility disturbs me most of all and causes me to reflect on the many times I have indulged in self-loathing.
I know that his life was not in vain. Though our encounter was brief and long after he had drawn his last breath, I learned a lot from this man. This happened over twenty years ago and I carry those lessons to this day. Of course there is the obvious. There is nothing romantic about death, especially death by one’s own hand. But more importantly, I learned that no one has the right to place value judgments on another person’s feelings. To claim the ability to measure the depth of someone else’s pain is the ultimate form of arrogance. Please God, don’t ever let me be that arrogant.
Set far off the road in a grove of trees, the monstrous old mansion stood three stories high. Adorned with gables, eaves and a rounded tower jutting off the northern wall; it presented an eerie picture as we approached. The house looked abandoned. There were no street lights this far out, and the interior was totally dark. In fact, there were no lights on anywhere, and I figured the storm must have knocked out the power. As I climbed out of the ambulance, I noticed that I stood in a parking lot. I then saw a sign at the bottom of the front porch steps. My initial assessment of the house had been colored by the gothic atmosphere. It wasn’t the sinister home of some eccentric old spinster. Instead, the Victorian structure had been renovated and sectioned, and was now home to several small businesses.
First responders and police were already on the scene. I approached the fire captain and asked what he knew. He told me a man had come to check on his father, an architect, who had not been heard from since the day before. His office was housed in the building, but when the son arrived, the place was locked up tight. Not having access to a key, he climbed the porch railing, followed the broken roof line, and looked in his father’s office window. He thought he saw a pair of feet sticking out from behind a partition, so he called 911.
I asked the captain if he had gained access, but he informed me that the place was a fortress. It would take a battering ram to enter through the front door, so his men were trying to gain access through the man’s office window. “So, where is the office?” I asked. The captain turned toward the northern wall of the house, and that’s when I saw the two fire-fighters perched on the narrow ledge outside the tower window. It was clear we were going to have to access the most treacherous part of the building. I asked my partner to get the cot and equipment ready and wait at the front door. I took a jump kit and headed for the ladder that the fire department had set up. At least I didn’t have to climb the porch railing.
I tightened my rain gear and started the climb. I don’t usually suffer from a fear of heights, but as I picked my way across the rain slick roof, I felt the unmistakable paralysis of acrophobia trying to needle its way into my brain. I somehow kept it at bay and when I reached the tower, the fire fighters had pried the window open about twelve inches, and were standing there looking at me. It was clear that this was as good as it was going to get. I looked at the two Charles Atlas types and quietly handed one of them my jump kit. Dimensions and logistics had silently voted me most likely to fit through the window. As I squeezed through the foot high opening, I suddenly had a strong urge to backtrack down the roof and return to the safety of my ambulance, but I didn’t.
Once inside, the men handed me my kit and a flashlight that had seen better days. I trained the light on my surroundings and it took me a minute to get my bearings. The high ceiling room was a jumble of drafting tables, easels and partitions haphazardly placed in a makeshift attempt to create separate work areas. I concentrated on the partitions since one of them reportedly sported a pair of “feet”. After what seemed like an eternity of following the weak beam of light as it attempted to slice through the darkness, the beacon passed over a pair of Nikes, toes up, protruding from the corner of a cubicle.
I turned to the fire fighters for support, and all that I could see were two hulking silhouettes in the window, occasionally being framed by flashes of lightening. I took a deep breath and turned toward the running shoes. After all, I am a professional…this man needs my help. I sensed the futility of calling to the man, but I tried anyway. Silence. As I made my way across the room, I was thinking of the possible directions this scenario could take, but I was totally unprepared for what was hidden behind the carpeted particle board.
He wasn’t exactly old. Well maybe, it was hard to tell. He had that trim, well preserved look from the neck down. Designer jeans, new athletic shoes, he was definitely a man who kept up with the times. The flashlight beam traveled the length of the man’s body. When it finally illuminated his head, I stumbled back, almost knocking the partition over.
His face was barely visible through the plastic bag. His lips were retracted, leaving his mouth in a gaping, half-grin. The eyes were open, staring through a milky film. His entire face was engorged, swollen, filled with blood. Blood that was frozen by the tourniquet effect of the wide rubber band that was buried in the man’s neck, holding the bag in place. The rubber band that created the vacuum that caused the man to die.
When you are a paramedic, you think you are immune to the horror of death, then when you least expect it, all the elements come together and your entire death repertoire seems to culminate in one call. Not the specifics. Pictures of blood and gore didn’t flash through my mind. Instead, I found myself longing for a time when I thought of death in abstract terms. That romantically frightening journey that we all are destined to take at the end of long and happy lives. Blessed ignorance was gone forever, and I was overwhelmed with the inevitability of my own death and the death of those closest to me.
I shouted to the waiting firemen that we had a 10-67, “one dead one the scene”. The silhouettes left the frame of the window and I was totally alone with the victim. I was suddenly frightened. Though the man had obviously been dead for quite some time, I hastily scanned the room to insure that I was truly alone. My light revealed several drafting tables in various stages of disarray…except one. The table nearest the dead man was completely clear, save one small piece of paper. I looked. It contained only three short lines…
the pain
the pain
I can’t take any more pain
The man had taken a plastic bag, placed it over his head, and secured it with the rubber band. With his succinct note in place, he had lain on the floor and allowed his lungs to slowly be deprived of oxygen until his body could no longer function, and he died.
At that moment the door opened and a bevy of people entered the room. The man’s wife had arrived with a spare key and the police had come upstairs to investigate. I addressed the sergeant in command, pronounced the man dead, and returned to my ambulance.
I never heard what had happened to him. Such is the nature of my job. I shared with him the few private moments between his desperate and lonely act, and the shift in the universe that undoubtedly happened as the reality of his decision hit the ones who loved him. I left just as that universe was unfolding and went on to the next call and went on with my life, but I have thought about him often since that night. The note he left raised more questions than it answered. Was the man ill, his pain so great that he chose death over tolerance? Or, was his pain in his heart? Had he suffered a loss too great to bear? Perhaps he just didn’t want to live with himself any longer. This possibility disturbs me most of all and causes me to reflect on the many times I have indulged in self-loathing.
I know that his life was not in vain. Though our encounter was brief and long after he had drawn his last breath, I learned a lot from this man. This happened over twenty years ago and I carry those lessons to this day. Of course there is the obvious. There is nothing romantic about death, especially death by one’s own hand. But more importantly, I learned that no one has the right to place value judgments on another person’s feelings. To claim the ability to measure the depth of someone else’s pain is the ultimate form of arrogance. Please God, don’t ever let me be that arrogant.
T is for Thanksgiving
The spate of fiascoes actually started on Wednesday night. I am a public servant by vocation and a paramedic by trade. Unfortunately, as so often happens in my chosen profession, I was scheduled to work on Thanksgiving. We had recently bought a farm that put us a solid hour’s drive from the city where I work, so I had retired early to be well rested for my 24 hour working holiday. Barely an hour into my slumber, I was awakened by our two yard dogs. They were engaged in a litany of vociferous yelping which of course roused the two house dogs sleeping at the end of the bed, and I was soon wide awake in the middle of a cacophony of kennel chorus.
“Dagum deer”, I mumbled as I threw on my robe and stepped into the freezing night air to scold the pups into silence. From my front porch, I looked across the pasture in the direction of the barking. A few hundred feet from the house, I saw my two labs loudly protesting, yet keeping a safe distance from the slinking silhouettes lurking in the shadows of our watershed. Coyotes…just the word make my skin crawl. I sprinted barefoot across the frozen ground, screaming wildly while hurling stones at the would be predators. The nasty curs momentarily stared at me with their soulless eye, and then loped away in a manner that seemed to say, “We’re only leaving because we want to”.
I scurried back to bed and turned my electric blanket on high. My racing heart finally slowed, and I drifted back to the brink of slumber. My reverie was short lived. Less than twenty minutes later, the intruders returned and the scenario repeated itself. I wrapped my pillow around my head and lived with the canine argument that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. I groggily awoke to find that I had hit the snooze button one too many times and was scheduled to clock in at work in exactly four minutes. I hastily showered, hurried into an un-ironed uniform and raced “coffee-less” to work. Thoughts of fire department tables piled high with Thanksgiving treats bolstered me as I made the trip in forty-seven minutes.
I had just poured my first cup of coffee when the pager summoned and my partner and I spent the entire morning tending the truly sick and the occasional lonely forgotten soul…two categories of patients that I relish serving. Around two o-clock my generous spirit was starting to wane. We decided to forgo trying to make it back to the station to eat and looked for the closest thing open that would sell us some food. We spotted a family restaurant with a bustling parking lot. Just as I was braking to make the turn, the radio crackled and we were dispatched on a non-emergency call. We further postponed nourishment to pick up an elderly woman at the hospital and take her back to her nursing home.
When we arrived at the patient’s room, she had just been served the hospital’s version of Thanksgiving dinner…pressed turkey, canned peas, and congealed salad. We propped ourselves against the wall outside her room as the 85 year old, 90 pound woman laboriously ate her meal, with her fingers, one pea at a time. When she finally announced that she was finished, we removed the tray and began to move her onto our cot. Smack! The shriveled elfin creature had slapped me across the face. “Take my dentures out and wash them you @$^*%!” she screeched in my direction. “Did you just call me a @$^*% ma’am?” I retorted while massaging my bruised jaw. Whish! I had seen it coming and ducked to miss the second blow. “You &#$*@, I told you to take my dentures out and wash them!”
My experience has taught me when its time to concede to a situation, so I donned a pair of gloves, slid my fingers into her mouth and pulled out her teeth, bringing with it pulverized peas, bits of pressed turkey, and a string of mucosal saliva. “You got it on my gown you &*$^#!” Noticing the souvenirs from lunch spread across her chest and belly, I failed to see the severity of this but we cleaned her up as best we could and I quietly hummed holiday tunes to myself as she continued her sailor’s tirade all the way to the nursing home.
The long shadows of late afternoon were spread across the parking lot as we renewed our quest for rations. The radio and pager were quiet and the rush of calls seemed to have abated. It actually looked as if we were going to get something to eat as we trundled along toward a welcomed, albeit re-heated meal. Suddenly we heard a loud “SKREE SKREE SKREE” The ambulance began to violently shake, and the cab filled with a noxious smoke. We crippled to a halt, and baled out of the truck coughing and hacking. It was clear that it was going no further, so I shut it down and called dispatch for a tow truck. It being a holiday, it was going to be difficult to find one large enough to pull an ambulance, so we settled in for an unknown wait.
We would have sold our souls at this point for even a vending machine, but nary a cracker nor a moon pie was in sight. My partner then remembered that she had a week old bag of party mix at the bottom of her back pack. We started to pounce on it then realized that not only had we not eaten all day, but it had been hours since we’d had anything to drink so just the thought of gobbling a salty confection parched our throats. She then thought of the sterile water. We keep sealed bottles of it for irrigating wounds, so we fought each other to the cabinet, tore open the seals on the bottles and guzzled the warm distilled fluid while cramming stale cereal and pretzels in our mouths. Though not nearly sated, we survived the two hour wait on the side of the road with stories about our families and happier Thanksgivings past.
It was fully dark when we were finally rescued, had been assigned another unit and resumed our quest for food. Alas, it was not meant to be. We had barely rolled down the road when we were summoned to a patient with an altered level of consciousness. When we entered the house, we were met with a most unusual site. A very large black man, clad only in white briefs, missing one leg, was thrashing about on the floor, screaming incoherently; while a petite and very frightened woman was cowering behind the couch. We called to her from the door; steering clear of the man’s flailing, three remaining limbs. “Ma’am, is he a diabetic?” She nodded yes through her tears. We got to work. I had four strapping firemen at my bidding, so I had them hold the man long enough for me to prick his finger and siphon a drop of blood. I plugged it into the glucometer…20…BINGO! Normal blood sugar is 80-120. This family was not far from a return to normalcy. The only hurdle we had to overcome was establishing the IV and keeping it patent long enough to infuse 50 cc’s of Dextrose. The firemen held the man in a safe, manageable position while I, with a penlight clamped between my teeth, bent over his arm intently searching for a vein. I made my choice, cleaned the site and poised the catheter for insertion. “Whack!” the needle went flying out of my hand and I pitched face forward onto the carpet. Black spots clouded my eyes, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. My head soon cleared and I scampered out of the way as the fire guys renewed their efforts of restraint. Initially, they had underestimated the agility of the remaining third of the patient’s left leg, neglecting to include it in their holds. Not only had I been pimp-slapped by a profane geriatric waif on this Thanksgiving, but I was just stump-clubbed by a near naked African American amputee!
I finally completed my task, and a few minutes after receiving the simple infusion, the gentleman transformed into a genuinely nice guy who wondered why all of these strangers were in his house. His wife proclaimed us angels sent from heaven. I sighed deeply and with a little smile said, “No ma’am, he just needed a little sugar is all.”
Fate finally smiled on us and we hobbled to the station for leftovers. We had just enough time to finish eating before being called to duty again. I didn’t mind. I had a full tummy and another incredible shift to tell my grandkids about.
“Dagum deer”, I mumbled as I threw on my robe and stepped into the freezing night air to scold the pups into silence. From my front porch, I looked across the pasture in the direction of the barking. A few hundred feet from the house, I saw my two labs loudly protesting, yet keeping a safe distance from the slinking silhouettes lurking in the shadows of our watershed. Coyotes…just the word make my skin crawl. I sprinted barefoot across the frozen ground, screaming wildly while hurling stones at the would be predators. The nasty curs momentarily stared at me with their soulless eye, and then loped away in a manner that seemed to say, “We’re only leaving because we want to”.
I scurried back to bed and turned my electric blanket on high. My racing heart finally slowed, and I drifted back to the brink of slumber. My reverie was short lived. Less than twenty minutes later, the intruders returned and the scenario repeated itself. I wrapped my pillow around my head and lived with the canine argument that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. I groggily awoke to find that I had hit the snooze button one too many times and was scheduled to clock in at work in exactly four minutes. I hastily showered, hurried into an un-ironed uniform and raced “coffee-less” to work. Thoughts of fire department tables piled high with Thanksgiving treats bolstered me as I made the trip in forty-seven minutes.
I had just poured my first cup of coffee when the pager summoned and my partner and I spent the entire morning tending the truly sick and the occasional lonely forgotten soul…two categories of patients that I relish serving. Around two o-clock my generous spirit was starting to wane. We decided to forgo trying to make it back to the station to eat and looked for the closest thing open that would sell us some food. We spotted a family restaurant with a bustling parking lot. Just as I was braking to make the turn, the radio crackled and we were dispatched on a non-emergency call. We further postponed nourishment to pick up an elderly woman at the hospital and take her back to her nursing home.
When we arrived at the patient’s room, she had just been served the hospital’s version of Thanksgiving dinner…pressed turkey, canned peas, and congealed salad. We propped ourselves against the wall outside her room as the 85 year old, 90 pound woman laboriously ate her meal, with her fingers, one pea at a time. When she finally announced that she was finished, we removed the tray and began to move her onto our cot. Smack! The shriveled elfin creature had slapped me across the face. “Take my dentures out and wash them you @$^*%!” she screeched in my direction. “Did you just call me a @$^*% ma’am?” I retorted while massaging my bruised jaw. Whish! I had seen it coming and ducked to miss the second blow. “You &#$*@, I told you to take my dentures out and wash them!”
My experience has taught me when its time to concede to a situation, so I donned a pair of gloves, slid my fingers into her mouth and pulled out her teeth, bringing with it pulverized peas, bits of pressed turkey, and a string of mucosal saliva. “You got it on my gown you &*$^#!” Noticing the souvenirs from lunch spread across her chest and belly, I failed to see the severity of this but we cleaned her up as best we could and I quietly hummed holiday tunes to myself as she continued her sailor’s tirade all the way to the nursing home.
The long shadows of late afternoon were spread across the parking lot as we renewed our quest for rations. The radio and pager were quiet and the rush of calls seemed to have abated. It actually looked as if we were going to get something to eat as we trundled along toward a welcomed, albeit re-heated meal. Suddenly we heard a loud “SKREE SKREE SKREE” The ambulance began to violently shake, and the cab filled with a noxious smoke. We crippled to a halt, and baled out of the truck coughing and hacking. It was clear that it was going no further, so I shut it down and called dispatch for a tow truck. It being a holiday, it was going to be difficult to find one large enough to pull an ambulance, so we settled in for an unknown wait.
We would have sold our souls at this point for even a vending machine, but nary a cracker nor a moon pie was in sight. My partner then remembered that she had a week old bag of party mix at the bottom of her back pack. We started to pounce on it then realized that not only had we not eaten all day, but it had been hours since we’d had anything to drink so just the thought of gobbling a salty confection parched our throats. She then thought of the sterile water. We keep sealed bottles of it for irrigating wounds, so we fought each other to the cabinet, tore open the seals on the bottles and guzzled the warm distilled fluid while cramming stale cereal and pretzels in our mouths. Though not nearly sated, we survived the two hour wait on the side of the road with stories about our families and happier Thanksgivings past.
It was fully dark when we were finally rescued, had been assigned another unit and resumed our quest for food. Alas, it was not meant to be. We had barely rolled down the road when we were summoned to a patient with an altered level of consciousness. When we entered the house, we were met with a most unusual site. A very large black man, clad only in white briefs, missing one leg, was thrashing about on the floor, screaming incoherently; while a petite and very frightened woman was cowering behind the couch. We called to her from the door; steering clear of the man’s flailing, three remaining limbs. “Ma’am, is he a diabetic?” She nodded yes through her tears. We got to work. I had four strapping firemen at my bidding, so I had them hold the man long enough for me to prick his finger and siphon a drop of blood. I plugged it into the glucometer…20…BINGO! Normal blood sugar is 80-120. This family was not far from a return to normalcy. The only hurdle we had to overcome was establishing the IV and keeping it patent long enough to infuse 50 cc’s of Dextrose. The firemen held the man in a safe, manageable position while I, with a penlight clamped between my teeth, bent over his arm intently searching for a vein. I made my choice, cleaned the site and poised the catheter for insertion. “Whack!” the needle went flying out of my hand and I pitched face forward onto the carpet. Black spots clouded my eyes, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. My head soon cleared and I scampered out of the way as the fire guys renewed their efforts of restraint. Initially, they had underestimated the agility of the remaining third of the patient’s left leg, neglecting to include it in their holds. Not only had I been pimp-slapped by a profane geriatric waif on this Thanksgiving, but I was just stump-clubbed by a near naked African American amputee!
I finally completed my task, and a few minutes after receiving the simple infusion, the gentleman transformed into a genuinely nice guy who wondered why all of these strangers were in his house. His wife proclaimed us angels sent from heaven. I sighed deeply and with a little smile said, “No ma’am, he just needed a little sugar is all.”
Fate finally smiled on us and we hobbled to the station for leftovers. We had just enough time to finish eating before being called to duty again. I didn’t mind. I had a full tummy and another incredible shift to tell my grandkids about.
U is for Urban EMS
I started my EMS career in a small, rural system, but I have worked most of the last 25 years for a large, urban based agency. The differences in the two are like night and day. Oh, people always have heart attacks, auto accidents and the like, but ambulancing in the city is unique. Country people call 911 when the grim reaper is knocking at their door. They feel that it is a waste of resourses and down right wimpy to summon EMS for any other reason. In the city, we tend to be innundated with unnecessary, sometimes comical calls we lovingly refer to as...(and I am paraphrasing) Bovine Fecal Matter.
Once during an ice storm, my partner and I traveled across town on slick treacherous roads to find a woman whose washing machine was broken. When I admonished her, telling her that 911 was for emergencies only, she bowed up and shouted, "This is an emergency, I gotta get these clothes clean!" I have been called because a guy wanted to bum a cigarette, a woman wanted us to go get her prescription filled at the drug store and someone's shingles had been blown off their roof during a thunderstorm. One distraught woman demanded that we get rid of her roaches.
We also encounter some pretty strange reasons for requesting transport to the hospital. One very healthy young man wanted to go because his mouth was dry. I told him to drink some water and he replied, "What am I going to do when the water's gone and you're not here?" (Huh?) We are required to transport upon request, regardless of the reason so you can imagine the looks we sometimes get from triage nurses at the emergency room.
I always comply with the transport rule, but I had a call many years ago where I made an executive decision not to. We arrived at a residence to find a man sitting on his front steps looking dejected. His wife was locked in the house and had refused to come out or let the man in. When we got out of the ambulance and approached him we found out why. He had been sprayed by a skunk. The stench was overwealming, and he wanted us to take him to the emergency room to get it off. I don't know what he thought the hospital was going to do for him, but I knew that if I put him in my rig that it would be out of service indefinitely and the ER folks would have my hide for bringing him in. I did feel sorry for the guy though. They lived in the projects and obviously had financial issues, so I gave his wife twenty bucks and told her to buy several bottles of tomato juice and have him bathe in it. I had that smell in my nose hairs for the rest of the shift.
We routinely get calls for runny noses, stumped toes, hang nails, pimples, cut fingers...the list goes on. One guy called because he dreamed he got shot. It upset him so badly he wanted to go to the emergency room, so we took him to the emergency room. I don't know the percentage of BS vs the real thing, but it is pretty high. These useless runs tie up advanced life support ambulances and drive up the cost of health care. There are many in my profession who are constantly angered and stressed by these calls, but I just look at them as an unfortunate reality. Besides, they are easy runs. After a string of auto accidents, cardiac arrests, and really sick people, I welcome the little break you get just giving someone a ride to the hospital.
So, the next time you sneeze...call 911! Hey, it's job security.
Once during an ice storm, my partner and I traveled across town on slick treacherous roads to find a woman whose washing machine was broken. When I admonished her, telling her that 911 was for emergencies only, she bowed up and shouted, "This is an emergency, I gotta get these clothes clean!" I have been called because a guy wanted to bum a cigarette, a woman wanted us to go get her prescription filled at the drug store and someone's shingles had been blown off their roof during a thunderstorm. One distraught woman demanded that we get rid of her roaches.
We also encounter some pretty strange reasons for requesting transport to the hospital. One very healthy young man wanted to go because his mouth was dry. I told him to drink some water and he replied, "What am I going to do when the water's gone and you're not here?" (Huh?) We are required to transport upon request, regardless of the reason so you can imagine the looks we sometimes get from triage nurses at the emergency room.
I always comply with the transport rule, but I had a call many years ago where I made an executive decision not to. We arrived at a residence to find a man sitting on his front steps looking dejected. His wife was locked in the house and had refused to come out or let the man in. When we got out of the ambulance and approached him we found out why. He had been sprayed by a skunk. The stench was overwealming, and he wanted us to take him to the emergency room to get it off. I don't know what he thought the hospital was going to do for him, but I knew that if I put him in my rig that it would be out of service indefinitely and the ER folks would have my hide for bringing him in. I did feel sorry for the guy though. They lived in the projects and obviously had financial issues, so I gave his wife twenty bucks and told her to buy several bottles of tomato juice and have him bathe in it. I had that smell in my nose hairs for the rest of the shift.
We routinely get calls for runny noses, stumped toes, hang nails, pimples, cut fingers...the list goes on. One guy called because he dreamed he got shot. It upset him so badly he wanted to go to the emergency room, so we took him to the emergency room. I don't know the percentage of BS vs the real thing, but it is pretty high. These useless runs tie up advanced life support ambulances and drive up the cost of health care. There are many in my profession who are constantly angered and stressed by these calls, but I just look at them as an unfortunate reality. Besides, they are easy runs. After a string of auto accidents, cardiac arrests, and really sick people, I welcome the little break you get just giving someone a ride to the hospital.
So, the next time you sneeze...call 911! Hey, it's job security.
Monday, May 9, 2011
V is for Vultures
The dictionary lists three definitions for the word...Vulture.
1-Carrion eating Old World birds of the family Accipitridae.
2-Carrion eating New World birds of the family Cathartidae.
3-A person or thing that preys, especially greedily or unscrupulously.
I have never encountered the first two in my EMS career, but I regularly have to deal with the third. They are called...reporters. Now, some of my best friends are reporters. I was originally a communications major in college and several of my fellow students have done quite well in their journalistic pursuits. I am a firm believer in the first amendment and I think the United States has the strongest, most influential media in the world…but, sometimes them doing their job gets in the way of me doing mine.
I understand it must be difficult to get the good news stories and get them first. Reporters have to use all means necessary and be bold and fearless in pursuit of a scoop. This includes having scanners that pick up on all police, fire and ems dispatches, and ignoring things like yellow police tape and the sanctity of the back of an ambulance. I learned early on to lock the doors in the back as soon as I load a patient because I have had more than one eager Lois Lane hop in with microphone in hand before my partner could even get in the front of the truck to pull away.
Accuracy isn’t high on some reporters’ lists either. If the story isn’t juicy enough, it isn’t above some in the media’s scruples to add a little spice. Several years ago, I was dispatched to “one stabbed”. When I arrived, I found that the victim, who had made the 911 call, had greatly embellished his injury. His girlfriend had gotten mad and took a swipe at him with a knife. She barely nicked the skin above his eyebrow and when we arrived, it wasn’t even bleeding. Some soap and water and a band-aid was all that it required, but he was really pissed and insisted that he be taken to the hospital. So, we obliged him and said we’d be happy to give him a ride.
As we were exiting the residence, I was suddenly blinded by a camera light and a reporter stuck a microphone in my face shouting, “Can you tell us about the stabbing!? What is the extent of the victim’s injuries!?” Normally, I don’t talk to reporters. I don’t have time, and we have PR people that handle that sort of thing, but this guy was literally blocking my way. I couldn’t see anything because of the light in my eyes and I had a momentary lapse in judgment, so I looked directly into the camera, held up my fingers about a quarter inch apart and said, “He has an itty-bitty, teeny-tiny little cut on his forehead”. The chagrined reporter lowered his mic and said, “That’s not news …is it?” I replied, “Nope…no news here!”
Oh how I should have known better. The lead story on the 11 o’clock news was MAN STABBED ON THE WEST SIDE!!!!!!!!!! My audio had been edited out of the footage and I was seen miming weird hand gestures to the camera while the reporter described the terrible stabbing in voice over. I looked like an idiot and had to explain to my superiors why I was wasting time talking to the media when I had a priority stabbing patient.
I know I’m being a little hard on our information gathering friends, most of the time they are efficient and professional. If the truth be known, I have personal reasons for my vitriol against the media, and it involves my own sense of vanity. Our uniforms are intended for functionality, not fashion. They are of a material and design that tend to accentuate the negative aspects of the female form. I typically have to bend over to reach my patients, and the media is usually somewhere behind me when they are taking pictures. This has resulted in there being way too many images of my polyester clad ass floating around in cyberspace, and I have had people come up behind me and tell me they recognize me from a news story…before they even see my face.
So, the next time you watch the news, take the information with a grain of salt and please…don’t judge the emergency personnel by their photos. There are real people in front of those posteriors!
1-Carrion eating Old World birds of the family Accipitridae.
2-Carrion eating New World birds of the family Cathartidae.
3-A person or thing that preys, especially greedily or unscrupulously.
I have never encountered the first two in my EMS career, but I regularly have to deal with the third. They are called...reporters. Now, some of my best friends are reporters. I was originally a communications major in college and several of my fellow students have done quite well in their journalistic pursuits. I am a firm believer in the first amendment and I think the United States has the strongest, most influential media in the world…but, sometimes them doing their job gets in the way of me doing mine.
I understand it must be difficult to get the good news stories and get them first. Reporters have to use all means necessary and be bold and fearless in pursuit of a scoop. This includes having scanners that pick up on all police, fire and ems dispatches, and ignoring things like yellow police tape and the sanctity of the back of an ambulance. I learned early on to lock the doors in the back as soon as I load a patient because I have had more than one eager Lois Lane hop in with microphone in hand before my partner could even get in the front of the truck to pull away.
Accuracy isn’t high on some reporters’ lists either. If the story isn’t juicy enough, it isn’t above some in the media’s scruples to add a little spice. Several years ago, I was dispatched to “one stabbed”. When I arrived, I found that the victim, who had made the 911 call, had greatly embellished his injury. His girlfriend had gotten mad and took a swipe at him with a knife. She barely nicked the skin above his eyebrow and when we arrived, it wasn’t even bleeding. Some soap and water and a band-aid was all that it required, but he was really pissed and insisted that he be taken to the hospital. So, we obliged him and said we’d be happy to give him a ride.
As we were exiting the residence, I was suddenly blinded by a camera light and a reporter stuck a microphone in my face shouting, “Can you tell us about the stabbing!? What is the extent of the victim’s injuries!?” Normally, I don’t talk to reporters. I don’t have time, and we have PR people that handle that sort of thing, but this guy was literally blocking my way. I couldn’t see anything because of the light in my eyes and I had a momentary lapse in judgment, so I looked directly into the camera, held up my fingers about a quarter inch apart and said, “He has an itty-bitty, teeny-tiny little cut on his forehead”. The chagrined reporter lowered his mic and said, “That’s not news …is it?” I replied, “Nope…no news here!”
Oh how I should have known better. The lead story on the 11 o’clock news was MAN STABBED ON THE WEST SIDE!!!!!!!!!! My audio had been edited out of the footage and I was seen miming weird hand gestures to the camera while the reporter described the terrible stabbing in voice over. I looked like an idiot and had to explain to my superiors why I was wasting time talking to the media when I had a priority stabbing patient.
I know I’m being a little hard on our information gathering friends, most of the time they are efficient and professional. If the truth be known, I have personal reasons for my vitriol against the media, and it involves my own sense of vanity. Our uniforms are intended for functionality, not fashion. They are of a material and design that tend to accentuate the negative aspects of the female form. I typically have to bend over to reach my patients, and the media is usually somewhere behind me when they are taking pictures. This has resulted in there being way too many images of my polyester clad ass floating around in cyberspace, and I have had people come up behind me and tell me they recognize me from a news story…before they even see my face.
So, the next time you watch the news, take the information with a grain of salt and please…don’t judge the emergency personnel by their photos. There are real people in front of those posteriors!
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