Monday night, all quiet. It had been a busy day, eleven or twelve runs since 0700, nothing serious, just enough to keep us rolling. At 2325 hrs. Engine 6 got a call for a box alarm at one of the apartment buildings on Westminister Street. I couldn’t believe my luck; I was certain I was going out when the tone went off and blow lights filled the station. I did the “ladder roll” when the lights went out and was instantly asleep. Seconds later, the phone rang. Once, twice, a half ring…Henry got it, lights out again. A minute later I was called to the apparatus floor. No rest for the wicked.

When Engine 6 left the barn some asshat thought that the open door was his invitation to rummage around the station. Luckily, Chris Wright, who hours earlier had made perhaps the finest Fajitas I have ever eaten, saw somebody enter the station before the door closed and called from the engine to warn us. When Henry got to the floor he saw a wiry Hispanic guy rummaging around the rescue. We shook him down, he didn’t have time to steal anything, and tried to throw him out. The guy went into a crazy routine, acting like he was Jesus Christ and carrying on for a while before we grew tired of his act. Henry’s prior employment at the Adult Correctional Institution (ACI) showed through as he handled the perpetrator perfectly. I radioed for the police when the guy started acting aggressive. A few minutes later a cruiser showed up and put the guy in the back of his car.

The guy was a street hood with a lengthy record who had just been released from prison in Ohio. His specialty was breaking and entering and robbery. In a strange twist of fate, his brother, also a cheap hoodlum is recovering from stab wounds he got during a fight a few streets from the Hartford Avenue station. I think I had him in the rescue.

The cop took him away, we checked the locks and waited for the next call. I hate it when the sanctity of our station is invaded. This is our home when we’re away from our families. It isn’t perfect, but it’s all we’ve got between us and them.

“Rescue 1, respond to 25 Lennox Street for a pregnant female assaulted.”
“Rescue 1, responding.”

Vicro started the engine, hit the lights and siren and sped out of the station toward our victim. It took four minutes.

“Rescue 1 on scene.”

Engine 10 was parked in the middle of six of seven police cruisers. A crowd of fifty or so people wandered about, hurling threats at each other. The street was divided with us in the middle. Our patient sat on the cement steps in front of 25 Lennox looking totally out of place in all the madness. Lt. Dolan from Engine 10 gave me the story.

“She’s twenty, was knocked to the ground, punched and kicked by two women.”

I walked through the crowd of cops toward the victim. Things were under control but barely.

“Can you check my baby?” the girl asked as I approached.

“We’ll get you to the hospital so they can check you out,” I replied, helping her to her feet. We walked back through the crowd toward the rescue. Once inside she told me what had happened.

“Four people with clubs and bats got out of that car,” she pointed to a car through the rear windows of the rescue. “They knocked me over and kicked me in the stomach. One of them was on top of me, punching me,” she didn’t cry but was close. “Is my baby okay?”

Vicro had finished with the vitals which were normal.

“I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Some cops came in the side door and asked if she could identify the assailants. They showed a woman standing next to the car behind the rescue with another police officer.

“That’s the one who was sitting on me, punching me!” she said. She identified another; they were taken away in cuffs. We left the scene which had become a circus, newspeople, onlookers, even the city councilman was there, giving an interview. The quicker we got away, the happier I was.

On the way to the hospital my patient talked. She is due on September 7th but hopes the baby waits until the tenth so she can finish her CNA class. She wants to be a pediatric nurse and is well on her way to reaching her dream. The people who attacked her were after her mother, she said, an old neighborhood feud. She just got in the way.

The people involved in the neighborhood feud just may get in the way of a girl from a rough neighborhood getting out.

Amelia is ninety-four and has been taking her medication the same way for years and nobody, I mean NOBODY is going to tell her different. We arrived at her home at 1034hrs. After knocking at the front door and not getting an answer, we went around the back. Meanwhile, Amelia was making her way from the back of the house to the front door. We knocked on the back door, no answer because Amelia had just struggled through her house to the front. I could hear cursing from inside. I had no idea what was going on at this point. I went back to the front door to see if I could pry it open, only now it was already open. I looked in and saw my patient walking back to the rear door. She moved pretty well for an older person.

I walked through the entryway past some stained glass windows into a perfectly preserved fifties style home. The workmanship was remarkable. Carved oak stairs, antique furniture that looked like it came off the showroom floor, a tile kitchen that would put today’s workmen to shame. When I caught up with Amelia she was breathing fire.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“These pills! I’ve been taking the same ones for forty years! I’m not taking these, they’re not my pills!”
“Try to relax,” I said, taking the prescription bottles from her hand. Our other five rescues were on other calls, surrounding cities and towns were responding into Providence on mutual aid but I couldn’t just leave her hanging, she was really upset.
After some consultation we found that her doctor couldn’t be contacted, the pharmacy had substituted her usual prescription with a generic type of the same medication. The dosage was different, she had to either cut the pills in half or take one every other day. She wasn’t going for it, no way. The pharmacy went as far as sending a technician to her house to explain the situation. Nothing helped so she called 911 which is where we entered the picture.

I called the doctors office and got stuck in the answering system, never connecting with a human. The message that stood out was, “If you are having an emergency, hang up and call 911,” which is exactly what Amelia did. I called the pharmacy and talked to the pharmacist. This had been going on for two days I was told. He promised to page the doctor and have him call Amelia. She refuses to take any medication until she hears from him.

She’s ninety-four with a weak heart. The system is pushing her to her limit. I offered to take her to a hospital to get straightened out, she refused. We did all we could do which I’m afraid isn’t enough.

The countdown has started. Fifty days until the 1207th finishes their time in Iraq.
“Hot, sand and wind,” is how Bob described his enviornment to me yesterday when he called. It still amazes me that he is in another world yet only a phone call away.
Keep your guard up, folks. You are in as much danger today as you were when you got there. Be safe and get home, all of you.

Just when I thought I had seen everything, The Providence Kickball League loses a player. She was running after a ball that had been kicked with abandon over her head when she fell forward, landing on her shoulder, possibly breaking her collarbone. Her teammates hovered over her while we immobilized her, first applying the cervical collar, then rolling her on her side and putting her onto the backboard. The opposing team, The Zombies, possibly extras from the Night of the Living Dead movie stood to the side as the wounded player was removed from the field to the cheers of the large crowd that had gathered.

Fourteen teams belong to the league, mostly twenty-something year old people having a ball. Or should I say, kick-ball. It seems like a great way to make friends, have some laughs and stop taking ourselves so seriously. Play Ball!

Saturday afternoon, all quiet, storm on the horizon I fear. Sometimes you can just feel things are about to go “tits up.” I’ve only had three calls so far. One guy was at a picnic. He ate something that didn’t agree with his digestive system, had his wife and mother drive him home, less that one mile from Rhode Island Hospital, and call 911. When I got there the emergency was over, he wanted to go back to the picnic. When I asked him what was he thinking, calling 911 for nothing I was bombarded with the usual “do your job, quit complaining, racist, how dare you question a sick person” attitude from the family. They boldly stated that they called 911 so he would be seen faster. Just last week the mother drove herself to the emergency room for cramps and had to wait over an hour to get “in the back.” Imagine the nerve of us health care providers.

I’ll be here until tommorow night, lets see what happens.

*Update: The night was busy but not nearly as bad as I had feared. Thirteen calls, six before, seven after midnight.

A guy was running from the cops when a car stopped him. He was in handcuffs when we got there, other than that just minor injuries. The hole in the back window of the car was probably caused by his head, no helmet. Must be a tough melon, he wasn’t even bleeding. The luck of some people astounds me.

I was worried that I had lost the drive that has sustained my time on Rescue 1. By the time my vacation rolled around, every call had become routine, my patients just another job. I did all the right things, carried on, and made the best of it but in the back of my mind I feared I had reached the end of the rescue road. This is a gruelling profession under normal circumstances, Providence and it’s lack of resources ratchet things up another notch. The sheer volume of calls makes it difficult to maintain a positive outlook. The people answering the 911 calls are capable of giving only so much help before they need help themselves.

During my ten years on the fire suppression side of the job I saw a lot of great people reach the crossroad I had stumbled upon. Lenny, a Rescue Captain and fellow writer finally gave up his rank and transferred to Engine 5 as a firefighter. Nobody showed more compassion or dedication to EMS. His partner Steve followed, another loss to the division. Bo finally called it quits, he’s now a Fire Lieutenant who I’m sure will be just as respected there as he was on Rescue 3. Ronny has been fighting fire on Ladder 6 for years after hitting the “rescue wall.” He was one of the best, he just couldn’t keep doing a job he no longer loved. He’s a good firefighter but the rescue division misses him and his leadership. Dave is another rescue refugee. He turned in his bars and works on an engine company, a ton of knowledge lost. Joe EMT went to Engine 10 a few years ago, shocking everybody. He is thriving there to nobodies surprise but is sorely missed in the rescue division. Scott, my first partner went to Engine 9 when he could take it no longer. Woody, our Union’s Secretary Treasurer took a wealth of knowledge and dedication with him to Ladder 1.

Those are just the Rescue officers, and there are more I can’t remember right now, the list of Rescue Technicians is much longer. My friend and partner Renato has drifted over to Engine 11, but I think he will come back. It is a shame the City of Providence lets all of this talent, dedication and skill escape a vital part of the Fire Department. We need more rescues. Until we get them the division will suffer.

Back from vacation, whole new perspective. Seventy-two hours in four days, sixty runs. One lady with chest pain called us, we found her in rapid atrial fibrillation and got her to the hospital, IV’s, nitro, 02, aspirin, ekg. Another guy suffered a serious brain bleed after smashing his head on the pavement. IV’s, spine board, collar, 02. Throw in a few motorcycle accidents, a handful of assaults, ten or so car wrecks, the usual intoxicated subjects, some maternity’s, a couple of kids hit by cars and you have the recipe for a satisfying career. I just wish it didn’t happen so often.

“I ain’t going to no hospital!”

“Yes you are.”

No, I ain’t!”

“Yes you are.”

“No I ain’t!”

This was going well. I was in the first floor apartment of a diabetic seventy year old man. His skin was gray and diaphoretic, blood oozed from untreated eczema in his crotch. He was conscious and alert but obviously in need of medical intervention. The guys from Engine 3 were in the tiny place with me and Vicro, the man’s two daughters and a bunch of grand kids filled the kitchen and doorway.

One of his daughters called us because she was afraid for her fathers well-being. He lived by himself, kept the place up fairly well and was fiercely proud of his independence.

“I’m taking you to the hospital, even if I have to kidnap you.”

“You and what army?”

I looked over to Rob Crellin, a firefighter from Engine 13 with a remarkable similarity to Harry Potter.

“Me and Harry Potter.”

Rob grabbed his right side, I took the left. We lifted him to his feet and started toward the stretcher. I couldn’t believe the power that exuded from the tired old man’s body. He stopped us in our tracks.

“I ain’t going!” He shouted.

The man’s family did their best to talk him in to going, he adamantly refused. I refused to give up. This guy wouldn’t make it through the night, I was sure of it.

“Let’s go,” I said to Rob. We picked him up and dropped him into the stretcher, no nonsense, this time. The strength he showed a few minutes ago was spent. He sat, rejected in the stretcher as we strapped him in and wheeled him out of his home, maybe for the last time.

Once in the truck we took his vital signs. Blood pressure 64/40 with a pulse of 130. Possibly dehydrated, maybe internal bleeding. I felt his abdomen for point tenderness and masses, started a large bore IV and started fluids. The hospital was less than a mile away.

He ended up in a trauma room, more IV’s, more fluids. Later that night I looked in on him. The doctor told me it was probably renal failure. Add that to his list of ailments. The man peeked at me through the labyrinth of wires and tubes and motioned for me to come closer. He offered his hand. I took it. In a low voice he said, “Thank you boys. You knew what was best.” He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

A couple in their early twenties went for a walk on Broad Street to get something to eat. Six guys mugged them, stole their McDonalds, roughed him up then ran away. They were in the back of the rescue when the cops dragged one of the assailants over to be identified. “That’s him.” they said, the cops took the kid away. The guy’s injuries weren’t too bad, some bruises, a lump on the head; it could have been worse. Another young man was stabbed to death three blocks away a few nights ago while waiting to get into a popular nightspot. A girl was stabbed seven times last night and is still in critical condition. Try telling two kids whose dinner was just stolen by some punks that they are lucky, they won’t believe you. They were talking about getting a gun as we rode toward Rhode island Hospital.

Some looked happy, some sad, some looked at nothing at all. People are paid to watch them now, make sure they don’t wander. After a lifetime watching their families grow, providing comfort, wisdom, direction and roots their role has diminished along with their vitality. Places like these have cropped up everywhere, an alternative to full time nursing home care. It’s not the best solution to a problem many families face, but it does provide safety and comfort for those whose lives have been shattered by Alzheimer’s Disease.

Our patient, a small, frail eighty-five year old lady had been experiencing chest pain since the morning I was told when I arrived on scene. She was in a private room away from the main activity room, a nurse, her daughter and other staff members attending to her. They had given her a nitro tablet and told me all about the incident, how the pain began and radiated into her jaw and left arm. When I asked her she said her pain was seven out of ten on a 1-10 scale.

Her vital signs were stable, we moved her onto our stretcher and wheeled her past her associates and into the bright sunshine. A minute later we were in the rescue, her on the stretcher, me on the bench. I asked her if the nitro pill had helped with her pain. She asked, “What pain?” I asked how she was feeling, she said, “A little tired, otherwise fine.” She wanted to know what all the fuss was about.

I didn’t know which story to believe.

Divine Intervention won’t even get you a parking spot in Providence!

She was handcuffed, lying face down on the floor, surrounded by cops, firefighters and social workers.

“Watch her, she spits,” said one of her counsellors when I helped her to her feet.
“She needs a psych eval,” said another counsellor, handing me a package of paperwork.

I took a quick look at the information and found what I was looking for.

“Danielle, what’s going on here?” I asked, keeping my distance.

“These assholes don’t listen! Big tough guys beating up a little girl!” she glared at the police.

I glanced back at the paperwork and saw her medications. Depakote, Clonipin, Lithium, Prozac, Birth Control.

We walked toward the rescue, her in handcuffs, me walking next to her.

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“They’re dead!” she nearly screamed but was unable to get the necessary volume. It’s tough to shout when your body just wants to cry. She was barely holding on to the tough facade.

I asked her if she would be okay during the ride to Hasbro Children’s Hospital. She looked me in the eye, saw I could be trusted for now and promised to be good. The police followed the rescue in their cruiser, the staff at the Family counselling center went back to work.

She sat on the bench seat across from me while we rode. I started the state report while she stared at me.

“They didn’t have to wreck my shoes,” she said. Her flip flops were thrown into the back of the truck after her, probably by one of the firefighters. I picked them up off the floor, put the good one on one foot, fixed the other one and put it on her other. Having something on my feet always makes me feel better, it seemed to help Danielle. Maybe it took her mind off of being handcuffed.

“All better,” I said.

“I wish,” she responded and looked away. Tears started now. When all the rage is spent it’s hard to keep them back, especially when you are fifteen years old.

“I want to go home with my mother,” she sobbed. “I hate Woonsocket. I want to go home.”

“Where is home?” I asked, not mentioning that she had said her parents were dead.

“Warwick. I just want to go home.”

Our short lived friendship ended when we arrived at Hasbro. The wall came up again, her game face back on. The tough girl returned, ready to battle anybody who got in her way.

I went back in service and got ready for the next call. I wish I could have done more.

Back to work tommorrow. I finally found time to take the dogs for a walk…look what I found! I knew the water was around here somewhere, just didn’t know the serenity and view would be so nice. The picture was taken from Gaspee Point, in the distance is East Providence, with a little of Providence on the left. The dogs went fishing, I just took it all in.

A quick twenty-four hour shift tommorrow, a few days off then back to the grind until fall. The move went well, all things considered. Feels like a fresh start.

Zimba and Lakota have settled in nicely, Cheryl and Michael still have a way to go!