Don’t forget! Tommorow at Borders Bookstore from 1-3, booksigning and other fun!

* Crysalis Angel makes a good point in the comments section. Big Dummy forgot to say where. It’s in Garden City Shopping Center, Sockanossett Crossroads, Cranston, RI. Thanks Chrysalis. If you want to read about real heroes, check out her blog, the link is on the side.

Veazie Street, right before the second alarm. Three and 1/2 story wood frame residential, exposures, side 1 and 4. The house was situated 100′ off Veazie at the top of a steep driveway. The narrow street left no room for mistakes with apparatus placement, and none were made. If we lost this house, there was a good chance the block would be gone in the morning.

Two firefighters from Ladder 3 climbed the aerial to the roof with a quick vent saw. Through the smoke I saw them reach the ridge line, then saw them disappear as flames ripped through the forth floor windows. A few seconds later, when the smoke cleared they reappeared, now at the end of the ladder, ready to get the roof.

Engine 2′s pump operator nearly managed to feed a ladder pipe, three 1 3/4″ attack lines and a 2 1/2″ master stream before his pump cavitated, screaming for more water. He squeezed every drop from the pump but there just wasn’t enough.

Engine 4 arrived at the end of Veazie, picked up another hydrant and layed more feeders. 300′ of double 3″ feeders full of water fed their pump, they started a relay to Engine 2. By now, Engine 5 with the air supply had arrived at the end of Veazie and pumped the hydrant, setting up a double relay pumping operation through Engine 4 to Engine 2. With enough water to handle the demand, the pump quieted down to a hum, now efficiently doing it’s job as the pump operator manned the pump panel, controlling the flow of water to each individual line.

The fight raged on for three hours. I treated three firefighters for injuries, two were transported to Roger Williams Hospital and one, after falling down a burned out stairway stayed working. I saw him an hour after his fall, hauling feeders. Eventually, the good guys won and the fire was extinguished. Was there ever and doubt?

Fourteen hours later, while I was home sleeping another fire raged on the other side of the city. This one sent four firefighters to the hospital. Burns and a back injury I’m told. Get well, brothers.

I had a decision to make, lock him in, or let him out. He was crouched at the rear doors of the rescue, eyes wild, screaming,

“Why you messin’ with me man!”

“Derek,” I said quietly to my partner through the partition, “if he gets up either gun it or hit the brakes, I don’t care which.”

Either way “JoJo” would lose his balance and I would have time to throw the “net” over him. I reached over and hit the button that locks the doors just as JoJo reached for the handle.

“Why you lockin me in man, let me out, don’t mess with me!” he glared from his position. I stayed seated in the captains chair, portable radio loose by my side and ready for a quick draw. A portable to the noggin usually slows them down. I took the sheet from the stretcher slowly and unfolded it, ready to contain the wildman should he charge.

“If you open the door, you will fall out and the guy behind us will run you over.”

JoJo stayed crouched, glaring at me. We had picked him up a few minutes ago, he and his intoxicated friend laughing and having a ball. JoJo said he wanted to go to the hospital for detox. We let him in. As soon as we got rolling he started. He unbuckled his seat belt before I could stop him, took a few steps toward me, thought better of it, then ran for the back doors and freedom. One of these days I might let one go.

I keyed the mike,

“Rescue 1 to Fire Alarm, advise Rhode Island we have a combative male, eta two minutes.”

We held our ground. Security took over when we arrived. Eventually JoJo was four pointed face down on a stretcher and sedated.

I wrote the book, Rescuing Providence never realizing how big a part of my life it would become. Not only has the book and all that goes with it helped me to express my thoughts, it has made me more aware of and appreciate the tremendous people I have in my life. I’ve made some new friends because of this project, solidified old friendships and reconnected with family. What a ride!

Thank you,Cheryl for tolerating my isolation while putting this thing together…
Thanks,Erin for tirelessly promoting the book and the Providence Firefighters…
Thanks, Ann for putting the book release party together, and getting my writing career off the ground…
Thanks,Lisa and Dennis for pulling the book event in Ellington together…
Thanks, Lori and Al for throwing the party!
Thanks,Merc and Rod Clifton and Jennifer from Books on the Square for graciously hosting a book signing on a damp Tuesday night in November…
Thanks,Bob Kerr, your article got the book rolling…
Thanks, Jordan Rich, WBZ for believing back in 2005…
Thanks,Tim White and Dan Haggarty for learning first hand what we do, and telling the story…
Thanks Dan Yorke for having me on and promoting my book, and for your honest, unbiased commentary over the years…
Thanks, Matt Allen for making it happen…
Thanks Chrysalis Angel for promoting the blog on her site…
Thanks,Terry Brooks for the writing advice and personal letter…
Thanks, everybody at Ghetto Medic, love the debauchery…
Thanks Anchor Rising for the thought provoking discussions…

The list is long, there are so many people who have encouraged me is so many ways. I’m sorry if Iforgot to thank anybody.

It took me a while but I found it, packed away in the attic, waiting for the next move, hopefully our last. It’s waiting patiently on the counter in it’s green box for the turkey to be done, just as it has for the last fifty years, maybe more. I had to find it, things just wouldn’t be the same if I used just “any” knife. It was my father’s carving knife, reserved for the Thanksgiving Turkey. I think of him when I carve the bird.

Ah, Traditions.

Cheryl jazzed up he stuffing this year but her mom, Theresa’s signature is all over it. Her spirit follows us on holidays, it seems like yesterday the day revolved around her. Rest in peace, Mom, we miss you.

My sister Mel has my mother’s china ready to be filled with traditional food, Laseur peas have been on a Morse table since the beginning of time. Brother Bob is home, his family together for the first time in a long, long time. I’m sure he has a relic or two left over from our parent’s house. Susan is getting things ready in North Carolina, the wooden box of fine silver polished and ready to go. She doesn’t change a thing from the traditional dinner, Jackie and JC wouldn’t have it. We miss you, Larry, fifty are just not enough Thanksgivings.

The things we do today will live on long after we are gone. Enjoy it, it goes so fast.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody. We’re here, together on the holidays, held together by more than we realize.

At first she didn’t like me, wouldn’t listen to a word I said. She didn’t want to come with us, wanted to stay right there at the shelter. The folks who run the soup kitchen thought otherwise. They had a hundred homeless people hungry for lunch and had work to do; no time to play footsies with an intoxicated thirty-seven year old.

I finally talked her out of the shelter and toward the rescue. She staggered and slurred but refused to let me touch or help her walk. I kept my distance. She made it outside where there were no walls to hold her up should she stumble. Once down the ramp it was nothing but us and the street, the rescue fifty feet away. I moved closer so she wouldn’t fall.

She made a fist with her left hand and swung at me. I easily stopped the punch by holding her arm. With her right hand she grabbed my ass and gave it a good squeeze.

I don’t know who laughed harder, me, her, or the crowd of homeless people watching the spectacle. We laughed all the way to the hospital. When we arrived, she sat on a stretcher and cried.

People without licences, insurance or registrations should not drive. Especially not into trees while intoxicated.

Once upon a time there were beautiful cars called Cadillacs. People worked their entire lives so that some day they might be able to afford one. Retired folks would take out the machine and drive through town showing off their ride and enjoying the day. If something were to go wrong, they belonged to the Automobile Association of America. (AAA) A simple phone call and assistance was on the way, a polite mechanic would show up, give you a jump, change a flat or tow your nice Cadillac to the garage.

As years went by the Cadillac grew evil. Young men in hooded sweatshirts now “pimped” their Cadillac Escalades and rolled through the ghetto, slinging “rocks” to addicts. People feared the loathsome noise that throbbed from these shiny machines and got out of their way.

One day, (today) one brave, polite mechanic in a AAA truck had the nerve to not drive fast enough while in front of one of these machines. The driver and his friend cut off the AAA driver, pulled a gun and beat the polite man senseless.

At least they didn’t shoot him.

Thirteen hours into a thirty-eight hour shift.
I’m not sure if my day has begun or my night has ended.
It’s 0610 hrs, the sun a few minutes away
Waiting to take the darkness

In a forth floor apartment contractions start.
Five children, all under five years old wake to screams
Another is about to join them
Her water breaks just as the sun rises

The door is locked
The baby is born
We climb the stairs to cut the cord
And welcome a baby girl into the world.

Three hours later a grieving widow sits in a limo.
Her husband lies in his casket a few miles away.
The funeral must wait, another problem arises,
As a car crashes into the funeral procession.

She’s hurt, but refuses to go.
You only bury you husband once.
We help her to the funeral home and wheel her in
Past the casket, the preacher never stops.

She sits on our stair chair,
The cervical collar digging into her skin
And listens
As her husband is laid to rest.

It’s a little past noon
One enters, one leaves
One holds onto the miracle in her arms
As the other lets hers go.

Well, they certainly made up for lost time. 2200hrs, intoxicated male, 2310, baby with a fever, 0020, 23 y/o female with anxiety, 0130, MVA, 0305 hrs, bicyclist struck, 0422 unconscious male, (intoxicated) and counting. An old friend made his way into the back of the rescue. The head umpire of the Providence Kickball League, (see 7-21-07 for a picture) was riding his bike home when he was struck by a moving auto. I first encountered him in July on the Kickball field when one of the players went down with a broken collarbone. Coincidentally, the umpire suffered the same fate as a result of the collision.

In another strange twist, I checked on the umpire after transporting an intoxicated person to the same ER. He looked up from the stretcher and asked, “Hey, aren’t you the author?”

It was the first time a person I didn’t know asked me that. It was a little strange. As it turns out he works at the Brown University Bookstore and recognised me from there.

Providence seems to get smaller as the years go on.

Saturday Night, 2100 hrs. Something strange is going on – no runs for four hours. The other trucks are busy, I’m getting lucky. I had some time to sit and talk with Bob, Lieutenant of Engine 14. Guys like him are invaluable to the fire department, his experience and knowledge will never be replaced.

We told some stories, his much more colorful than mine, him being from a different era, when fighting fire was the departments primary job. EMS has muscled in now, the old ways changing, and not for the better at least from a veteran fire fighter’s point of view. For whatever reason, friendships were stronger then, the brotherhood a reality rather than a memory. We like to think we are different from the rest of society, and we are in a lot of ways. The nature of our work demands a certain trust in one another, our lives literally depend on us having each others backs. We manage, enjoy the job and make the best of it, but the present political climate and changing attitudes make it more difficult. A barrage of misleading comments from our leaders reported by a media hungry for a story pertaining to our pay, benefits and job performance is wearing us down; the morale on the job at an all time low.

Years ago, things were more simple. It was nice to forget about things for a while and talk about how things used to be.

Monday Morning, 0820. All of our rescues are tied up. I had just finished with another patient at Rhode Island Hospital and was responding to Maude Street for a minor laceration when I heard the radio transmission.

“Engine 12 to Fire Alarm, inform that Lincoln Rescue we have a code 99.”

I keyed the mike.

“Rescue 1, to fire alarm, we can divert to the code.”

“Roger Rescue 1, you’ve got it.”

Engine 12 had responded to the scene of a MVA with a possible seizure. They found a man in cardiac arrest, doors locked, car running, it’s front end damaged from a collision. If everything went perfectly we could make the trip in five minutes. It took nearly ten. Busses, pedestrians, traffic, everything worked against us. Eight minutes is a long time to do CPR. I’m sure the guys from Engine 12 were listening for the sirens.

“Engine 12 to fire alarm, do you have an ETA for that rescue?”

“Rescue 1, we’re at Douglas and Veazie, ETA thirty seconds.”

We turned the corner at Douglas; nobody there. Sean Reddy, my partner for the day looked around, thinking my exact thoughts, “Did we hear the right address?”

We approached Burns street and saw the flashing lights from Engine 12. Lying on the street next to his car was our victim. Dave and Griff were doing CPR, Paul and Anthony helped with our equipment. We boarded and collared the patient and got him into the rescue, continued CPR, hooked him up to the Lifepack 12, started a line, analysed the rhythm, attempted and failed to intubate. Griff got the code drugs ready, 1 Epi, still asystolic. Atropine; pulseless and asystolic. More CPR. Sean drove the rescue, Anthony followed with the Engine, Dave and Paul continued CPR while Griff loaded another round of Epi and Atropine. Possible fine V-fib, I administered a shock. Asystole, pulseless. We continued CPR up to the doorway of Roger Williams Hospital where the staff there took over. I gave them my report, they worked the code for at least twenty minutes while I watched, giving as much of the story as I knew.

The fifty-one year old man was pronounced dead at around 0900.

We cleaned and restocked the truck and were ready to go at the same time the man’s widow arrived. We went back to work, she broke down in tears.

I placed the cervical collar around his neck, not because he was injured; because his neck could no longer bear the weight of his head. We put him into the stair chair as his parents looked on, hopeful; courageous and afraid all at once.

I saw the handicapped equipment neatly arranged throughout their upstairs living space. A shower chair sat empty in a corner, leg braces leaned against a wall, next to some games. “Mack” understood what was going on around him but was unable to communicate with us. His eyes were slightly glazed, as most postictal patients are, but held my gaze with surprising intensity. I couldn’t look away.

Mack’s dad came with us in the rescue, leaving the boy’s mother to lock up and meet us at Hasbro in the car. I had wrongly assumed Mack had Cerebral Palsy or something similar. I asked his dad about the boy’s medical history.

“He was fine until he was five or so,” he said, “Then he couldn’t control his bladder. Before long he started acting up in school, nothing bad, just not paying attention, that kind of thing. Then he started falling. About a year later he started having seizures. The doctors think it might be Michtocondria Disease.”

I had never heard of that but if this was the result I hope I never hear of it again.

“You have your hands full,” I said to the man holding his son’s hand in the back of my rescue.

Every now and then I run into somebody who I think has the courage, faith and love to overcome anything. Mack’s dad is one of these people. I think his will alone will get his boy back on his feet. For now, the boy is being treated in Boston by the best medical teams in the world.

He’s nine years old. His father may never see him walk again, or even make ten.

“Rescue 1, Respond to 356 Elmwood Ave for an intoxicated male.”

“Rescue 1, responding.”

We rolled out of the bay toward our patient. Matt, my partner for the night and I made guesses as to who our guest might be.

“Guarantee it’s Chris.”

“Nope, too late.”

“Kevin?”

“Nah, too far up Elmwood.”

“Shingles?”

“He died last month.”

“No shit?”

“Yep, died in a nursing home. Thirty-nine years old.”

That quieted things down. We approached the scene slowly. There was Jimmy, weaving on the sidewalk next to a Providence Police Officer.

“Bitch,” he said as I walked toward him.

“Cocknocker,” I replied. He laughed, swore some more and stumbled toward the rescue. On the way to the ER I told him about last nights newscast. (see previous post)

“Jim, we’re co-stars, we were on the news last night I said, expecting nothing but more insults.”

“No shit,” he said, half-smiling. “Kevin told me about it,” he slurred the words but perked up. “I don’t remember any of it.”