I asked him his name.

“A-r-o-u-a-r-t-i-o-u-n.”

“How do you pronounce it?”

“Arouartioun.”

“Is that Armenian?”

“Yes, it means Resurrection.”

“What’s your date of birth?”

“December 24th, 1935.”

“Hence, the Resurrection.”

He shrugged and smiled, his abdominal pain that made him call 911 gone for now, no particular reason. He said the pain has been coming and going for two weeks, no idea why. Perhaps today they would find the answer. We had a nice talk on the way to the ER, his family moved from Armenia following the genocide of 1915 to Syria, where he grew up.

“Nice place, Syria, they gave us land, said to stay there. Refugees were given a chance to rebuild their lives. Some went to Europe, some the Middle East, some America. His family moved back to Armenia in the fifties when it was part of the Soviet Union.

“We were very poor. My father retired from the French Army in 1946, not much of a pension then.”

Somehow they managed to escape from Soviet Russia, his wife had family in America. They have a nice home in the “Reservoir Triangle” area of Providence now, grandchildren, maybe a great-grandchild on the way. We arrived at the hospital, Arouartioun insisted on walking in.

I couldn’t help being inspired by his story. I’ll be moving, again, in a couple of weeks, three streets away from the house I’ve been renting for six months. It looks like I’ve finally found a home. I didn’t have to travel the world to find it.

She stood at the pay phone, one hand clutching the receiver, the other holding her stomach.

“Get in the truck,” I said as soon as we pulled next to her. It was five a.m., no time for pussyfooting around.

“I left the hospital today,” she explained. “I was three centimeters dilated and they sent me home. Now I’m having contractions.”

“How far apart?”

She began moaning and holding her belly. I noted the time. Mike took her blood pressure and other vitals. Another contraction started before he was through.

“Two minutes.”

“Let’s go,” I said to Mike as he wrapped up the equipment.

While on the phone to Women and Infants my patient informed me that her water had broken and she needed to push.

“Push if you must,” I said, putting on the gloves and getting the OB kit ready.

“Mike, step on it.”

I felt the truck lurch forward, we were thirty seconds away from salvation when the patient started to scream. I had the trauma shears ready to cut the clothes away when I felt the truck stop. Miraculously my patient stopped screaming and relaxed a bit. We wheeled her into the ER. While transferring her from our stretcher to theirs the screaming started again. Thirty seconds later a new baby entered the world.

From pay phone to delivery in three minutes. I think we set a record!

“It’s cold out, put on your coat,” I said to the girl. She was four months pregnant, wafer thin and terrified. Her house was full of police officers; domestic dispute, one of the most deadly calls. I picked up the jacket lying beside her. Shotgun shells fell from the pockets.

“Is this your coat?” I asked.

“It’s my boyfriends. He’s locked in the bedroom,” she pointed down a narrow corridor.

“Does he have a gun?” asked one of the cops.

“A couple.”

Great. I looked for Mike. He was next to the refrigerator.

“Bullet proof, I hope,” he said as we watched the cops draw their weapons and approach the door. I joined Mike next to the fridge, out of the line of fire, I thought.

The girl stayed with us as the police ferreted the guy out of the bedroom. We walked her out to the rescue once the man in the bedroom was accounted for. The police searched the place. No shots fired this time. The couple had an argument earlier in the evening, the boyfriend threatened to shoot the girl. She managed to call the hospital from her cell phone while her boyfriend was out of the room. Somehow, we got the call as an emotional pregnant female with a gun in the house. We had no idea there was an emotional male behind the gun.

I worked on Rescue 1 with Jeff Davenport through most of the summer. He volunteered to work on Rescue 1 so he could be closer to his newborn son, John. We would visit the NICU whenever possible, passing security and scrubbing our hands before entering a world that I never imagined existed. When I think of miracles, I recall the work that is done in that space. I never felt closer to God then I did while watching the people taking care of the most vulnerable among us. A sense of hope pervades the place where once there would be nothing but sorrow. I’m proud and humbled to belong to a society that includes such brilliant people capable of creating the technology needed to care our precious premature newborns, as well as those willing to provide the human touch and comfort so vital in those formative months.

Jeff never complained about the amount of calls we were sent on during his ordeal. Never let on how difficult life was at home. He never slept. Somehow he managed to provide quality patient care to the scores of people who call us, refusing to help themselves, all while enduring the worst moments of his own life. If ever there were an example of grace under pressure, Jeff is it. I am proud he is my friend.

Merry Christmas, Jeff, Maria and John, and many more.*

* see post Saturday, May 12th, 2007

http://www.projo.com/news/content/christmas_baby_12-24-07_TH8BOSL_v50.29900e3.html

The blood had dried onto the tile floor where he fell, a pool formed under his head and a stream on his right side. I placed the board on his left side and with help from the guys on Engine 7 and Mike, (yes, that Mike, he’s baack!)loaded him onto the stretcher. A search of his apartment turned up his ID as well as medication for high blood pressure and diabetes. Our patient was a Reverend, sixty-two years old with blunt force trauma to the back of his head and an injury to his left elbow.

Was he assaulted? Did he fall because of his low blood sugar level, or was his sugar low because he had been on the ground for an unknown period of time? Was his combativeness due to the head injury or hypoglycemia? Could I get through this call without wearing the numerous bodily fluids floating around?

His glucose level was 32. I gave him some glucagon IM, an IV was nearly impossible at that point, the patient was delirious, fighting us with all he had, which at six feet and at least 250 lbs was a lot. Bill from Engine 7 drove toward Rhode Island Hospital while me and Mike stayed in back and wrestled with the Reverend. Mike tried to get some oral glucose into him but failed, for some reason people with low blood sugar fight the very treatment that can get them back to normal. Drool and snot mixed with the blood on the man’s face, smearing his glasses which had somehow managed to stay on the bridge of his nose. Knowing how annoying that can be I wiped the glass clean and put them back on his face.

Somehow his arm broke free of my hold. Before I could grab it he re-opened the wound on his elbow and smeared fresh blood on the wall next to the stretcher. Mike had his hand full holding the legs down, the patient was kicking up a storm. I saw a good vein on his right arm and tried for an IV, knowing that a dose of D-50 was just what we needed at this point. I missed the moving target, the fight continued until we backed into the rescue bay.

The back of the rescue was littered with debris; blood and mucus dripped from the walls. We restrained the patient the best we could and wheeled him in. Security was called, four of us held him down, Joanne started an IV and administered the D-50. A few minutes later he was alert and conscious. I stayed in his room until the doctor on call showed up. He looked at the patient, looked at me and asked,

“Why isn’t he in a c-collar?”

“It fell off.”

It’s great to be back!

Recently, during my yearly pilgrimage to the rafters above the garage, I began a journey that ultimately led to the rediscovery of a long lost friend.
The dust that had accumulated on the boxes that held my family’s Christmas treasures filled the rafters when I moved them. Stifling a sneeze, I carried the boxes down.
For years, our display grew with each holiday season, each year more grand than the one before. As my daughters grew, so did their expectations. What started twenty years ago with a candle’s light filling each window became a magnificent celebration of light welcoming the start of a new Christmas. Santa was coming, and the lights would guide the way! Christmas was good.
The years progressed, my children grew and each year the lights slowly faded. Santa once more became a myth and Christmas magic became hidden deep in my memories. Work, commitment and appointments had taken place of holiday cheer. Who has time for Christmas? To live in a fantasy during the holidays was something better left with children. The thrill that had once filled me during the holidays had long since passed. I still enjoy my friends and families company, but Christmas day had become just another holiday. I actually preferred Thanksgiving!
Scratching an itch while climbing the ladder back into the rafters, I was filled with sadness. I thought back to when I was young and still believed in miracles like Santa Clause. The loss in that belief was also the end of my belief in all things magical. For years I believed that miracles did not exist. Christmas is great but it certainly is not magic. Magic is for kids, and I am no kid.
Eventually I had kids of my own. As each child took her place in the world it became evident that magic did exist, and miracles could happen! The love that I felt for my children filled me with joy. Christmas was alive again, and with it, Santa was reborn! Our house was filled with Christmas music and decorations. The house reeked of Christmas. I have a lifetime of memories from those years, all precious.
Time flew by, my kids grew like I had, and now I was sitting in my cold rafters covered with dust. I rummaged around and found the box that contained the window candles. I left the rest of the decorations in the loft. The thoughts of Christmas’s past filled my head as I made my way down. Before finishing the job, I headed for the shower to rid myself of the itchy rafter dust.
Entering the house, I breathed in the scent of pine trees, cinnamon and all things that brought Christmas to mind. My wife had created the perfect retreat inside our home, just as she had every year we had been together. I could only wonder how she had never lost the Christmas spirit. I prayed that I hadn’t lost mine. “The Christmas Fairy”, my favorite Christmas song filled the house with music as I climbed the stairs. I hoped that a nice hot shower would relax me and for the sake of my wife, put me in a Christmas mood.
I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in my robe. The belt that held the robe together was getting frighteningly short over the years. Perhaps after the Holidays I would watch what I ate. With music from downstairs filling my head, and the scents of Christmas coming from the candle my wife had placed in the room I began getting ready for the rest of the day. I applied a generous dollop of shaving cream to my face and took a long hard look at my reflection.
Then I saw Him!
My eyes were twinkling. At first, I thought that the light from the candle caused it but I was wrong. I felt the twinkling come from my heart. My eyes were so full of life! My nose was red too. The redness could have come from the beer that I love, but I didn’t think so! My belly shook when I laughed at the image, but it wasn’t like a bowl full of jelly at all, in fact, for a guy my age it didn’t look all that bad. If I lost ten pounds or so and cut back on the beer…(oh never mind!)
There he was. Big as life. Santa! Standing in front of me with a face full of shaving cream and dressed in an old bathrobe. But he was Santa. He always was. As a boy, Santa lived inside of him. As a young man, he was Santa to his kids. Now, here is the best Santa of all. My love of Christmas will fill all of those around me, on Christmas and all year! Santa is alive. I have seen him. He is me, he is us. I hope that you will see him too. Merry Christmas!

Originally published December, 2002. Providence Journal

Please join us for the annual Providence Firefighters Christmas Sale at Firefighters Memorial Hall, 91 Printery Street, Providence, RI (right behind the Branch Avenue fire station.) THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13TH.

T-shirts, decals, assorted clothing apparel and other fire related items will be available. Copies of Rescuing Providence will be there as well, along with the author who will be signing them for a large Dunkin Donut’s coffee, milk, 2 splenda. (optional)

He sat sitting in front of a computer screen, staring into space.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

“I think my get up and go got up and went,” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been burning the candle at both ends. I think I’m out of wax.”

“Get more.”

“None left.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Take a break.”

“How long have you been talking to yourself?”

See you in a little while. Time to recharge the batteries.

Mike-

Information on the hearing below.

Providence Police are planning on using the story as evidence in the hearing. In addition, the Monday following our report, they witnessed the same activity at Hernandez Liquors and have filed a police report on that.

Owner, Felix Hernandez has been called to appear before the board tomorrow.

We’ll be there.

Attached is the docket.

Tim White

Target 12 Investigators – Dangerous Delays You’ll need a version of Windows Media Player 7 or higher to view the video. If you need to download it, go to http://www.microsoft.com/windows/mediaplayer/en/default.asp. The video player is supported by Microsoft IE 5.0 and above.

I’ve noticed a dramatic decrease in activity following Tim White’s investigative report concerning one aspect of the problem we are having with excessive calls for intoxicated persons. Perhaps this is why! Watch WPRI 12 tonight at six for more, and the story will be on www.wpri.com. Thanks Tim.

“A journey of 1000 miles begins with one step.” by Somebody Smart, I forget who.

I had just put the finishing touches on this years holiday display when I noticed a car slow rolling past the house. The car turned around and slowly drove by from the other direction.

“Cheryl!” I said to my wife, “somebody’s outside looking at the display. Probably Japaneese tourists taking pictures to send home.”

I knew I had outdone myself, three days out in the cold had paid off.

“Cheryl! I said again, louder this time, “they’re stopping in front of the house!”

The car stayed put for a minute or two as I peered out the window, quite pleased with myself and my holiday display. Finally, somebody else who appreciates the art of yuletime extravagence.

“He’s coming to the door,” I shouted, “probably wants to take a picture with me!”

I opened the door and greeted my new fan.

“Are you Michael Morse?” he asked.

“I am,” I replied, looking over his shoulder for the satelite van.wondering if this was a reporter from CNN,

“You’ve been served,” he said, handed me an envelope and walked away.

I have to appear in district court as a witness for the plaintiff concerning a car accident that Rescue 1 responded to in 2003. I don’t remember yesterday, never mind 2003.

Humbug…

The “other” festive picture comes from Gramma Muggle, whose family shares my home decorating passion. Thanks Pat!

Chest pain in a holding cell is a difficult call. All instict leads you to believe it’s a case of cellitis, and usually is. The hospital beats the prison, most times. When the patient is your own age skeptisism is overwhelming. When it is the second time you have been called to the same holding cell in two hours it’s guaranteed. Sometimes.

Veronica sat on the steel bench, crying. She was in desperate need of a shower and some new clothes. I asked how she was feeling.

“I’ve had pain in my chest since last night but didn’t say anything,” she said quietly. Hmm. Usually the theatrics could win an Acadamy Award. We put her on the stretcher and rolled her out of the cell. I asked the Sherrif for the paperwork, he said there was none, she was free to go home. Double hmm. I asked her to rate the pain on a 1-10 scale.

“It’s about a seven now but last night it was around four. ” Triple hmm. Fakers age a guaranteed “10.”

Once in the rescue we did some vitals and ran a 12 lead EKG. BP was 180/120, heart rate 110 spo2 91%. The EKG was abnormal with a right bundle branch block. She had a history of an irregular heartbeat but couldn’t afford her medications. We started her on 02, gave her some asprin and a nitro and started toward Rhode Island Hospital. On the way her phone rang. Her mother was home with her grandchildren waiting for her daughter to come home.

“Mama, don’t cry, I’ll be home soon,” Veronica said into the phone, then started crying herself.

I have no idea why she was detained and didn’t ask, not because I wasn’t curious; I was, I just didn’t fell it was any of my business. I can only wonder why a nice lady the same age as me with a family who cared deeply about her was in jail. Her birthday was five days after mine, we shared this earth for nearly exactly the same amount of time. Is it fate, bad choices or circumstance that put us on such opposite paths? I can only wonder.

I used to wonder how they managed to do it. Living on the streets of Providence, hot summer days, freezing cold nights in winter, nothing more than a few layers of donated coats and maybe a blanket to keep them warm, bottle of cheap vodka giving the illusion of comfort. They have forgotten any dreams they may have once had, now they just survive each day the best they can. It’s not an easy life, nor one anybody with half a brain would consider trying. The shelters show them the door early in the morning, leaving them to wander aimlessly all day, refusing entry at night if they are intoxicated, which they usually are. A few hours go by until they can scrounge up enough change to get a refill. With nowhere else to go they call us and end up in the emergency room, not for treatment, for survival.

I don’t wonder how they do it anymore. They don’t. They die. I haven’t seen one hit sixty yet. Late forties, early fifties, then gone. Forgotten. A new face enters the fray as soon as there is an opening. I play along, take them to the hospital, and watch them die. Sometimes it takes years.

I just realized I could post video to the blog with my phone. Bear with me while I play with my new toy! It was freezing on the beach but I don’t think the dogs cared.