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He wasn’t concerned about his face, he was more concerned with revenge. Two guys “snaked” him, snuck up behind him and slashed him with knives. The right side of his face wasn’t too bad, a two inch laceration, not too deep. The left side was wide open, from his ear to his chin, I could see his jaw bone. Another slice went from his nose to the corner of his mouth. The back of his neck sported another gash.
When the police asked him if he wanted to press charges he said he didn’t know his attackers.

You are going to be scarred for life I told him, he wasn’t impressed. A fraction of an inch lower and you would have bled to death before we got there. He didn’t believe me. Those guys tried to kill you I told him. “No shit, Pop,” he said nonchalantly. “And I’m going to kill them.”

This morning he was a handsome nineteen year old kid, charismatic in an inner city kind of way with his life ahead of him. Today at 1600 hrs. that changed. Now his face and his soul are scarred and his future uncertain.

Newark, NJ is the busiest EMS system in the US. The men and women working that system have my utmost respect. Click on the title of this post to read more.

One of the best things about this blog are the comments. I read every one and always look forward to that part of it. I think it is proper blog etiquete to respond to the comments and I hardly ever do, so sorry about that, I just like to let the commentary speak for itself.

I’d like to encourage anybody who stops by to leave a comment, and thanks to my faithful commenters who already do!

He’s twelve years old, been in this country for three years. He was crossing the busy part of Elmwood Ave, right in front of the library at dusk when either he walked into a moving auto or the moving auto hit him. The story’s from the driver and the pedestrian are never the same. The only thing I really cared about was the patent’s injuries. He held his right foot in the cradle of his hands. I sat next to him on the sidewalk and asked him where he was hurt. Just my ankle he said, solemn, his eyes never making contact with my own, his head bent toward the ground. I noticed scars on his head, long healed but still prominent through neatly cropped hair. His father was at home, a few streets over. I got a phone for him to use from Ariel, one of the firefighters from Engine 11 who had been called to assist with a child struck by an auto. Abdi pushed the right buttons but nobody answered. We helped him to the back of the rescue where Rob took his vital signs. Abdi pushed up his sleeve to make room for the blood pressure cuff and exposed an eight inch scar running the length of his arm. Rob and I saw the scar, looked at each other, then at Abdi who looked away.

He didn’t say much, didn’t smile or relax the way most boys eventually do when with Providence Firefighters. He answered our questions politely and let us put ice on his ankle. On the way to the hospital I asked where he came from. “Africa,: he replied. “Is it nice there?” I asked, knowing the street where he lived to be one of the worst in Providence. Abdi looked afraid and shook his head quickly from side to side. “Where in Africa?” I asked. “Somalia.” He mumbled the word, almost like it was a curse. I sat back on the bench seat and wondered what kind of life this poor kid led before escaping to this country. And what kind of life lay ahead of him.

Strange how things happen. It was four in the morning, Rescue 1 was unable, dead battery. While waiting for the mechanic from the repair shop to arrive and get us going I randomly searched Verve Earth for blogs from around the world, eventually landing in the UK and Susie Hemingways site. http://www.susiehemingway.blogspot.com. Something compelled me to hang around. This poem hit home in so many ways. Heroes are all around us, fighting life and death battles, facing the fear of uncertainty and the unknown yet still are able to inspire others during the darkest days of their lives. People previously unknown to me and living on another continent are fighting cancer with amazing grace, dignity and courage.

Keep fighting, Hamada and Susie, but just as important: keep living!

We Dance Again ~ February 2008 – Susie Hemingway

No wretched life from us can take
the steps of love the notes we make,
the frail frame that yearns to try
the arms that lift, the eyes that cry,
tiny steps are all you need
to close your eyes and dance with me
to swirl and sway, to waltz and salsa
maybe soon – but not today,
still just to hold and smell your skin
is all I need, not spin and twirl
your arms are weak your legs move slow
but in this room the music flows
do you hear Count Basie swing?
piano notes that damp your skin
just as snow when flakes begin
to see you there upon this floor
to hear that Sax in blues begin
to twirl and spin,
close your eyes and drift again
tiny steps are all you’ll need
to turn on floor, so close to me
for I will hold you never fear
and as we dance along this year
tiny steps are all you need
so close your eyes and dance with me…

@ Copyright 2008
Susie Hemingway

Bandwagon fan, (n.) b?nd’w?g’?n

Go Celtics!

Leigh, Sherrie and Katey making triage at RIH a beautiful place!

They had a nice time visiting the zoo at Roger Williams Park, the kids were tired but satisfied after a day of fun. The baby, sixteen months old seemed a little more tired than his three year old sister. The mom and dad got concerned when they couldn’t wake him up. They called 911 and waited in their minivan for help to arrive. The little guy was still unconscious when we arrived. He moved his foot a little when his mom tickled him.

“Has he ever had a seizure?” I asked.

“Febrile seizures about six months ago but he’s been fine since.”

Rob took his temperature, 102.4. Maybe it was another seizure.

“Did you witness any seizure activity?” I asked.

“He didn’t shake but he did look a little dazed when we put him in the van, then this.”

I can’t even imagine how awful the parents must have felt at that point. They travelled about an hour from Massachusetts for a nice family day. They had no idea where the hospital was or how to find it. Providence is a tricky place, there are a lot of unsavory place one can get lost in while looking for help.

Rob assessed the blood pressure and SP02 and I checked the baby’s BG level, started him on oxygen and got rolling, planning to attempt an IV en route. I explained to the family that febrile seizures are common, what their child was experiencing I had seen hundreds of times.

One of the best parts of my job is having the opportunity to come into peoples lives, albeit briefly, and make an impact that will stay with them for a long, long time. The parents were frantic, the three year old frightened and crying and the baby unresponsive. Within two minutes of our arrival the baby and mom were in the back of Rescue 1, calm and confidant everything would be okay, the dad and his daughter on their way to the ER, following the foolproof directions Lt. Grantham from Engine 11 gave them.

The baby had regained consciousness when we backed into Hasbro Children’s Hospital. I passed on the information we had documented to Nancy, the RN in charge of triage. On the way out the dad stopped me, shook my hand and said “thanks.”

She sat on the floor in the office of the soup kitchen, semi-conscious.

“What happened?” I asked the lady in charge.

“She had a seizure.”

“Can you describe the seizure?”

“She was shaking.”

“Let’s go, Ella,” I said to the lady sitting on the floor. She looked up at me, gave a half smile and slowly got to her feet. I picked up her belongings, a basket weave beach bag filled with clothing and other personal things. On top was a pair on new Keds.

“They gave me new sneakers,” Ella said as we walked toward the rescue, “make sure you don’t lose them.”

“You didn’t have a seizure, did you,” I asked once we were alone.

“No. I just don’t belong out here. I can’t do it. I’m scared.”

“Where were you before this?”

“Butler Hospital. I was there for six months. Once they were done with the shock treatments they had to let me go.”

“Did the shocks help?”

“Yeah, but I’m not ready to be out here. I don’t like it.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Thirty-two grandchildren,” she said proudly.

“No wonder you were in a psychiatric facility,” I said.

“They visit once a week. It takes me three days to clean up after them.”

We arrived at the hospital. As we wheeled her in she started shaking.

Maybe they’ll keep her.

Spring in New England, it doesn’t get better than this for sports fans.

Red Sox/Yankees
Bruins/Canadiens

Nothing like it!

“Rescue 1 and Engine 11, respond to Route 95 in the center travel lane for a motorcycle accident.”

“Rescue 1 on the way.”

“Tony, take a left on Eddy Street, we’ll take a look from the overpass.”

“That can’t be good,” said Tony as we approached. Four or five cars had stopped on the bridge and were looking below onto the highway.

“Traffic’s backed up,” I said, noticing the line of cars on the highway that had backed up as far as I could see.

“There he is,” said Tony, pointing to a figure lying in the road, a motorcycle about fifty feet in front of him on its side.

“Take the Thurbers onramp North, we’ll back up to the incident,” I said.

Tony took the ramp and we entered the highway. Cars were speeding past us. 100 yards form our position, behind us.

“Shit, I thought the traffic would be stopped. Go to the next exit we’ll have to circle around.

Tony gunned it. The next exit was a mile up the road, we would have to take that one, travel south for about two miles, turn around again then approach the accident from the south.

I shouldn’t have tried that,” I said. Minutes can make all the difference and I just blew about five.

“It should have worked,” said Tony, “You would think the traffic would have at least slowed.

“Engine 11 to fire alarm, on scene.”

Tony had turned the rescue around, we were flying down the highway trying to make up some time. I couldn’t help think that if this guy died it was on me.

“Engine 11 to fire alarm, advise Rescue 1 we have a twenty-three year old female complaining of a headache, alert and conscious, no trauma.

“Rescue 1 received,” I said into the mike, leaned back In my seat and breathed normally for the first time in four minutes. A minute later we arrived on scene. Our patient was shaken up, lost some skin on her right side and ruined the paint job on her helmet. It was a full face kind and probably saved her life, if not permanent disfigurement. She was “going about seventy,” felt the bike wobble and remembered nothing else until another motorist shook her and asked if she was all right. The entire surface of the helmet was badly damaged, hard plastic that would have been her skin and hair if she chose to go without.

We put her on the spine board and collar, put her in the truck and took her to the Trauma Room at Rhode Island Hospital. She nearly fainted when I started an IV.

“I hate needles!” she cried when I punctured her skin, moaning in pain. She hadn’t made a peep until now.

“You just crashed a motorcycle at seventy miles an hour and you’re crying about a little needle?”

“Yeah, but this is different!”

I understood. I hate needles too. I pushed the catheter home.

Norm Rooker, EMSResponder.com

As good as SAVING TROY is, I enjoyed Lt. Michael Morse’s RESCUING PROVIDENCE even better. This is one medic’s journey through 34 hours on two different ambulances.

What follows is a great story complete with calls, partner interactions, past war stories, and the impact of working so many hours on his family. Everything is covered, from drug overdoses, to suicide attempts in various forms, shootings, stabbings, birthing babies and medical conditions of all kinds… Oh, and other aspects of the job such as sleep deprivation and job burnout.

All in all, without giving any of the story away, this is one very well written look at the provision of EMS at the street level – sharp, gritty and realistic without being overly smug, smarmy or condescending. This is one medic’s tale that is well worth tracking down for the read.

But don’t take my word for it, check it out for yourself and let me know if I overstated my praises for Michael Morse’s 34 hour slice of his career.

RESCUING PROVIDENCE
Lt. Michael Morse
Paladin Press, 2007
ISBN: 978-1-58160-629-4
$22.95 at Amazon.com

Joe and Harold, Kevin and Jimmy, I got those four.
Stephan and Beetlejuice came by way of Rescue 5.
Rescue 3 is going downtown for a female intoxicated,
Al and Ronny will be in Rescue 2 any minute.

The CDU (Clinical Decision Unit) at Rhode Island Hospital is filling up fast. It’s early yet, where will all the drunk people go?

A young man sat swaying on the steps in front of a house on Orms Street. Rob pulled the rescue to a stop in front of him. I stepped out of the truck and a middle aged woman handed me a cell phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“My brother has been drinking and has to go to the hospital,” came the message from the other side. If I were anywhere but Providence I would have thought I had entered the Twilight Zone.

“Really,” I said. The last three calls were starting to get to me. People are becoming more brazen in their abuse of the 911 system. An “emotional” female who had broken up with her boyfriend called 911 because she was upset, a fifteen year old girl tasted some nail polish remover because some kids at school said she would get high, another fifteen year old girl sat in her families car as her parents waited for an “ambulance” to take her to Hasbro Children’s Hospital because her cramps were “extra bad.”. The hospital was two blocks away, I could see the entrance ramp from their driveway. They wanted to get right in.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“It don’t matter, just get him to the hospital,” came the reply.

“You just try taking me to the hospital, there’s gonna be trouble,” from the guy sitting on the steps.

At this point I should have called for the police and left the scene but my curiosity got the best of me. That and I knew they would just call us back to transport an intoxicated male.

“Where are you calling from?” I asked the caller.

“Coventry.” Coventry is a suburb of Providence, fifteen minutes away.

“Then get in your car and take care of your brother yourself,” I said.

“I can’t. I don’t feel good.”

A guy who I assumed to be the young man’s father stumbled out of the house and stood staring at us.

“Either take care of your problem or the police are coming,” I said. He said nothing, the drunk guy continued to sway.

“Is this your son?” I asked the woman who had handed me the phone. She stared at me as well.

“Do you speak English?” I asked everybody. Nothing. The drunk guy was the only person I could communicate with.

Defeated, I helped the drunk guy to his feet and told him we were going to the hospital and there wasn’t going to be any trouble. He believed me and stayed quiet during the thirty second transport to Roger Williams Medical Center. The man on the porch slurred something in English and walked back inside with the woman, their problem solved by the Providence Fire Department.

I don’t know how it happened, but we have become society’s babysitters.

“This isn’t funny anymore,” he said as he stumbled toward the rescue.
“I never thought it was.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re a mess.”

He sat on the bench seat, five feet away from me, not far enough to keep the stale piss mixed with fresh vodka smell from invading my space. Truth be told, it doesn’t bother me anymore, just a minor annoyance to be tolerated during the short ride to the ER. He is fifty two, close to the end of his run. I have seen a lot of people like him die on the streets in their early fifties. I think he knows.

“You’re running out of time,” I told him. He looked back at me and gave me a lopsided grin.
“Who’s the guy, that was a famous race car driver, but crashed against a wall, and died.”
“I thought this wasn’t fun anymore.”
He cocked an eyebrow and stared at me.
“Number 3, Dale Erhart.”
“You are correct!”

“Whose the guy, that played Ben Hur, and just died?” I asked.
“You’re asking the questions?”
“Might as well.”

He didn’t know the answer.

The ER was a madhouse, drunken street people, drunken college kids, drunken housewifes, drunken fools. Minor injuries, a few legitamite trauma’s, some sick old folks and a bunch of people vomiting. The wait was hours. In the middle of it all was a twenty something year old inmate from the ACI and two correctional officers. The prisoner had a minor injury to his throat from an altercation and had been waiting for a long time. As I walked past them I overheard the inmate ask his guards, “can I go back to my cell? Anywhere is better than here.”

Coming soon to a street near you, the new, improved Rescue 1.

Too bad it’s the same old crew. Fifty-five year old guy dead in the rescue, cpr, asystolic, didn’t get a line until we were at the hospital, couldn’t intubate, didn’t see the piece of hot dog stuck in his throat, time of death 1635 hrs.

Saved another heroin addict at 1400 hrs. A guy in his forties, dead on the floor of his kitchen. A friend found him just in time. 2 mg narcan to the rescue. I wish there were an antidote to choking.

EMS in the UK is done a little differently than here in the US. First, the EMT’s are much younger, as seen it the pictures!

Richard, a Paramedic from the UK sent these pictures along at my request. I thought they would make an interesting post. Here, in Rich’s words is a small description of their response.

“Here we go, a couple of pics of the rapid response car and the kit in the boot, as well as the van I was out on over the weekend.
It is one of our newest vehicles, just 4000 miles on the clock

With the RRV we go into a house with an O2 bag, lifepack 1200 defib, and a response bag with BVM, drugs, pulse-ox, bp cuff, blood glucose kit, suction, airways, ET kit, cannulation kit and dressings.
I think someone put it all on the scales and it worked out at 4.5 stones…I think that is 28.5kg

The ambulances (Merc sprinters) carry a fair bit more kit, including all the spinal gear. Long board, scoop, KED, full-body vac splint. Also the new ones have limb vac splits, as well as solid ones, traction splints both adult and paed versions, and the carry chair, of which we currently use two depending on what the job requires…

As you can see, both my boys are quite at home in the back of an ambulance, actually, the eldest looks pretty non-plussed about the whole thing ”

Thanks Rich, pretty impressive!

The guys from Engine 13 decided to have Reuben’s for lunch. Corned beef, Swiss cheese, Thousand Island dressing and a little sauerkraut grilled on rye. Great idea. They went to a local market, got the corned beef, Swiss and Thousand Island but couldn’t get the rest. Rescue 1 to the rescue! We have the run of the city and can go to more stores. “No problem,” I said and started my quest.

Three runs and five stores later, with nothing but an old can of yellow sauerkraut I found on the bottom shelf of a Spanish Market to show for my troubles I made it back to the station. Rye Bread? I had a better chance of finding Osama Bin Ladin in Providence. What the heck is going on around here?