I’m running out of gas about now, the minions of Providence have kept me running. Called to a house on Elmwood Avenue, a boarding house, not known for the upscale clientele. Trudge up the stairs to one of the rooms, heavily fortified and completely unsanitary to find a fifty-nine year old male hunched over in an easy chair racked with pain.

“What’s the matter?”

“I slept in my chair, now my back hurts.”

“Get up and stretch.”

“Can’t. Broke my ribs.”

“Well, sit and stretch.”

“Can’t, broken vertebrae.”

I took a closer look. The visor on his “Dewey Sueem & Howe” cap laid low on his forehead. A handsome black guy looked up at me through eyes filled with pain.

“Come on, we’ll get you to the hospital.”

“My doctor is at Miriam.”

Here we go again. I started to tell him there was no way I was going to take him across town to Miriam when I saw his medications. HIV+.

“How long have you had HIV.”

“Since ’83.”

Miriam Hospital has a program where they do great work with AIDS and HIV+ patients. A cross town trip wouldn’t kill me. We loaded him up the best we could, broken ribs and vertebrae are tough injuries to work around. He was a trooper, only complained a little.

Inspiration comes from the strangest places. This time, the back of Rescue 1, two guys from different worlds talking about the Celtic and Laker years of the eighties. He was a Laker fan, me the Celtics. Didn’t matter, it was as if Magic and Bird were in the rescue with us.

“I remember when I heard about Magic,” I said. “Thought he was a goner.”

“Thought I was a goner.” He smiled and reminisced. Magic Johnson. Larry Bird. Lew Alcinder. Robert “The Chief” Parish. Worthy, Johnson and all the rest. I felt like I was with an old friend watching the game and having a beer.

Turns out he’s a Viet Nam era combat wounded Special Forces Veteran. Marine Corp. Didn’t talk much about that, one of the security guards at Miriam served with him and told me. Marines. Semper Fi. They mean it.

I wonder if the other folks at Miriam saw a destitute former addict with HIV and not much else. I hope not.

“We have to get back to the station, I’ve got to go.”
“You’re not going to shit your pants like the last guy are you?”
“Maybe.”

It’s a three mile trip from the Rhode Island Hospital Emergency Room to the Allen’s Avenue Fire Station. ETA six minutes. I could probably make it. Everything was going great, light traffic, perfect weather conditions, no road construction in sight. I could see the promised land in the distance, a little more than a minute away. I started to relax.

“A train!”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“It’s the coal train, slowest moving locomotive on the Eastern Seaboard!”
“Oh, my, God.”

The railway gates closed, blocking our approach. Lights flashed, the train approached Allens Avenue at 2 MPH. Doomed.

“Turn around, we’ll backtrack to the one way, circle around the x-rated bookstore, go up the one way down and over the railroad tracks.”
“Let’s roll.”

As we approached the one-way and were about to put on the warning lights and sirens, a battalion chief approached.

“BOGEY AT 12 O’CLOCK!”
“You have got to be kidding!”

I curled my toes, waved to the chief as we passed his vehicle, now headed away from the promised land.

“Stop at the Burger king!”
“I’m on it!”

Mark wheeled Rescue 1 around and headed toward the burger joint. Thirty seconds away the pain in my abdomen subsided.

“I think I can make it, keep going.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can do this. I can.”

The station was around the next bend, salvation moments away. I saw it in the distance, a beacon, a ray of light, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. We roared onto the ramp, I rolled under the opening overhead door and duck walked to the rest room, just in the nick of time.

What a day. Ten runs, one emergency.

“I could hit Rhode Island Hospital with a rock.”
“I don’t go there.”
“Why did you call us?”
“I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’ll take you.”
“Not that one.”

And so it goes. My patient, an eighty-five year old great-grandmother insisted on being taken across the city to Miriam Hospital, a smaller place on the east Side. Rhode Island and Miriam are affiliated, the same doctors, record keeping, security.

“You’ll have to find another way.”
“They took me last night.”

She had been released from Miriam Hospital a few hours ago. At 0100 hrs, a Providence Rescue took her from her home, bordering the parking lot of Rhode Island Hospital’s Emergency Room parking lot to Miriam. I have no idea why. Sometimes it’s just easier.

Mondays are non-stop, the calls just keep coming. My portable radio continued to transmit, a Cranston Rescue to Broad Street, A Smithfield Rescue to Admiral Street, East Providence to Kennedy Plaza her family members started to pour into the little house.

“Why ain’t they takin her?”
“I don’t know.”
“They took her last night.”
“Those guys weren’t assholes.”

I suggested they call for a private ambulance. They did. We waited. The family continued to grow. We continued to wait. The patient was in no distress, normal vital signs, possibly dehydrated, according to the paperwork from Miriam, a few hours old.

“I must be an asshole,” I muttered forty-five minutes later as we loaded her into the truck and took her to Miriam.

It is my pleasure telling you about life here in the homes and streets of Providence. I hope I’ve painted a vivid picture to those of you who don’t get to experience first hand what it is that we do. It is a noble calling, something I am honored to be part of. When my time on earth comes to a close, the part of my life I’ll be proudest of will no doubt be my time spent as a Providence Firefighter.

When I swore the oath of office, I had only a vague idea of what the next twenty plus years of my life would entail. I did know that I would be put into precarious situations, heartbreaking incidents and challenged to perform at a level that I hoped resided within me. Looking back, I am I can honestly say I’ve met the challenge, and continue to do so, and will continue to do so for as long as the City of Providence pays me.

Honor. It isn’t a word I use lightly. It the end, it is all we have.

Society is full of uncertainty; the economy is in trouble, fuel unstable, healthcare in question. Right now, the administration of Providence has informed 10,000 people whom the people of Providence employ that their health care provider will be changed from Blue Cross to United effective January 1, 2009. My union, Local 799 brought representatives from United to meet with us and explain the changes that are forthcoming. We are ready, willing and able to do our part and facilitate the transition that was thrust upon us. We found that there is no plan, no answers, no idea of what to expect until it happens, and then we can crawl through the morass of red tape and bureaucracy, not knowing if our family doctors will participate, our medications are covered or, well, anything until it happens.

Just my opinion, but a pretty lousy way to implement needed chance in our health care system.

The People of Providence benefit from the honorable service of their police and fire departments every day. It is an honest trade, our integrity, blood, sweat and sacrifice for their tax dollars. A contract, honorable, solid and just. It is the backbone of our society.

When we lose that backbone, as the administration of Providence is currently doing, the foundation cracks. Although the people that were elected by the residents of Providence are doing their best to undermine the integrity of our beliefs, we, the people doing the work, will remain strong.

Check out EMS Taxi if you get a chance, I think you will find it worth the trip.

(click on the title, it will take you there)

He’s old, now, closer than ever to infinite eternity. His mind is gone, the brilliant thoughts that once sprang to life as written words confused and meaningless, just syllables uttered to a stranger who came into his life too late to appreciate him, and possibly learn from him. I sat across from in the back of Rescue 1, mesmerized, his eyes still burning with intensity as he uttered strange words, some in Spanish, some English. The words had a cadence when he spoke them, a rhythm and maybe some kind of message. His eyes bored into mine as he said over and over, “stink, stank stunk.” He would change into a foreign language and utter more words in the same way, earnest, almost desperate.

At first I was amused, things like this don’t happen every day. As the ride progressed, sadness crept in. Sadness for the man, and what was lost, sadness for myself as I envisioned a similar fate and sadness for those close to him, who had experienced his intellect before Alzheimer’s Disease invaded his mind.

This is a strange existence.

Edwin Honig, poet and translator, has published ten books of poetry, eight books of translation, five books of criticism and fiction, three books of plays. He has taught at Harvard and Brown, where he started the Graduate Writing Program, and has received numerous awards from the Guggenheim Foundation, Mishkenot ShaAnanim, The National Endowment for the Arts, and the Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. In 1986 he was knighted by the President of Portugal for his work in literary translation; and in 1996 by the King of Spain. He is Emeritus Professor at Brown University.

An inclusive volume of Edwin Honig’s poetry, titled Time and Again: Poems 1940-1997, is available at: http://www.xlibris.com/timeandagain.html

To Infinite Eternity
I

Death is closer
to infinite eternity
than life is

and each life closer
to each least breath
than the blankness of
infinite eternity itself

II

To think blankness
rouses certain terror
and in the feeling
the sudden sense

of self responding
down to the smallest
unaided particle

of its existence
as answer to
the blankness of
sure nonexistence

III

Then infinite eternity
may be the opposite
of felt existence

durable as any
measurably
felt time

IV

I say hello
to myself

and to break
the terror

of nonexistence
I restore my self

to existence whatever
the consequence

by Edwin Honig

Edwin is a great, powerful man who will leave this earth soon. He leaves us not only with the gifts of his own writings and translations, but also the planted seeds of thought and inspiration in the minds of countless students and others who enjoy his work.

Alzheimer’s Disease and other manifestations of dementia are cruel, devious companions for those unfortunate enough to be saddled with the affliction. It is far worse for those left caring for the victims.

I do not know Edwin, other than a brief moment where I was responsible for his well being. I hope that in some way he knows and finds comfort knowing I found his work, and that he leaves an indelible impression on me that will last a lifetime.

I think that on some level Edwin understands and approves of my writing about him here. Writers have a need to be read and understood. I understand, Edwin. I understand.

Bottom of the seventh, Sox down by seven, Morse makes a brilliant move, moves from the couch to the bed, takes an Ambien from his pouch and starts to chew. Pedroia, the bald-headed potbellied MVP candidate whacks a two-out single, Morse spits out some Ambien juice and turns up the volume. Big Papi walks to the plate, swinging the same bat he carried to first the last time he was up and weakly grounded out. Shouting tough love from his suburban bedroom, Morse encourages the slumping Ortiz;

“You’re going to look awfully funny with that bat sticking out of your ass, Little Papi!” screams the bed coach as Papi digs in. Spurred on by the noise from the bedroom, Ortiz launches one over the wall, the crowd goes wild, Morse rips the covers from his bed, waves Auntie Rose’s homemade quilt above his head like a championship banner and runs naked through the house screaming “PAPI, PAPI, PAPI!”

Bottom of the ninth, Morse returns to his bed, unwilling to jinx the comeback. JD “Stop it, my back hurts!” Drew steps in. Morse shouts more words of wisdom;
“Quit crying, Nancy, and get a hit for Christ’s sake!” from his position. Drew listens and launches a single, the winning run scores and Morse finally relaxes, knowing that without him, the season would be over.

The lights go out until Saturday, giving Morse plenty of time to prepare.

“What does it take to be an EMT?,” he asked, innocently enough. It was his first time in the back of an ambulance, strapped to a long board with a c-collar in place, immobilized. He looked around as best he could, his mind active, considering the possibilities.

“You have to go to school, learn about how the body works, how it breaks, and how to put it back together. That’s the Basic Level. Then you have to to more school, learn how the heart works, how to fix it when it isn’t working right, and a ton of other stuff. That is the Cardiac level. Then you can go back to school, learn even more and become a Paramedic.”

“Is it hard?”

I looked at him, lying there on the backboard after he crashed his car through a fence. His right leg lost all feeling, a result of his progressive form of Multiple Sclerosis. He couldn’t feel the gas or brake pedal, couldn’t move his leg even if he could. It took a lot of courage to steer through the fence instead of continuing on.

At eighteen, I’m sure he considers his disease a temporary setback; how could he think otherwise? It takes years of dissapointment and frustration before you give up hope. Decades.

“It’s hard,” I said.

It’s impossible, I thought.

I love being wrong.

He shares the bathroom with six others. When it was his turn something happened; maybe he turned the wrong way and slipped, maybe his “bad knee” finally gave out, maybe his heart finally gave up. He could have overdosed or had a stroke, we really had no way of knowing until we found a way in.

He was crumbled up against the in swinging door. Not a big man, but big enough to make things difficult. If we forced the door, we would hit his head when the door swung in. If we broke the lock and gently pushed we could do further damage to his c-spine.

As minutes passed and the peanut gallery grew more impatient, we forced the door with a haligan tool and Miles, the skinniest among us slipped in. He had to step into the shower, then behind the patient. He moved him enough so I could fit in. I normally avoid touching walls in these places but there was no way around it, I squeezed through the tight opening and into the shower, then worked around the patient and straddled the toilet while positioning the patient.

He was semi-conscious and semi-naked. Possible vagal reaction? We checked for trauma, there were no obvious signs, no drug paraphernalia, BG 115, 120/60, HR 76. We carried him to the rescue, worked him up and brought him in. He was talking normally before I left the hospital.

I spent a lot of time in the communal bathroom getting him out. I spent just as much time at the communal bathroom at the fire station washing the itch off.

They call it assisted living. I don’t know what to call it. A fifty-one year old male sits in his apartment, drinking vodka, smoking Pall Malls and taking vicodin. He has COPD, diabetes and a host of other problems. Because he is “disabled” he’s allowed to live in the hi-rise with the elderly. He abuses his pain meds so a med tech, whatever that is, is hired by the facility to administer medication to him.

Tonight, our hero was difficult to waken, the “med tech” decided he had to go to the hospital. Enter the anti-heroes from Rescue 1. Perhaps a little history will help clarify the tale I’m about to tell. I’ve been here since 0700. It’s now 2135 hrs. I’ll be here a while longer, and that is fine, it’s what I do. I’ve taken ten or so people to the hospital today, none sicker than myself. I’m battling an annoying little cold, nothing to sneeze at, but really no reason to stay home from work either, or call 911 for a ride to the emergency room for what, I really don’t know.

We enter the man’s apartment to find him smoking, conscious and alert, and a little buzzed. The “med tech” informs me the man will be taken to the emergency room for an evaluation and hands me his list of medications. I asked him what day today was, he answered. I asked if he knew where he was. He did. I asked if he knew who was President. He knew. I asked if he wanted to go to the hospital. He did not.

I cannot enter a man’s home and force him to leave, I said to the “med tech.” Well then, she said, not quite knowing what to make of this unfortunate turn of events. It seems that the somebody she called to wipe the ass of her resident was tired of wiping asses. The “med tech” was unable to wash her hands of her problem, and Rescue 1 returned to service.

And they really never stopped…they just kept on walking.

Man, I miss those dogs.

He didn’t look right. His mother cradled his limp form in her arms and tried to explain what happened.

“We heard a crash from the bedroom, he was under the dresser!”

I looked into the bedroom in question. A full sized dresser stood against a wall, its drawers on the floor in front of it and a big TV perched on top. The baby rolled his eyes back, unresponsive.

“Did he cry when it happened?”

“No he was quiet.”

We were on the third floor.

“Get the papoose ready, we’re coming down,” I said out loud. Engine 14 was there to assist, I was sure somebody would be at the rescue getting things done. The eighteen month old’s mom didn’t want to let go, I let her carry the boy to the rescue. There she had to step aside. Although we had a lot of work to do I thought it best she stay in back with us. She knelt next to the stretcher while we worked. We worked around her. It wasn’t that hard. The baby cried a little while we restrained him. I was relieved to hear something. There is no worse sight than a still, restrained, bluish grey infant in the back of a rescue.

“Let’s roll.”

Jermain hit the gas and we were on our way to the trauma room at Hasbro.

“Do something! Hurry up!” said the boy’s mom from the bench seat, frantic.

“We all have kids of our own, we’re doing everything we can,” said Ariel, my partner for the overtime shift. He said it gently, looking the mother in the eye. It worked, she relaxed.

The baby needed an IV. Ariel is not assigned to Rescue, his usual spot a firefighter on Engine 11. I’ve worked with him a few times, he’s calm, competent and more than willing to do the job. Asking somebody to start an IV on an unresponsive infant in a moving truck in front of a panicked mother is not something I do lightly. Alas, we all have a job to do, and I was not doing mine.

“I need an IV.”

“I’ll get it,”

Simple. I moved from the infant’s side, sat on the Captain’s chair and called the ER at Hasbro.

“Providence Rescue 6, we have an eighteen month old male, semi conscious, responds to painful stimuli, no obvious deformities with a heart rate of 140 and 128/96, respiration’s 40 and shallow, pulsox 98% with blow by 02.”

Ariel and Hans, another firefighter from Engine 14 who had joined us were wrapping up the IV and were checking the baby’s glucose level.

“IV established, he’s restrained, BG of 184, ETA four minutes.”

“See you in four.”

The baby stopped breathing.

“Is he all right?” asked the mom.

For what seemed an eternity the little guy lay on the stretcher, motionless. Ariel shook him, I squeezed his little hands..nothing. As I reached for the pedi bag valve mask and got ready to start CPR the most beautiful sound filled the back of the rescue, a baby’s crying. Not loud, not in earnest, but crying nonetheless.

“He’s fine,” I told the mom. “He is injured, but things are under control. We’ll be at the hospital in a minute.”

A minute later we backed into the bay at Hasbro. The trauma team was ready, I gave my report and they took over.

Then I started to breathe.

“I’d say a prayer for you but it wouldn’t do much good, I don’t believe in God.”

In combat, somebody said, “There are no atheists in a foxhole.” This was no foxhole, but the back of Rescue 1 when you are eighty-seven years old is pretty close. She had some difficulty breathing, chest pain and general weakness.

“You know what I can’t figure out,” I asked. How do you explain cats. The little beasties actually love us, and I’m not talking about the genetic need to suck up to people so they will feed them. They really have affection in their hearts. That can’t be an accident.”

“Do you believe in evolution?” she asked.

“I believe there is a plan, and I don’t think any of us is capable of fully understanding what that plan is. I know how I feel when I see the leaves turning, how the cycle of life plays over and over, life and death, over and over.”

“I’d like to believe there is something else,” she said.

“There is.”

We transferred her from our stretcher to the hospital bed, the nurse took my report and my job was done. I looked at my patient as I was leaving. She waved me over to her side.

“It may be inappropriate, but I think I love you,” she said with a mischievous grin.

There is a plan. There has to be.

The only thing that could ruin this shot is the fact that it’s on a golf course. Somebody defined golf as “a beautiful walk, ruined.” Perfect description of the debacle that was me at The Warwick Country Club yesterday. Many thanks to the Stensons for inviting me.