Gia (A Gia’s Life) had a bad call the other night, a baby, screaming, the outcome not so good. It got me thinking how of how many people are affected by every call we go on. Obviously, the people making the 911 call, then the dispatchers, then us, then the people who hear the sirens and see the lights, and get out of the way, or not. Neighbors, friends, family; everybody who sees a fire truck, police cruiser or ambulance pull up at somebodies house can’t help but be curious.

It’s like a ripple in the universe, I wonder how far it goes. When the outcome is positive, does the energy go forward and add to the general flow of things, and if so, when things go badly does that change the tide for everybody involved, no matter how small a part?

A few years ago I realized how important my role in all of this is. When I arrive on scene at an emergency, every move I make is embedded into the memory of the people who called for help. It may be subconsciously, but the experience lingers.

Years pass. The memory fades. Some things stand out. The time the ambulance people helped dad when he fell. When Mom crashed her car on 95, the firemen were so nice. They helped the baby when she swallowed a marble. They tried their hardest to get Grandma back but it was just her time to die.

It is an enormous responsibility, one not to be taken lightly. For generations people will talk about us when they get together. How we act lives long after the act itself is over.

http://proems.blogspot.com/2009/09/ems-20-bernoulli-fluid-dynamics-and.html

I disliked my last post so much I couldn’t wait to get a new one up. Lo and Behold, Life Under the Lights comes through.  I’m spoiled, I work for a Fire Department EMS system. A lot of people do exactly what I do without the benefit, (or some think the detriment) of the fire department.

It’s a good post, and nice to think we may be making a difference.

While you are there, check out the latest edition of The Handover, it is definitely worth it!

A guys wife has had four seizures since midnight. It’s four a.m. She’s sitting in a chair in their living room, unaware. We get the stair chair ready and carry her out of their home and into the rescue.

“She goes to Miriam.”

She’s having seizures. The closest hospital is Rhode Island, we’ll take her there.”

“She goes to Miriam.”

“Not tonight.”

The ride is uncomfortable. He glares at me all the way. She begins to seize. He looks at me as though I caused this. For some unknown reason I feel the need to explain the situation to him. Miriam is ten minutes away, Rhode Island three. I’m sure we would make it to Miriam without any harm to the patient, but sometimes you have to go on princable. Rhode Island and Miriam are one. The same doctors, the same record keeping system, the same company. There was no wait at either facility at this hour.

It’s odd, how a person can be angry at somebody who rushes to their house in the middle of the night, carries their wife out the door, onto a stretcher and into a rescue, gives her oxygen, starts an IV, assesses her vital signs, administers medication to help with the seizure and gets her to a world class hospital in less than thirty minutes from the time he made the call.

I love this job, and get paid well to do it, but some people…

I wasn’t sure what to expect when Eric, the producer/director of Phantazma pictures invited me for lunch to discuss progress on Rescuing Providence, The Movie. (title still to be determined, suggestions welcome…spoiler alert, the story has a Christmas theme)

We met at DiCarlo Trattoria, a beautiful restaraunt located in Smithfield, RI. I strongly recommend the place. The purpose for the meeting was to discuss the script, what that meant I had no idea, I was concerned that my vision might not coincide with Eric’s, and wasn’t looking forward to getting into a creative struggle right from the start.

Instead of the creative struggle, the opposite occurred. For  hours we went back and forth, scene by scene, Eric describing the story from a cinematic perspective, me from an emotional level. I was able to start learning how better to tell a story visually rather than with words. I’ll never be an expert at it, but it will be a great learning experience for me to work with Eric, and I hope the opposite holds true.

One thing that struck me was Eric’s innate understanding of the job we do. Also, his desire to get into my head and bring out the very best I have and put it into the script is refreshing. I can get a bit lazy, he won’t allow that. Our desire is to make not just a nice little movie about EMT’s and firefighters, but to create something great.

“WHAT?”

“What are you doing down there?”

“SPEAK UP!”

I leaned closer to her ear.

“I SAID, WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE?”

“”WATCHING THE TELEVISION!”

The was no TV in the room, just another elderly patient suffering from dementia. Ethel was on her back, a four inch laceration over her left eye, dried blood all over her face. Bruising had already begun, the sickly yellow color a sharp contrast to her milky white skin.

“We’re going to take you to the hospital,” I said as the guys got the backboard and corrar ready.

“I’M IN THE HOSPITAL!” she said.

“Well, we’re taking you to a different hospital then.”

“GOOD! THE FOOD HERE IS LOUSY!”

Without furthur ado we left the place. I looked at the interagency report on the way to the ER. She had been living at the same place for five years. Dementia is difficult for family and friends, I’m not sure how bad it is for the patients.

I’d been to the house a few times, saw the layout, visualized how we would get her out when she died. I hoped it would be peacefully, in her sleep. Then, the coroner could come, or the funeral home people and remove her from her home with some dignity. Sadly, that was not the case.

At 0930 we received the call; a woman not breathing. I knew the address was familiar, when we approached the mental images flooded into my mind. A wheelchair. An obese woman. A tracheotomy and colostomy bag. Diabetic supplies, needles, insulin bottles, blood glucose monitors, cotton balls, donuts. The doorway, narrow. The family, equally as large, equally in denial, empty pizza boxes, candy, everything that shouldn’t be but was.

The guys from Engine 11 had started CPR in the doorway, I struggled over the patient, checked the defibrillator pads, had them halt CPR, waited for the machine to do its job.

No Shock Advised.

Cpr continued, a backboard was brought into the apartment, she was rolled on her side and strapped down, chest compressions done to the best of our ability throughout, airway maintained, IV’s attempted. I had my new partner, Ryan get the intubation equipment prepared and the back of the truck ready as we carried her out. The stretcher groaned, but held.

Inside the truck, daughter standing outside, lost, crying, afraid. I closed the door, she stared at the truck, unable to move. The intubation attempt was unsuccessful, IV access not obtained. All we could do was CPR and rapid transport. I looked out the rear window, the solitary figure of a girl, the same size as her dying mother filled the opening at first, but shrank the further we travelled, until she disappeared.

We tried. All the way to the ER, six IV attempts failed. When there is no pump to fill the veins other than chest compressions done in back of a speeding truck the chance of a successful stick is minimal. Another ET attempt failed, this time my own. I visualized the vocal cords, had everything in place but the tube just wouldn’t advance.

“Keep doing cpr, try to keep the airway open and save whatever braincells she has in case they revive her.”

It was akin to surrender but there is little we can do without proper IV access or a tube to administer meds. The ride was over before I knew it, the patient delivered to the Medical team that had assembled. I gave the story to the attending, apologizing for the lack of IV or tube, he put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, looked at the patient and said we did a good job.

Somehow, they got a heartbeat. She was on a respirator when I walked out. I saw her daughter in the distance, in front of the  family services office. For a moment I considered walking the long corridor and offering some comfort, but it just seemed too far.

Anybody who has worked for more than a few years in EMS is well aware of the socialist tendancy of our services. As the debate in Washington rages on, the left supporting healthcare reform, the right satisfied with the status quo, we continue to provide “free” transportation for marginally ill people to the nations emergency rooms.

I often wonder how things have gotten so out of control. People call 911 for a ride to the ER while their family waits, driveway full of cars, then follow us to the hospital. Once we arrive at their home, more often than not, the patient informs us of his hospital of choice, then is surprised and indignant when I inform him or her I’ll gladly take them to the closest hospital to treat their emergency, if they need to get to the hospital of choice they will have to arrange other transportation.

A lot of people find this disturbing. “Just do your job,” I’ve heard more than once.

My job, I think, is to respond to emergencies, and treat and transport seriously ill people to the appropriate medical facility. It is not, at least for the time being, a taxi service.

What is next? A three digit phone call for free rides to the grocery store because a person is hungry?

In case you are considering this post more grumbling by a disgruntled employee, consider this litany of nonsence from the weekend: 

Difficulty Swallowing (no allergic reaction)

Ten Year Old “out of control”

Emotional twenty-four year old male whose broke up with his boyfriend

Twenty-two year old female with a tooth infection

Seventy year old who needs medication refilled

Intoxicated male in bed at home seeking detox

Blood pressure needs to be “checked.”

MVA in parking lot, zero damage, barely moving vehicles, three occupants boarded and collared, transported to the ER

Two year old female with a fever 101.

The patent’s insurance company, or in most cases here, the government is billed anywhere from $350.00 to more than a thousand depending on the length of the ride and treatment.

There has to be a better way.

One of my favorite bloggers, The Happy Medic offers some great advice for disaster preparedness on his site

http://yourhappymedic.blogspot.com/2009/09/disaster-plan-supplies_15.html

Methinks I’m going to take his advice, one never knows what lurks.

Nestled between free rides to the hospital for routine medical care an occasional gem slips through.

“My heart is racing.”

I put her on the monitor. 180. Racing indeed. We started an IV, put her on oxygen, instructed her to “bear down.” Nothing worked. I got 6 mg. of Adenosine ready, John filled a 20 ml syringe with normal saline.

“You’re going to feel strange,” I said to her. She nodded her head. I attatched the medication to the IV line, looked at John, pinched the line and pushed. John followed immediately with the flush.

Her rhythm slowed, down to 140 but shot back up.

“We’re going to try that again,”

She closed her eyes and waited. We repeated the procedure. I waited for the flat line but it never appeared, just a slow, steady sinus rhythm. It leveled off at 100.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.”

Making people feel better. That is what it’s all about.

It’s a long ride, even at full speed, in the middle of the night, lights and sirens blaring through  the empty streets. A call for an infant not breathing is a nightmare. Ghosts of prior fatalities, the littlest ones, climb on board and take the ride with us, their blue faces and eerily cold, stiff bodies right there in the front of the cab, keeping us company. Protocols, procedures and a plan how best to deal with distraught parents make room for the memories as the destination nears.

The fire company arrives first, their own ghosts following them to the third floor. They are rushing, one after the other, running up the steps toward their patient. The rescue stops in front of the house, we get out and follow.

I’m sorry if we weren’t all laughter and smiles when we saw your beautiful daughter sitting on your lap, breathing normally, perhaps a little sniffle, fully dressed and waiting for a ride to the ER for free medication. Sorry if we disturbed your sense of entitlement when the fire guys voiced their displeasure at your inability to communicate. Sorry that learning to speak the language of your new country is low on your list of priorities.

Next time get your story strait before setting things in motion. or find somebody who can.

They looked alike, maybe father and son, maybe brothers, I couldn’t tell. Turns out they weren’t related, just good friends. Veterans of the Iraq war. The older guy had called us to take care of his friend, a thirty-year old guy suffering from PTSD.

They stood as we approached, not sure what the future held. I opened the passenger door and walked toward them, also unsure what to expect. Two guys sitting on the steps of an old building in Roger Williams Park at three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon could need a number of things, usually detox.

“Did you guys call 911?”

The younger of the two looked down. He had been crying. His friend explained.

“I’ve been talking to him all day but he can’t stop crying. I think he wants to kill himself.”

The young guy looked miserable. I helped him into the rescue, his friend walked away without saying goodbye.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He handed me his VA card.

“I can’t keep it together. Nothing works. I can’t keep a job, I haven’t seen my daughter, I just want to go home.”

“Where is home?”

“North Carolina.”

He showed me his shoulder, the scars from small arms fire recently healed. They put the body back together, the mind is slow to follow. During the ten minute ride to the VA I learned a lot about him, sometimes strangers have a way of communicating that is more intimate than the closest of friends. It’s safer talking to people you don’t know and probably will never see again.

He did most of the talking, he needed somebody to listen. His story was all too familiar. Once discharged from active service the world outside the military isn’t always the kindest place. The Northeast isn’t always the kindest place. Iraq definitely wasn’t the kindest place.

I told him it’s okay to get on with his life. His emotional wounds would never fully heal, but a good life was possible in spite of what he had survived. Medication, therapy and communicating would help, and there is nothing wrong with any of those things, just tools, or in his view weapons to be used against the potentially deadly enemy he faced.

I’m not sure if he heard me, or remembered anything I said, but I felt a lot better knowing I was able to make our short time together tolerable for him, at least for a little while.

I walked with him into the VA. Without looking up from her computer screen the secretary asked, “Last four.”

He told her. She put the last four numbers of his social security number into the system and told him to take a seat.

“Rescue 1, respond to the soccer field for a twenty-one year old male laying in a silver van complaining of leg cramps.”

“Leg cramps?” I said to myself.

“Laying in a van?” I said to myself.

“Rescue 1 responding,” I said into the radio.

Our patient was indeed laying on the back seat of the college’s athletic transport van, motor idling, waiting for the “paramedics” to administer an IV and fluids to alleviate the cramping legs.

“He needs an IV right away,” said the athletic director, a tiny woman who knelt on the floor of the van massaging the players legs.

“He’s already getting what he needs.” I couldn’t help myself.

“He played 110 minutes, he’s dehydrated,” she said, rubbing his calves.

“I’ve worked 110 hours, I’m dehydrated,” again, I couldn’t help myself.

Ryan brought the stretcher over to the side door of the van, the player couldn’t move. We got a backboard to make our lives easier and got him into the rescue.

“We’re taking him to the hospital,” I told the trainer.

“He just needs IV fluids, can’t you just do it here?”

People honestly believe that the City of Providence has unlimited resources, can dispatch an advanced life support rescue to a soccer field to administer IV fluids to a soccer player while true emergencies are tended to by all the other rescues that are sitting around waiting for something to do. As I tended to our patient, the people at Fire Alarm were on the phone trying to find rescues from neighboring communities to answer the calls that keep on coming.

We started an IV and headed toward the ER. The trainer came with us, followed by the van. They were not happy with our response. Neither was I.

The plan was to go to the beach and enjoy one of the last brilliant days of summer. Instead, we sat in front of the TV, shaking our heads when we could move them, calling friends and family and just feeling numb. An eerie silence smothered my neighborhood as the day progressed, the crystal clear air and eighty degree tempature seeming to mock the dismal mood that permeated my surroundings. The state airport half a mile away might as well have been a desert, nothing stirred, no low hum of planes taxiing, no roar of jet engines whining before the roar of takeoff, no noise, no movement, nothing but the sound of bugs and birds, and the occasional car as it passed on the main road, half a mile away.

When I could, I tore myself away from the television screen, the first tower had fallen, followed by the second some time later. The time between is lost to me, my memories flash them collapsing in quick succession.

“We just lost hundreds of firefighters,” I said to my wife as we watched the tragedy unfold.

“Surely they weren’t still inside,” she replied, horror and emotion choking the words.

“They were.”

Some things you just know.

I stood in the doorway of my garage, listening to the silence, hoping for the roar of a plane taking off, an F-16, A B-52, A Blackhawk…anything as long as it were headed over there, where, I had no idea but felt certain Washington knew, but the same deafening silence filled the quiet streets. I crossed my arms, shook my head and stood there. unable to move.

In the corner, leaning against a bunch of hockey sticks and a broom, was my salvation. I walkled closer, stood there for a moment, really seeing it for the first time, even though I put it out every Forth of July, Memorial and Veterans day and some others if I remembered. I was only paralysed for a moment, then took action. It was a tiny bit of energy expelled on my part, a few steps, grasping the pole, unfurling the flag, putting it into the porcelain holder I had screwed into my garage years before and stepping back. Almost magically a breeze, one of the very few that blew that day pushed past my home, opening the flag in it’s full glory, waving, then resting. That small act made me feel a lot better about things and I silently thanked those who have fought and died so that I had the opportunity to perform my private ceremony, thus mourning the lost and re-kindling my patriotic spirit that had lay dormant for years.

Later that day, I left for work, still stunned and shell shocked, my view of the world changed forever. I said goodbye to Cheryl, lingering a little longer than usual, both of us realizing how precious our lives really are. In a daze I drove the usual route, past the homes, through Pawtuxet Village, into Cranston eventually arriving in Providence.

Of all the things about that day I will “Never Forget,” the hundreds of American Flags that magically appeared along my route remain the most vivid. On doorways, utility poles, storefronts, from car windows, everywhere I could see the red white and blue flew proudly.

The best part of it all is nobody told us to do it, it hadn’t become fashionable yet, it just was. There were a lot of private ceremonies going on that day, I didn’t know it but I was never alone when I stood in my garage and planted the flag proudly on my home.

I will “Never Forget” those that perished that day, especially the firefighters, EMT’s and police officers that answered the call for help.

And as my ride to work on September 11th, 2001 showed me, neither will anybody else.

The old lady on the stretcher slipped in and out of consciousness as we rode toward the hospital. Her daughter leaned over from the bench seat, stroking her mother’s forhead and holding her hand. I felt like an intruder, sitting behind them in the Captain’s seat, filling out the report but they didn’t seem to mind my presence, their bond stronger than anything I ever felt.

The lady in the stretcher was nearing the end of her life, eighty-one years old and not in the best of health. This would be her third trip to the hospital this month, she has been passing out and falling for no reason. Her daughter looked intently into her mothers eyes as we rode. Letting a parent go is never easy, my own mother suffered a major stroke at age fifty-six and lingered for another nine years in a nursing home, never regaining her sense of self.

I stopped writing and watched the two interact. It occurred to me that the twenty-five or so years that were stolen from my mother and me could have been time to heal old wounds, get to know each other and enter into a more adult relationship. I envied the opportunity these two had but was happy for them as well.

An hour earlier I took another elderly person from his home, also accompanied by a daughter. They too had that special bond. She helped him walk to the rescue; he insisted even though his weakend legs barely held him up. The daughter was able to take care of the father now, and he let her, grateful for the assistance.

My own father died when I was twenty-eight. I had barely grown up, tried to be there for him during his year long battle with cancer, and did the best I could, but I now know that at twenty-eight the best I could do wasn’t nearly as good as I could do now that I’ve lived and experienced life for twenty more years. Father and daughter rode together in my truck, comfortable in each other’s presence as I sat alone behind them.

Funny what runs through your mind when you least expect it. Although fall is my favorite time of year the evidence of our mortality must sink in to my subconscious mind as flowers die, leaves get tired and days get shorter. It isn’t a bad thing, it actually makes me appreciate the time I have here and now and puts a little urguncy in the way I handle my relationships with the people who mean the world to me.

Zack just called, somebody got murdered in front of Crossroads. Nothing he could do this time, just declare the man dead and move on to the next one. The city had been quiet for an hour or two, then something happened. I swear a pulse or something unseen permeates the atmosphere at times and drives people to do insane things. As Zack leaned over a man who had his head split open with a machete’ I sat in the back of Rescue 1 on the way to Miriam with a man who had just tried to kill himself with a knife and Theresa and John at Rescue 5 treated another suicidal knife weilding patient.

Six hours to go. Except for a few hours I’ve been here since Friday, dozens of calls, a few emergencies, little sleep.

As always, thanks for reading, see you in a couple of days.

 Broad Street Bullies,

E-10, L-5

They are worn out, neglected and in disrepair. Some are nestled in the neighborhoods, others on the main street. To us, it’s home. For the People of Providence, an oasis in time of need.                                                                                                                                                                 

Friday night, 1700 hrs. During a family birthday party a couple of kids clunk heads. One of the boys, a three year old named Harris feels a little dizzy. He goes to the bathroom and closes the door. Five minutes later his mom checks on him. The boy is semi-conscious. She picks the limp body off the toilet and carries him into the living room.

Atwells Avenue, R-6, E-14, L-6

The Big Apple

He starts to seize.

Rochambeau Avenue, E-4

Not knowing what to do they carry him to the car and start toward the emergency room. Harris is now unconscious, shaking uncontrollably. The mother speeds toward the ER, panicking.

E-11, DOT

The Outpost

Half way there The Broad Street Fire Station comes into view. Ladder 5 had just returned from a call, the overhead door is open. She speeds onto the ramp and stops just before crashing into the building. Four firefighters rush to the car, see the panicked woman and find the child actively seizing in the back seat. One calls fire alarm to request a rescue, the others bring him into the station, lay him on a table and begin to treat him.

                                                                                                                       Messer Street, E-8, L-2, Battalion 2

                                                                                                                       The Screaming Eagles

The station may be old and falling apart, not the firefighters. Well, they are old, but definitely not falling apart. The guys from Engine 10 join the effort as the patient is given oxygen, an IV established, vital signs assessed and kept safe from further injury.

I arrived on scene five minutes later to find a patient with an IV , vital signs taken and his breathing being assisted with a bag valve device. More family members arrive, some panicking, others trying to help. The firefighters kept things under control while we put the little guy in a cervical collar and immobilize him the best we could considering the seizure activity.                                                                                                                                             

Joe and Paul from the 10′s continued patient care leaving me free to form a cohesive narrative to relay to the ER staff at Hasbro Children’s Hospital. Having competent people in every neighborhood in the city in times of emergency is vital.

Mt. Pleasant Avenue, E-15 

Brook Street, E-9, L-8  

Enroute to the ER I alerted the medical team.

Humbolt Ave, E-5

“This is Providence Rescue 1, I have a three year old male, unconscious, assisting ventilations at this time, actively seizing following a blow to the head, 148/110 heart rate of 140, blood glucose 110. Patient bumped heads with his coisin approximately twenty minutes ago, ETA three minutes.”

We arrived at the ER and went directly to the Trauma Room where all the necessary people waited. I told the story again and backed out.

 The boy was admitted that night and held for observation. His family stayed by his side the entire time.

These old places may be falling apart but there is a lot of heart in each and every one of them. And to the people who need us, there is no better place on earth.

Allens Avenue, R-1, E-13

The Wharf Rats

Washington Street, E-3, L-1, Special Hazards and R-4

Hartford Avenue, E-6, R-2

Admiral Street, E-12, L-3

I guess you could say I’m a fan of fire department based EMS. If only we had five more rescues, things would be perfect. Almost.

Eighteen years now, where’d they go, eighteen years…I don’t know.

Like a Rock

Thanks Tom Kenney, lieutenant, E-15

Author of Working Class Hero

http://theprovidencefireman.blogspot.com/

“She’s out of control.”

Five feet tall, one hundred pounds soaking wet, beautiful and twenty-five, how bad could it be? She had tried to go to a popular nightclub in the Silver Lake section of Providence. Showed her money, hugged the bouncer and staggered in the doorway. They wouldn’t let her in. She threw her cell phone and thirty bucks at the bouncer, started screaming. Security got involved, couldn’t control her and called for police and rescue. We arrived before the cops. She was all over the security guard at this time, hugging him, all luvvy duvvy.

“She’s all yours,” he said.

“I’ll handle this,” I said to Ben, my partner for the night. “I speak the language of love.”

I figured my Sesame Street Spanish, boyish good looks and uniform would be all I needed to tame this wild Spanish dynamo. The Spanish speaking Security Guard looked doubtful, Ben shrugged and stood to the side.

“What are they saying, anyway?” I asked Ben, who is fluent in Spanish.

“He’s telling her she’s too drunk to enter, she says she wants to party, he says she can party tomorrow, she wants to stay.

“I’m all over this.”

“Ola, mami,” I said, big smile on my face. “Estas Buena mama sota!”

I think I said hello, lady, you look very beautiful. She looked me in the eye, got all silent for a moment, broke free from the security guard and opened a full assault of the boyshly charming Spanish speaking idiot who stood in front of her. Fortunately, my cat-like reflexes are still intact, I sidestepped a few punches, dodged the spit, stepped away from the kicks and ran away.

“Stupid ugly American!” she shouted as Ben grabbed her and kept her away from me.

“I thought you didn’t speak English,” I said, keeping my distance.

“Want me to take over?” asked Ben.

Within a minute he had her on the stretcher, calm as can be and cooperating. She was getting very friendly, I called for assistance. It’s never a good idea to transport a single intoxicated aggressive female alone in the back of a rescue.

Engine 6 arrived, Ed got in back with the wildwoman and Ben, and I drove.  It’s been a while since I had been behind the wheel, and I wasn’t too familiar with Rescue 2′s district. Being a cagey veteran I radioed our mileage before leaving the scene, no sense leaving anything to chance.

“Rescue 2 to fire alarm, transporting an intoxicated female to Rhode Island Hospital, mileage 216112.

“Message recieved rescue 2, to Rhode Island.”

I left the scene, took what I thought to be a shortcut through the neighborhood and promptly got lost in the maze. Two miles later I reappeared on the main road, found the highway and delivered our prize to the ER.

I transmitted our ending mileage to fire alarm and hid in the front while the guys finished the job.

If nothing else, things like this keep me humble!

We drove past the building where a man jumped to his death yesterday. I looked at the place, counted the floors and focused on the window I thought to be the one he jumped out of. I played it over in my mind, just as Zack told the story to me yesterday, minutes after he brought the patient, still breathing then, into the trauma room.

“We got there first,” Zack explained, “the people in the lobby told me his wife had him but couldn’t hold on much longer.”

“Where were the cops?” I asked.

“Not there yet, I went alone. As soon as I opened the door to the apartment he went nuts, started throwing things at me, bottles, chairs anything he could get his hands on.”

“What did you do?”

“I had to back out. He wasn’t attacking his wife, but I set him off. The window was open, I didn’t think he would jump…”

The incident was twenty minutes old at this time. Not enough time to sort things out, the emotions too raw. Zack runs Rescue 4, located downtown on the same group as me. We’ve worked together for nearly eight years now. They call people like me and Zack Black Clouds. We just seem to get a lot of the horrible calls.

“He could have taken you with him,” I said, bringing Zack back.

“I could have stopped him.”

And so it goes, another piece taken from the armor of one of the best rescue guys in Providence.

Anti-labor sentiment is on the rise, especially toward those in municipal unions. Figured I would dust this off in honor of labor day:

From Anchor Rising, February 3, 2008

“I grew up in a union household. My father belonged to the IBEW until he was promoted and took a job in management, taking with him the morality and ethics of his union membership. I remember my uncle, Bill, proudly wearing his Teamsters cap. Uncle Ron was a Warwick cop. Brian was president of his union at Rhode Island College. We would spend summer days at their homes, surrounded by family, the American flag always flying, either on a flagpole or attached to the house, the red, white, and blue flew proudly.

Modest homes meticulously kept, hard work, and an ability to enjoy the fruits of their labor and share them with friends and family was all they wanted. Uncle Bill was a WWII vet, my father a Navy signal man during the Korean War. Brian served in the Air Force during the Viet Nam War. They lived, and live, good, honest lives, are fiercely proud of their country, and fought for the freedoms we now enjoy. Union members. Not everybody in my family, but those I remember most.

My brother, Bob, just returned from Iraq. 500 days. Another union man. Myself, a firefighter in Providence. Union. We are living in the shadow of our uncles and father, and it is my belief we have made them proud.

Some of our union leaders have let us down, just as some of our elected officials have let us down. Politics is a cutthroat business, and like it or not, everything is political. Those that have risen to the top of our ranks thrive in that arena; most of us would rather do our jobs, do them well, and live our lives. We need people in positions of power for us to do that.

Relentless media attacks have insulated the union ranks. An us-against-them attitude prevails. Gone are the days when a union worked with management in a respectful, productive atmosphere. Maybe that never existed; I don’t know. “Gold Plated Benefits, Feeding at the Public Trough, Picking Our Pockets,” and on and on. “Socialists, communists, serving the weak, protecting the incompetent…,” enough already.”

http://www.anchorrising.com/barnacles/005314.html

(If you have a few minutes the comments following this post perfectly illustrate the necessity of labor unions)

The Governor of the State of Rhode Island has gone to the national airwaves to justify his descision to shut down state government for twelve days this year. State revenues are down as our tourist industry bears the weight of a struggling economy. The state coffers are empty. Aid to cities and towns are on the chopping block as well.

Again, union members are asked to give “their share” back to the community. The taxpayers need a break, the logic goes, the unions must make concessions. “It’s only fair.”

How is it “fair” that a segment of the population make contractual concessions for years, give back here and there and everywhere, then take twelve days off without pay? If every  adult in Rhode Island were to write a check equal to what municipal union members have already given back our budget problems would be over.

I hereby relinquish my soapbox for the rest of the day, you may go in peace. Thanks for listening. Enjoy the weekend, it’s going to be a beauty here in Rhode Island.

http://www.projo.com/news/content/STATE_EMPLOYEES_SPEAK_09-05-09_HBFKCHT_v13.2f396b8.html

http://money.cnn.com/2009/08/24/news/economy/healthcare_911_abuse/

One of the better “Abuse of 911″ stories I’ve seen in a while.

Thanks Jon.

We helped him out of his wheelchair, onto the stretcher and into the back of Rescue 1. His mom stepped in and sat on the bench seat.

“What’s your name, buddy,” I asked.

“David,” answered Mom and David.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” (David)

“His stomach hurts.” (Mom)

I moved from the Captains chair and sat next to David’s mom, directly across from him.

“What’s wrong, David?”

“I haven’t gone to the bathroom in three days.” His dark skin actually turned red.

Strange how thirteen year old boys have difficulty telling strangers about private matters.

“You know, David, everybody shits.”

He laughed and relaxed a little.

“Not me.”

“Why are you in that wheelchair?” I asked.

“Muscular Dystrophy.”

He was born with it. Up until a year ago everything was fine, then the pain and weakness set in. There is no cure. He will die from his disease, long before he should.

“It’s not that bad,”  he said, and smiled at his mom who was near tears.

This weekend, do us all a favor, and “Fill the Boot.”

Thank you.

One good thing about the new blog is I get to show off my stuff while experimenting with picture posting and such.

The beauty on the left is an Ibanez copy of a Gibson Les Paul. Big deal, you say. Well, allow me to elaborate. In 1976 Ibanez released their version of the Les Paul. It was exactly like the Gibson. Gibson sued Ibanez and ultimately won, forcing Ibazez to halt production. A very limited number were produced in black and white. I’ve had mine since ’76.

The one on the right is a Martin, 000C-16GTE. A lovely instrument, I picked it up a few years ago after working some ungodly amount of overtime. (Don’t tell the Martin, I actually prefer my Seagul, S-16)

That little amp is a Pignose. It runs on batteries. I can take it anywhere and get a fairly decent sound out of it. The other little amp is a Crate practice amp. I got it because I’m tired of playing with wires and spending an hour setting up pedals, distortion, chorus, flange and delay are built in. The effects don’t sound as good as the old way, I especially miss my Marshall Stack with the 100 amp head.

Rest assured I am the only one who misses the amp that stayed on 11.

Vacation is officially over at 0700 hrs, tomorrow. More fun and adventure fromm the capitol city is sure to follow!

“What happened to you?”

He stood by the side of the road, his scalp nearly torn from his head, blood cascading down his face, a few fingers appeared broken along with his nose.

“I got hit by a car.”

The woman who stood by him, a pretty twenty-five year old shivered as the warm night air blew down Atwells Avenue toward Olneyville. She was confused, maybe intoxicated, I couldn’t tell. Another rescue was called while I treated the alleged pedestrian struck.

“Everybody says you were driving the car the took out two poles and a tree and landed on its roof.”

“I was hit by a car.”

“Whatever.”

Three blocks up the road emergency crews were busy cleaning up the wake of the “pedestrian struck,” drunken tour of the neighborhood. An expensive car lie on its side, three of the five occupants being transported to the trauma rooms. The driver had already been identified as the guy now boarded and collared in my truck.

“So, what happened?”

“I told you, I got hit by a car.”

“Everybody else is telling me you were driving the car that nearly killed four people and the driver.”

“Wasn’t me.”

We started a few IV’s, started him on 02, stopped the blood loss, the bottoms of my shoes were covered, and took him in. At the hospital the cops waited. I told them what I knew, the guy continued to deny any responsibility. It really was pathetic.

I am in no way  condoning intoxicated driving, but people do it all the time. Most get away with it, wake up the next day and do it all over again. Some get caught, weaving between the lines or whatever, others crash their vehicles into trees or drive off the road, others go up on ramps the wrong way and kill innocent people. A few go to prison for the same crime a big part of the population is guilty of at one time or another but was fortunate enough to get away with. Some die.

Others are fortunate enough to get behind the wheel, full of arrogance, put four other people’s lives in jeopardy and drive like an an idiot with zero regard for anybody but themselves and take out a tree and a pole, flip the car, nearly have their head removed but walk away.

The police left the hospital. I asked if they were going to lock the guy up when he was released from the hospital.

“We’re not pressing charges, no evidence.”

If you must drive drunk, do it in Providence.