This month’s Handover is being hosted by Mack at Notes From Mosquito Hill. Stop by and have a look, you’ll be glad you did!

http://notesfrommosquitohill.com/2010/02/the-handover-passion-edition.html#disqus_thread

Wish I’d thought of this years ago. I’ve contacted THE GOVERNMENT, expect to see my sign everywhere within a couple of weeks.

DO NOT CALL 911 FOR ANY REASON OTHER THAN LIFE THREATENING EMERGENCIES.

PERIOD.

Highlights from last week.

Mother calls 911 because her four children have abdominal pain. Coincidentally, she lives 1/2 mile from hospital and called from HER mother’s house, three miles from hospital.

Thirty year old male had a headache.

Twenty two year old female had a toothache.

Forty year old male scraped his hand, wanted antibiotics.

Two year old vomited. Once.

Numerous no damage MVA’s, Dewey, Screwem’ and Howe suggest immobilization and transport via 911 to nearest appropriate trauma center, even though there were no injuries.

Emotional sixteen year old female having cramps.

I could go on, and on, and on…but I think you get the message.

His skin was gray, eyes bleary, shoulders hunched and as stubborn as a mule. Forty-four years old, wearing a denim apron flecked with gold specs thrown from the machine he was operating, obviously hurting. He saw me coming and focused on his work, much like an ostrich sticking his head into the sand.

“He passed out,” said the supervisor.  Twenty or so souls sat in the factory at six in the morning, their lunch pails nearby, fluorescent light casting shadows in the corners, boxes full of medallions and badges, waiting to be shipped. The workers kept working but would steal a glance in our direction now and then before re-focusing on the machines that could easily lop off a finger or two, or crush a hand if not careful.

“He’s new here. He’s got to go to the hospital,” said the boss as the patient vehemently shook his head no and tried to keep working.

“Tell him we have to take him to the truck to run some tests,” I asked an interpreter, an older gentleman that barely understood me but managed to convey the message in Portuguese. Spanish and Portuguese are similar, but not enough for me to make any sense of the conversation.

After the usual negotiations my patient reluctantly agreed to come along, giving in to his new boss’s glare and my persistence.

“I stay,” he said. “I need to work.”

He had worked for twenty-three years in a nearby factory, sitting at the same machine, doing the same job, never complaining, meeting his quota. A good honest man making a living.

The factory closed last week. The bank put a lock on the door, no warning to the people whose livlihood depended on the factory and emptied the place out.

Jewelry is big business in Rhode Island, casting, plating, design and finishing companies once flourished here. Now, only the strong have survived. Empty factory buildings line the once vibrant streets in the Jewelery District. Some have been converted into trendy nightclubs or fashionable lofts, but most sit empty, ghosts of their former selves, hollow shells covered with graffiti and filled with rats.

In a previous life I tended bar in one of the best Italian restaurants in Rhode Island. The owner of the closed factory was a good customer. He and his family stopped by a couple of times a month, drank the best wine, ordered the best meals and left the best tips. Good people, enjoying the fruit of their labor. His company was his pride and joy, and he spent long hours there making it successful.

I helped cater a few parties at his house. I always felt at home there, even though I was hired to do a job. Mercedes Benz vehicles littered the garages, gardens, swimming pools and every luxury you could imagine filled the property, a three acre lot with a giant house in the middle.

Gone now.

The man in my truck was almost gone as well. His blood pressure had spiked to 230/150 in one arm, 240/140 in the other. He said he had a headache but had to keep working, there were no jobs, he was lucky to get the one he had and was afraid to lose it.

I don’t know what saddened me more, the patient’s medical condition, his employment condition or the condition of a friend from long ago whose fortunes had changed.

We took the factory worker to the hospital, hoping he could be fixed. I’m not so sure about the factory owner.

Saturday morning, 10:00. Twelve calls last night, two so far today. Ten yesterday. Seven hours to go. An overdose, heart attack, numerous drunks, a fall or two and a guy who smashed himself in the head with an ax three times before stabbing himself with a key hole saw and slashing his wrists with a razor knife. Those are a few of the calls I remember. MVA’s, maternity’s and kids with fevers filled out the rest.

10:01, gunshots. Rescue 1 and Engine 10 staged at Elmwood and Ontario. Cops speed past. Private auto’s speed past. Two teenaged girls, one critical, the other shot in the arm and shoulder taken to the ER.

10:10, a man jumps to his death from the Crossroads building, narrowly missing the crowd he fell in front of. How he missed I’ll never know.

10:15, a man attacks his girlfriend’s sister with an ashtray and vase, splitting their heads open, blood everywhere, hysterical family members gone mad.

The day goes on, a man gets third degree burns to his legs trying to stamp out a fire that he started.

An elderly lady with the first signs of Alzheimer’s worries she is going downhill. Her blood pressure, normally normal is 225/120, then 230/130 with weakness and facial droop. I don’t think she’ll have to worry about the Alzheimers.

A guy on a bike is struck by a car, at least thirty stitches and some plaster to put him back together.

I left at five. I was full.

Twenty-four hours from now I’ll do another thirty-eight hours.

Maybe things will quiet down.

At least it’s quiet here, at home.

“It appears we have an open and shut case, Mr. Watson! We’re being sent to Pekin Street for a man who has stopped taking his medications.”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, a quick ride to the hospital and back in service.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson! Tally Ho!”

“There sir, standing by the side of the road. That must be our patient!”

“Of course, Mr. Watson. Who but a man out of medication would be standing outside at two in the morning.”

Watson wheeled the vehicle next to our man.

“You sir! Are you in need of assistance?”

The man, an impeccably dressed forty-four year old walked toward us. He didn’t outwardly appear a lunatic, but Bedlam knows the criminally insane are are tricky lot.

“Let him in, Mr. Watson, and let’s get to work!”

“I’m having chest pain,” said our victim, seating himself on the stretcher.”

“Ah…chest pain. Is this a result of your not taking your medication?”

“I ran out.”

“And what, pray tell is this medication you ran out of?”

“I don’t know, pro..something.”

“Prozac?” I asked, fishing for clues.

“No. I had a heart attack last month. It’s for that.”

“Delusional,” I whispered to Mr. Watson as he prepared to inflate the cuff.

“Are you hearing voices?” I asked.

“No. I’m having chest pain.”

“Mr Holmes! Look here!” said Watson, pointing toward the monitor.

168/120 with a pulsox of 92%. The clues did not make sense. We were sent to this address for a man not taking his meds.

“Sir, I said, chomping on the end of my pipe. “Are these delusions causing your blood pressure to rise?”

“What delusions? I’m having chest pains. I had a heart attack last month.”

“Simply impossible. You’re three years younger than me, thin and vibrant. We were sent for an emotional male who isn’t taking his meds! It just doesn’t add up!”

“Mr. Holmes, perhaps I should look for more clues. A witness is at the door holding a bag of pills.”

“Elementary, Mr. Watson. Gather the clues and bring them to me.”

Mr. Watson returned, spilling the contents.

“Eurika! Plavix. Nitro. Prevastatin. Metoprolol.”

“Sir. These are heart medications! Are you sure your delusions are not actually  chest pains?”

“I had a heart attack last month. They did surgery, put a stent in.”

“It all adds up! Mr. Watson, We’ve got work to do! The game is afoot!”

We started an IV, administered aspirin, nitro and 02, ran an ekg and brought him in.

Another case solved and not a moment too soon!

What Should Have Happened:

An eighteen year old girl, an adult according to law, is admitted to the hospital for tests and follow up for severe abdominal pain. Initial tests lead the doctors to consider kidney stones. Days go by, the symptoms remain, the doctors reassess their initial diagnosis, order more tests and ultimately arrive at the correct diagnosis, treat the girl and send her home to fully heal.

What Could Have Happened:

The eighteen year old patient’s mother, unhappy with the delay in treatment and concerned with her daughter’s progress decides to find a second opinion at a different hospital.Dissatisfied but rational she arranges transportation to a different facility, or takes her child herself in the mini van. The patient is ultimately diagnosed, treated and sent home to heal, days later than if she had stayed in the first hospital but none the worse for wear.

What Might Have Happened:

The eighteen year-old patient’s mother, dissatisfied with hospital A decides to make a scene, drag her sick child out of bed, storm out of the hospital. call 911 and wait for the ambulance drivers to take her child to her hospital of choice. The ambulance drivers show up, spit and polished, calm the mother, carry the patient from the mini-van to the ambulance, start an IV, administer oxygen comfort her and take her to the next hospital.

What I wish Happened:

Rescue 1 responds for a woman ill at the door of Hospital A. Upon arrival they discover a very sick eighteen year old sitting in a mini-van, pale, diaphoretic and just plain looking awful, and an out of control mother outside of the mini-van demanding her daughter be taken to Hospital B.

The crew from Rescue 1 has the hysterical woman held by police for creating a public disturbance, takes the sick eighteen year old away from the chaos, puts her in the rescue and takes her to the emergency department of the same hospital.

What Actually Happened:

Rescue 1 responds to Hospital A. Hysterical woman demands to be taken to different hospital. Rescue 1 tells woman it’s a free country she can go where she wants.  Hysterical woman demands rescue 1 take her. Rescue 1 asks if shs is crazy, or something like that. The eighteen year old sits in the back of mini van, sick and miserable, waiting for somebody to put an end to this maddness. Mother decides to finish this, abruptly gets in the van, slams the door and speeds out of the hospital parking lot without her lights on.

Rescue 1 goes back in service.

Wish I had a Mulligan.

Overheard in Rescue 1 after a visit to the Coffee Exchange where the crew was completely ignored by the college girls behind the counter.

Lt:  “I don’t get it. They don’t give us the time of day. It wouldn’t kill them to be nice to us. Jeez, girls aren’t like they used to be. Why can’t they even crack a smile?”

Ryan:  “Because I’m fat and you’re fifty.”

Lt:  “Oh, that. carry on then.”

He looks so peaceful, sleeping comfortably, alone now, the bloody dressings and packaging cleaned up, the trauma team gone. The lights are out, dawn’s soft glow has yet to reach his room. What dreams run through his head, pleasant thoughts or drug filled nightmares? The stab wound that punctured a lung will heal in time. Maybe.

Two rooms down trauma alley another young person sleeps. The collar she wears keeps her broken neck in place. She too looks peaceful, oblivious to the chaos that surrounded her an hour ago, when she was taken from the East Side, boarded and collared and into the ER. Yesterday she went to her classes and was taught some lessons, but no lesson could have prepared her for the one that was coming her way.

The body of her friend is gone now, the life saving efforts in vain. He’s gone. His body is close, in the morgue, looking like he’s sleeping, and he is. Forever. They probably never saw the car that slammed into them.

In another room the police stand watch over another young man. He too sleeps, the alcohol in his system keeping him unconscious for now. The police, lawyers and Attorney General have been here already, and the sun has barely broken the horizon on another day in Providence.

From the Providence Journal (the link is broken, don’t know why, WordPress is on thin ice here at Rescuing Providence)

By Amanda Milkovits
Journal Staff Writer

PROVIDENCE, R.I. — The driver of an SUV that crashed into two Brown University students, killing one and injuring another, is under arrest on felony drunken driving charges.

The man, whose name has not yet been released, was charged Friday afternoon with driving under the influence, death resulting, and driving under the influence, serious bodily injury, said Lindsay Richardson, a spokeswoman for the Providence Police Department.

The man is expected to be arraigned at 4:30 p.m. at the station, said Michael J. Healey, a spokesman for the attorney general’s office.

The two Brown students were in a break-down lane at Hope and Thayer streets, by Barnes Street, just before 2 a.m. on Friday, when they were struck by a 2010 Subaru Forester, said Officer Thomas Connetta.

Avi Schaefer, 21, a freshman from Santa Barbara, Calif., was pronounced dead at Rhode Island Hospital, said Officer Tom Connetta. Marika Baltscheffsky, 19, an exchange student from Sweden, was treated at Rhode Island Hospital for serious injuries, and later released.

The driver and passenger of the car that struck them, whom the police have not identified, were not injured.

After the driver refused a test for alcohol, the police obtained a warrant to take blood samples to determine whether there was alcohol in his blood, said police Commander Paul Kennedy.

This is the first time that a new law allowing the police to compel motorists involved in serious or deadly crashes to undergo blood-alcohol testing, said assistant attorney general Stacey Veroni, chief of the criminal division.

Schaefer’s past experience serving in the Israel Defense Forces eventually led him to the Providence Police Department, where he told the chief he was interested in sharing his training in firearms.

Police Chief Dean M. Esserman said he first met the young man during the summer of 2008, when Schaefer was considering attending Brown University.

Schaefer returned again last fall and asked Esserman if he could meet with the department’s SWAT team.

Capt. Keith Tucker said Schaefer joined the SWAT team at the range several times in September and October, to talk about training and to shoot at the range.

“He was eager to share his knowledge and to share different ideas about Israeli army tactics versus American law enforcement,” Tucker said.

Esserman said he called Tucker after learning about Schaefer’s death and asked him to inform the SWAT team. “They were taken aback by it,” Esserman said. “To think of all he’d been through and seen” as a member of the Israel army. And then, the chief said, to die on the streets of Providence.

(This entry was first posted at 7:22 a.m. and updated at 12:53 p.m.)

Two miles from my home five people died in a fire. Horrible. You just never know.

http://newsblog.projo.com/#558615

May the victims rest in peace and the responders find the peace they need.

Fleas flutter around the sleeping man, landing on his face, his hands. Biting, then flying off.

“Rubin!” I say, crouching down. He’s sixty, looks seventy, wrinkled, tired and just about done.

Sixty. That’s longer than most of his kind last. Street people don’t have longevity. Tonight, Rubin is inside, lying on a flea infested air mattress at Crossroads, one of the states largest homeless shelters. It’s his home, where he lays his head at the end of his long days spent wandering the streets of Providence. They let him stay here, tucked away in the corner of the “day room,” along with anywhere from ten to 100 other homeless folks. At six or seven they are shown the door, left to their own devices. For some, that means looking for work. For most, it means looking for a high. Booze, heroin, crack, pills; whatever works. Rubin depends on vodka in little half pints.

“I’m sleeping,” says Rubin, “leave me alone.”

“They’re kicking you out.”

“Why?”

“Because you are intoxicated.”

He’s nearly always intoxicated.  I watch as he closes his eyes and falls back asleep, the fleas return to his face. I brush them off, he swipes at my hand, slowly, thinking I’m a giant flea. He misses, I pull a sleeping bag over his face and leave him where he lies.

The girl at the desk apologises for calling us, but she’s not going to be responsible for him if he gets sick. Or seizes. Or dies. I tell her to call us back if he wakes up and walk back to the truck.

It’s all in the shoes. They’re two years old now, worn in, or out, just right. And they need to go.

One more polish will get them through another tour, but I’m going to have to get some new ones.

Funny how old and tired my uniform looks now. Last time I wore it I didn’t give it a second thought, just something to wear to work. It’s nice being able to wear the same thing every day, no bad decisions made at the crack of dawn to regret for the rest of the day. Same colors, same routine. Nice.

I wonder when I stopped caring about the uniform. My Lieutenants bars are covered with oil from my fingertips. Just a little buff with a Kleenex will do. There, little thing but so important. I guess a little steam from the iron will put a little life back into this old shirt, going to have to put in for some new ones. Hope they arrive before the end of winter.

Dark socks. I had to wear white socks out of necessity a few times, ruined my day. Every time I sat down there they were, little white beacons at the bottom of my legs bringing attention to my giant feet, and my tired old shoes.

Not tomorrow, shiny shoes and black socks. And a freshly pressed uniform that’s going to last this time.

See you at 0700 hrs.,  bright and shiny.