Welcome to the new home of Rescuing Providence. Thanks as always for taking the time to visit. I’ve been bouncing the idea of joining FireEMS Blogs for a while, it just seemed like a good thing to do. It is my privilege and honor to be on the same network as The Happy Medic, Medic 999, A Day in the Life of an Ambulance Driver, Life Under the Lights, Pink, Warm and Dry and Street Watch. The people behind these blogs have at different times inspired me, motivated me, made me think, gave me hope, brought tears to my eyes and made me laugh out loud. Sometimes all in the same post!I feel a kinship with these people, as strong as some in my “real” world. I probably know them better than the people I’ve worked with for nearly twenty years.

I’m looking forward to spending the time necessary to get to know the authors of the other blogs on the network. I’ve visited all, and enjoyed the time spent there. It is nice to be is such good company. Of course, the blogs and websites that are not Fire/EMS related will continue to share equal ground here. I hope the Fire/EMS people who visit here take a look at my blogroll and and pay a visit now and then.

As for the content here, nothing will change. When something catches my attention, or sticks in my mind and won’t let go until I write it out, or if something happens that I just HAVE to share, then I will do so, as always. It’s very rewarding knowing somebody is listening. So thanks again.

A special thanks to Chris Hebert, who had the unenviable task of undoing four years worth of a mess created by a computer illeterate  stumblebum who made his blog a lot more difficult to run than it needed to be.

We love to eat. We love to cook. We love to visit the  stores, familiarize ourselves with the district, interact with the people we are paid to protect and contribute to the local economy. It’s one of the many great parts of the greatest job in the world.

Generations of firefighters have shared the experience of gathering around the table and breaking bread. Mealtime seldom goes smoothly, the job comes first, always. Many a masterpiece has sat on the dinner table, going cold, getting stale and dying of loneliness as the intended benefactors of the feast are occupied elsewhere. The meal is always a risk, but one well worth taking. It goes with the territory, and we all know it. Showing up for work is a risk. You just never know.

In bigger firehouses; those with two or more fire/rescue companies, the cooking duty is  rotated among the crews. Whoever is responsible for the meal simply adds that job to the normal routine. In between station maintenance, vehicle maintenance, personal maintenance, training and of course, the emergency calls,  shopping for and preparing lunch or dinner for the crew is accomplished.

We go together. From the moment we “relieve our man, or woman,” we are part of a team. The apparatus is only a tool, the people assigned to it make up the company. In an ideal situation, company integrity is never compromised. If three firefighters are assigned to a piece of apparatus, then three will be ready willing and able to go at all times. Some companies have four, or five firefighters assigned, or, in some cases, only two. Whatever the number, we go together and work as a team. And train as a team. And do our job, always the job, as a team.

We shop as a team. We take the truck. We park it in the store’s lot, and go in together. If  we are needed, we drop everything and go. The truck is never more than thirty seconds away. Luck is a fickle thing. Sometimes when a call comes in, we are actually in a better position when responding from wherever it is we are, a store, the training ground, clearing a different call, or simply familiarizing ourselves with our district. You just never know when or where we will be needed. Responding from quarters, responding from a store, or the highway doesn’t matter much, what does matter is that we are ready. And we always are.

When we are called away, the folks at the store put our stuff aside and wait for us to come back. Sometimes it only takes a few minutes. Sometimes it will be hours until we return. But we always return, and pay for our food. If the bill is forty dollars, and there are ten people to feed, we pitch in five bucks each. The extra is put aside, when it hits a hundred or so, we make something special. Those meals are normally saved for Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or Forth of July. If you happen to be working on your birthday, you might even get a cake. It’s nice to share a nice meal with your second family on the holidays. It makes being away from home bearable.

Every now and then a concerned citizen sees the firefighters in a local store, and decides enough is enough. He or she will call their Mayor, or Town Manager or whoever is in charge, or the local media and report the perceived abuse of taxpayer resources to the powers that be. The Mayor calls the Chief, the chief calls the Captains and the firefighters are told stop visiting the local markets. The firefighters still bring in food to prepare, still eat as a family and still respond to calls for help. The news media sometimes assigns a reporter to the “story.” More times than not, a positive outcome is achieved. Once people understand the tradition, camaraderie and civic responsibility that mealtime in the Firehouse promotes, the uproar dies down, the politicians and chiefs let their people back into the community and harmony is restored.

A few bad apples only ruin the bunch for a little while. And sometimes, those rotting apples can make a pretty good pie, as long as you get them before they go completely bitter.

On the way to Rehab-his sixth, he asked his dad to stop at the gas station/convenience store. Dads, being some of the more naive species known to man when it comes to trusting their kids, pulled in and let his boy go. Fifteen minutes later he went inside looking for him. The girl behind the register told the man that a twenty year old guy asked to use the Men’s Room about fifteen minutes ago and didn’t come out yet.

The kid had come to his father that day, saying he needed help. He said he was ready, really ready to put it away this time. The drugs weren’t working anymore, he said, just keeping him normal. They came from a wealthy area, luxury cars, beautiful home, plenty of money. The boy started with Oxycontin, when he couldn’t steal from his parent’s stash he bought them at school, when he couldn’t afford those he went to heroin. The illegal drug is much cheaper and more readily available.

They unlocked the door. It didn’t move when he pushed against it. He pushed harder, finally putting his shoulder into it. The body of his son lay on the other side of the door. The first thing he saw was the lighter, sitting on the sink. Then the spoon. Then the little plastic corner of the baggie that he used to wonder about when he found them in his kids room, or car, or the wastebasket in the bathroom.

The cashier screamed. He told her to call 911. He made his way into the room, pushed the empty syringe out of the way and started CPR. A father doing CPR on his son. I cannot begin to imagine how that felt.

We arrived, took over for the distraught man, got some narcan going, assisted ventilation’s and watched as the color returned to his face, he moved, then started breathing. The dad, a guy about my age was lost. Relief, anxiety, rage and helplessness all in one package. It was probably more powerful that the narcotics.

On the way to the hospital the kid talked about his desire for recovery. I listened.

Somethin’s cooking here at RP. Stay tuned!

One of the most difficult parts of EMS is waiting. Some people wait for a call-any call. Some folks can’t wait for the shift to end, others can’t wait for it to start. Most of us can’t wait for it to start, then, hours later can’t wait for it to end.

Waiting for a call in Providence is never a problem. They call. And call. And call. My last shift started with a call from a lady who called 911 from her cell phone while sitting at a gas station. She vomited. No history, no medications, just vomited. Once, then felt better. She demanded we take her to the hospital to be “checked.”

My guess is if she had to write a “check” for being “checked” she would have “checked” that idea right of the to do list.

A few intoxicated persons, the run of the mill lawsuit MVA’s, the elderly “chest pressures,” kids with fevers and twisted ankles round out most days. Doctors, who’s offices are either on hospital grounds, or actually inside the same building call 911 for their patients with abdominal pain, irregular blood work and such,  rather than putting them in  a wheelchair and having somebody push them 100 yards to the ER. It boggles the mind to think of the waste of resources, actually being an unwilling accomplice makes it even worse.

But, we persevere, and wait.

Now and then we strike gold. Of course, our gold is usually somebody at else’s cost, but oh well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

I hit a nugget at midnight last night. Thirty hours of non-emergency, or to be honest, not even close to emergency calls, except for the old lady who died and the kid that got shot in the head, but they don’t really count, not much to do there.

A guy with no feet because of chronic diabetes couldn’t urinate.

Emergencies, if you wait long enough, one always comes up.

http://www.projo.com/news/content/seven_star_family_reunion_08-23-10_BGJKSAH_v15.22a7e7e.html#slcgm_comments_anchor

Great people, my aunts and uncles! I’m proud to be part of the family.

The river behind the firefighters club is a fast moving, polluted, deep, potential quagmire that I would think twice about jumping into.

I’m glad Mike was there. Well done, Brother.

http://www.projo.com/news/content/pawtucket_man_dies_drag_racing_08-21-10_EKJKG_v21.26180b7.html

My friend Nate, Providence Firefighter and now LA County Firefighter mentioned my “brothers” in the Tea Party, and their typical union bashing over my unions recent contract issues. Because the world revolves around me, and everybody knows exactly what I’m thinking I didn’t feel the need to explain my support for the Tea Party movement. It really seemed quite simple.

1. Identify constitutionality of every new law: Require each bill to identify the specific provision of the Constitution that gives Congress the power to do what the bill does. (82.03%)
2. Reject emissions trading: Stop the “cap and trade” administrative approach used to control pollution by providing economic incentives for achieving reductions in the emissions of pollutants. (72.20%)
3. Demand a balanced federal budget: Begin the Constitutional amendment process to require a balanced budget with a two-thirds majority needed for any tax modification. (69.69%)
4. Simplify the tax system: Adopt a simple and fair single-rate tax system by scrapping the internal revenue code and replacing it with one that is no longer than 4,543 words – the length of the original Constitution. (64.9%)
5. Audit federal government agencies for constitutionality: Create a Blue Ribbon taskforce that engages in an audit of federal agencies and programs, assessing their Constitutionality, and identifying duplication, waste, ineffectiveness, and agencies and programs better left for the states or local authorities. (63.37%)
6. Limit annual growth in federal spending: Impose a statutory cap limiting the annual growth in total federal spending to the sum of the inflation rate plus the percentage of population growth. (56.57%)
7. Repeal the health care legislation passed on March 23, 2010: Defund, repeal and replace the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. (56.39%)
8. Pass an ‘All-of-the-Above’ Energy Policy: Authorize the exploration of additional energy reserves to reduce American dependence on foreign energy sources and reduce regulatory barriers to all other forms of energy creation. (55.5%)
9. Reduce Earmarks: Place a moratorium on all earmarks until the budget is balanced, and then require a 2/3 majority to pass any earmark. (55.47%)
10. Reduce Taxes: Permanently repeal all recent tax increases, and extend permanently the George W. Bush temporary reductions in income tax, capital gains tax and estate taxes, currently scheduled to end in 2011. (53.38%)

Unfortunately, local Tea Party groups quickly became anti-union groups, and the fun began. What could have, and should have been a great opportunity was wasted.

When I first heard about the movement, I thought what a great way to get government spending under control, stop the ridiculous giveaways and programs that are keeping the poor poor. I see firsthand how government programs are detrimental to the people they are supposed to help. When there is substantial loss associated with responsibility and self improvement, something has gone terribly wrong. People set a bar, which coincidentally is also the federal income limit that cuts you off of government assistance, be it health care, food stamps or housing assistance, and stop trying once that plateau is reached. Numerous under the table systems are in place, but that keeps people underground, and turns them into lawbreakers, and just about wipes out any chance of being a productive, independent taxpaying member of society.

In my vision, union members embraced the fundamental ideology expressed in the simple message of the original Tea Party. We could have adopted the philosophy as our own. In my view, the opportunity to disassociate ourselves with the left leaning groups that fall under the union umbrella was ours for the taking.

I have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to lose. I work for my pay and benefits, and earn every nickel. My membership in a public sector union does nothing to diminish that. Lower taxes would help my bottom line, I figured. Little did I know, lower taxes meant to some all out war on public sector unions.

I’m tired of being associated with organizations that do nothing to promote what my union, Local 799, The Providence Firefighters Union stands for, that being hard work, honesty and fair pay. I wrongfully assumed the Tea Party would be the vessel that righted the ship.

I was wrong, and no longer support what has become of a simple, honest message.

The Tea Party is officially thrown overboard here at Rescuing Providence. The original message, however, remains alive and well.

CYA. The long version is Cover Your Ass. I’ve never been a fan of the philosophy. Never been very fond of the people who adhere to the principals vehemently either. That’s not to say a little common sense and self perseverance isn’t in order, but a good provider knows where to draw the line.

I don’t mind taking a chance now and then when it comes to patient care. It is my honest belief that my past record and good reputation will be enough should I misjudge a persons character and find myself in a courtroom, or in front of a board, my license on the line.

Case in point. 0200 hrs. A call for a thirty year old female unconscious. We arrive on scene, three family members have surrounded an adorable thirty year old female, trying to force sugared juice down her throat. Her blood glucose is 24, she’s diaphoretic and combative. An IV is pretty much out of the question due to her behavior.

We tried to assist with the juice infusion to no avail. Then we tried some oral glucose. Nothin’ doing. During treatment, or actually treatment attempts I learned that the girl is recently diagnosed with diabetes, started insulin last week and the family is struggling to pay the bills that are piling up. She has applied for medical assistance, but won’t have an answer or coverage for at least thirty days. She has been going to a local health clinic, and has an appointment with an Endocrinologist, or whatever they call a diabetes specialist as soon as her coverage kicks in.

The CYA philosophy screams drag the patient from her home, (she has Downs Syndrome) tie her up, administer D-50 and take her to the ER.  The bill from us will be $500.00, and the collection agency is relentless. I have no idea what the ER bill will be, but I’m sure $3000.00 is a good estimate.

The family is excellent, they have things well under control, her medication is charted, doses displayed, glucose meter functioning properly, home clean and orderly, basically a lot of love in the place.

I snuck up on her and administered Glucagon, IM. She didn’t feel a thing. Ten minutes later, she drank the juice, and smiled at everybody who had gathered around her. Fifteen minutes from the time of Glucagon she ate a peanut butter sandwich.

“It’s good!” she smiled.

It’s good, indeed. I think I felt better than she did as we drove back to the station.

CYA my ass. I’ll take helping people any day.

A guy stepped out of the rear door a bar to have a smoke, there was no step, he crashed to the cement, shattering his kneecap. He landed next to a dumpster in a dark alley in Downtown Providence at midnight.

Cool. (sick, I know)

The guys from Engine 3 were the point men, and after a little reconnaissance found the wounded man.

“MEDIC!” They called from the battleground.

Rescue 1 left the DMZ and approached the scene. Engine 3 had established a perimeter which allowed us relatively safe access. Potential hostiles filled darkened doorways, a group of them appeared around the dumpster. The doorway where the man fell from suddenly was full of people, watching.

Me and Brian pulled the stretcher from the rig and made our approach. The man was wounded, writhing in pain on the bloody ground. Brian ran an IV, I prepared the Morphine.

“Hang on, soldier,” I told my patient.

We pumped him full of the narcotics. I cut a sheet and made a battlefield splint, immobilized the knee and with help from Brian and one of the firefighters lifted him onto the stretcher. He didn’t make a peep.

The rest of the firefighters watched our backs as we retreated from the dark alley to the safety of the rescue. The injured was transported, and we waited for the next one.

*disclaimer. The above operation actually took place behind a gay bar, and the militants were not all that creepy, but what the heck, I was bored

When I’m the King

“As King of America, I hereby say, without thought or prepared statements, that the people who want to build their Mosque near Ground Zero site are protected by our laws and customs and general good nature to do so.

I also hereby proclaim that by doing so, they prove once and for all and without a DOUBT their hatred for all Americans, and our way of life.

In conclusion, on behalf of the vacationing President, by the powers invested in him by a little more than half of the little more than 40% of Americans who bothered to vote, let the Islamic center stand as a testament to and symbol of the contempt the leaders of the Muslim community have toward all Americans.”

You can’t prohibit a group of people from lawfully acquiring and building something they are legally allowed to do. Doing so destroys everything we stand for.

Build your mosque near Ground Zero. It is a symbolic victory for the people and laws of our great country.

We used to get in my dad’s ’62 Ford, sit in the driveway and drive to Florida. The trip would take ten minutes or so. If we were lucky, and quick, we could swipe the keys and turn the car on, and listen to the AM radio during our travels.

I must have listened to The Night Chicago Died, Indian Reservation and Joy to the World a million times. And a million other songs as well. When I hear a song  I haven’t heard in decades, every word pops into my head, like I just heard it yesterday. I swear there is a record changer in my brain putting  those little plastic discs in the big  hole in the 45 rpm singles.  I would stack them ten high and let them fall onto the turntable  one at a time, the crackle of scratches coming through the hi-fi a mesmerizing intro to the music to follow. The record would drop, the little arm would move to the perfect position, then slowly lower itself onto the plastic.  All ears  would tune in, dead air just waiting for the needle to make contact, the anticipation so sweet. A little pop when the needle makes contact, then it would slide into a groove, and the music would start, and everything else  could be forgotten.

I miss the sound of scratches on vinyl. Hated them when it was all I had, and it seemed everybody else’s records were perfectly cared for. They would hold the album cover like it was the holy bible, carefully pull the disc from the white jacket, holding just the edges of course, gently blow on the surface and gingerly place the prize onto the turntable. A record changer? Never! Not for them.

Me? I’d find a pile of albums in the corner somewhere, wonder what the heck I did with the cover, put it on and ignore the skips.

A couple of kids sat in the front seat of an abandoned car in the driveway of a run down triple decker. The eight year old girl was dirty, clothes worn out, no shoes, long, blond hair flying everywhere. Her passenger was about nine, leaning  back in the seat ghetto style. When I stepped out of the rescue, they stepped out of their car, and followed us in.

Ten kids were inside, some sleeping on bare mattresses that littered the floor, some on a couch, watching cable TV on a 42″ flat-screen that dominated the room. Milk crates served as seats, cigarettes burned in two different ashtrays, themselves overflowing with butts.

“He’s upstairs,” said the matriarch, forty pounds overweight, greasy long hair, dirty gray hoodie and black stretch pants. Her feet were filthy.

“Are all these yours?” I asked, amazed. She was only about thirty-five herself.

“I take care of them.”

“Really.”

Upstairs, a nineteen year old guy lay on another filthy bare mattress, A Tupac poster above him, cigarettes burning, a pale, tattooed seventeen year old girl lying on top of him. Gangsta Rap blared from a speaker of unknown origin. Back in the day you would need a roomful of equipment to get this kind of sound, now, I couldn’t even find the source in a ten by ten room, with nothing but a mattress, two teenagers and a Tupac poster.

Mother Hen yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

“You gotta go, you ain’t stayin here!”

“Fuck you, I didn’t do nothin!” from our patient.

“You took them fuckin pills again! I told you not to take them fuckin pills!”

The smaller children watched us, silently, a little bored. Three or four of them attached themselves to my legs. I instinctively put my arms on their shoulders, or patted their heads.

“”We were sent here for an overdose. Anybody overdosed?” I asked.

“He took some Benydryl,” said the girl laying on the alleged overdose. “It gets him high.”

Benydryl Boy looked at me, then fell asleep.

“How many did he take?”

“Just two.”

“Two?”

“Two.”

“I fuckin told him not to take any!”

The little ones followed us back down the stairs. Some found their way back onto their mattresses, some went outside to play in the busy street, two went back to their car, and closed the door.

I hope they make it to Florida.

We would leave the car, bored with our game, and go inside. Sometimes there would be sandwiches, or some cookies, or something. Our rooms were clean, our clothes relatively new and cared for, our environment safe. We would put on some records, or watch the Creature Double Feature, and wait for our lives to get started. Even with a good home, and good parents, it’s been a difficult road, for all of us.

The kids in the Triple Decker in Providence don’t have a chance.

Something has been bugging me for weeks.

http://www.ctpost.com/news/article/Bridgeport-blaze-leads-to-2-firefighter-deaths-589614.php

These firefighters died doing the job. I didn’t go to the funerals. Didn’t have time. Twelve firefighters  from Providence made the trip, about two hours drive, to Bridgeport. Twelve. The other four-hundred or so must not have had time, either.

I used to go. I felt the brotherhood then. The brotherhood hasn’t gone anywhere, I’m the one who left it. Political garbage, contract disputes, a relentless press  against public sector unions have left  me jaded and bitter. The fact that I left the fire side of the job to finish my career on the rescue division didn’t help much either.

Excuses, really. Two brothers died, and I didn’t bother to pay my respects. I let others do the heavy lifting. That’s just not who I am. I wonder, where the hell did I go?

Firefighters and EMT’s die in the line of duty all too often. If it’s a local story, news teams cover it for a day, then move on. Contract issues are more provacative, and stay on the front pages for weeks. When our local paper, The Providence Journal runs a story about a rescue, or a rescue getting shot at, or a firefighter injures, the comments section may as well not exist.

When the story involves our salary or benefits, hundreds of concerned citizens chime in. It isn’t pretty.

Firefighting isn’t pretty. People die. People get hurt. Families suffer. It is a risk we all take. All we have is each other, and I’ve been on the sideline. Nothing I can do about that now, but get back in.

Rest in Peace, Brothers.

“Rescue 1, respond to 18 Hamilton Street for an emotional male, no lights or sirens.”

Or, in other words, I need a free ride to the hospital, it’s not an emergency, but I don’t have a car and wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing my friends or family.

Come and get me. And make it snappy. And do it my way.

Because I am a Tax Taking citizen, and it’s your job.

Darn, sometimes those tricky buttons get stuck. Especially at three in the morning. Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Emotional Male.

She had her pants on backwards. Her sneakers were on the wrong feet, laces untied. One arm in, one arm out of her winter coat. She was leaving. Her daughter kept her prisoner in the very house she raised her in. “How’s that for gratitude?”

She asked if I would give her a ride to her “other” house, the one where she grew up, in the country, fresh air, a tractor to ride and animals to feed.

I let her in. We talked all the way to the hospital, where a team of mental health professionals will start the process of having her committed. We rearranged her clothing, pulling her together for her homecoming. She was grateful. She thanked me as I wheeled her through the doors of the ER. Home at last.

Later, her daughter told me her mom worked in the very hospital I took her to. She did cardiograms. She never lived on a farm.

I’m training my current partner to do my job. His six month tour as Rescue Chauffeur is nearly through, he needs to know how to be in charge. I make it look easy, cagey veteran that I am. I’m looking forward to the challenge of passing on my vast store of knowledge to the next generation. Deep down, I’m also looking forward to having Brian realize just how fabulous, heroic and competent I am, all while making advanced life support look easy.

“Rescue 1, Respond to 653 Hawthorn Street for a sixty-four year old male experiencing chest pains.”

Brian looks at me. I look back with the typical rescue chauffeur blank stare and head to the drivers seat, looking forward to seeing my partner sweat. He’ll find out. Ha!

“Rescue 1, on scene.” says Brian, doing my job. I prepare to do the monkey work, all while keeping a close eye on my protege.

The patient had been putting up a fence. He was diaphoretic, hypertensive and complaining of chest pain radiating down his left arm. I was prepared to take over; saving lives is no job for the inexperienced.

“I need a 12 lead, an IV, start him on 02, get the aspirin and nitro ready,” said my student.

Show off.

I did the mundane tasks while the once and future king established a history. I wanted to chime in, but he left no chance. The ekg showed acute mi with st elevation, aka STEMI now. I have no idea what they called it for the last 100 years, but STEMI gets quite a reaction from the folks at the hospital.

“Drive.” said Brian.

Drive. So, that’s the way it’s going to be. I drove.

Forty minutes after dispatch our patient was in the cath lab, and will make a full recovery. Big deal, I could have done that. Brian finished up the paperwork, gave the report to the team that had assembled and did a damn fine job. I did his job, stocked the truck, cleaned up and got ready for the next one. Easy.

It didn’t take long.

“Rescue 1, respond to 433 Broad street for an unresponsive male on the sidewalk.”

I expertly drove to the scene, showing my big shot how the truck should be driven, and stopped next to an intoxicated man lying on the street in front of McDonald’s. One of our Engine companies was there. We send an engine for unconscious people, they get there faster, usually.

One of the firefighters opened the rear door of the rescue to retrieve the stretcher while Brian asessed the patient, and I got ready to show him how to do things.

“Where’s the stretcher?” asked the firefighter.

Part of being a cagey veteran is quick thinking.

“A good officer would have known the stretcher was still at the ER,” I informed my student.

He’s got a long way to go.

I hate getting shot at.

http://www.projo.com/news/content/POLICE_DIGEST_4_08-04-10_7HJE6TB_v20.2381dd9.html#slcgm_comments_anchor

Two years ago I walked into their home at midnight, met a wonderful couple, he sick with congestive heart failure and other ailments, she taking care of him. He was a big man, nearing the end of his time. He was lying in a bed in a room at the rear of the 100 year old house, confused, a little combative and soaked with sweat. Evidence of the life they shared was everywhere, just an older couple living a simple life in a simple home in the heart of South Providence.

Combative, ailing people don’t bother me much, there generally isn’t much behind their anger, most always an underlying medical cause. “Harvey” refused to let us take care of him, refused to leave his bed, and had refused to eat or drink for a few days prior to his desperate wife calling us. A 100 pound woman, especially a wife, has the power to make her mate bend to her wishes, most of the time, this time she met a stiff wall of resistance.

“He’s a longshoreman,” she explained. “Stubborn as a mule and dumb as a post,” she said, lovingly. He looked at her, a light went on and he simply said, “I’ll go.” My partner at the time, Vikro had the stair chair ready, but he adamantly refused to be carried from his home. Somehow, he found the strength to walk the fifty steps to his front door, and then allowed us to help him down the front steps, then up the steps into the rescue. The walk nearly killed him. I questioned my decision to let him walk, but it turned out to be a good one. We took them to the ER, he landed in a critical care room, Vikro and I moved on to different patients.

A few hours later, I returned to the ER with somebody else, but took the time to visit them. He was lucid now, she smiled as I shook his hand and deflected the genuine thanks he offered, saying the usual “it’s my job” things.  I don’t remember what caused his confusion, his blood work was way out of whack, IV fluids and whatever else they gave him at the hospital worked wonders. He was funny, and kind, and appreciative. So was she. I was happy to have helped them. It was a “good” call.

I saw his picture on the obituary page two days later. He died that night. At least he walked out of the place he raised his family under his own power, and into whatever existence waits.

“Was your dad a longshoreman?” I asked a fortyish lady who now occupied the same bench seat her mother did two years ago. Now, her mother lie in the stretcher, battling lung cancer, bald, skinny, feverish and sick from radiation.

“He was,” she replied, curious.

“I knew it was you as soon as you walked in,” said the little lady on the stretcher, smiling. “You are a good man.”

“So was your husband. He made me laugh. I’m sorry he died.”

“You came to his wake.”

“I did.”

The funeral home is in Rescue 1′s district. Something possessed me to pay my respects. A large crowd of people attended. One hundred black people and one big white guy. I went through the line, the woman now dying on my stretcher taking the time to introduce me to nearly everybody there, even the funeral director. They treated me like royalty. Must have been the uniform. I’m glad I went.

Brian started an IV, took her temperature and got some vital signs.

“The IV fluids will help the rapid heart rate,” I explained to the daughter as her mom rested.

We rode peacefully through the tired neighborhood toward the hospital. This was me and Brian’s final call after a particularly brutal thirty-eight hour shift. When we were dispatched at 0612 the sun had just broken the horizon.