Lieutenant Quetta took the axe from my hands and simply said, “like this.” He put the flat part of the head between the door and the jamb, exerted some pressure and pulled the hinges away. He gave the axe back. “Now you.” I did exactly what he did on the lower hinge, the door fell over and we were in. The fire had started in a rear bedroom, the flames now rolled over the ceiling, toward us.

“Stay low,” said the Lieutenant, who keyed the mike, placed it it the corner of his mask where sound got through and gave the command, “Engine 2, charge my line.” We were in position, the line filled, Wayne was at the pipe, he opened the gate, and blackness descended upon us. I thought my ears would melt into my helmet. Lt. Quetta moved us forward, deeper in, looking for more fire. We found plenty. And we put it out.

Later that day, when lunch was over and the cleanup began, he ordered me away from the sink where the stack of pots and pans needed to feed eleven hungry firefighters nearly reached the ceiling. “You cooked, sit down,” he said, and took over. Twenty minutes later he finished with the dishes and went into his office.

I worked with him dozens of times after that, mostly overtime shifts. I was never part of his regular crew, there was a long line of senior guys ahead of me. I learned more from him in the hundred words he spoke to me than I did in the hundreds of textbooks we are required to study.

Rest in Peace, Captain Quetta.

January 6, 2009

http://www.wpri.com/dpp/news/local_news/local_wpri_providence_quetta_firefighter_funeral_20090110

Years later, somewhere in my career between thinking I knew everything and realizing I didn’t I found myself working for Captain Michael Day at Engine 10, the Broad Street Bullies. I had just been shacked from my previous spot, shacking being the equivalent of being traded to a different team because you didn’t fit in with your present one. It was a low point for me, somewhere around year nine of my career. I was on the road until they found a spot for me.

Around three we got a call for a working building fire. I took the tool seat, and off we went. There was a smoke condition haf a mile away, flames visible on Side 2. Engine 10 stopped just past the fire building, Ladder 5 right behind us. It is vitally important that each and every firefighter do his job well at a fire, the safety of everybody depends on it. Captain Day ordered me to “Force that Door!” then left to do a size up.

I took my axe, used my body weight and the head like a battering ram and popped it open after three whacks. Then, I used a little trick somebody taught me years ago. I put the flat part of the axe into the space between the door and the jamb and twisted. The door fell from the hinges, I did it again in the middle, then at the bottom. The door was gone. I threw it to the side just as the Captain and the crew came through with the line. I backed them up, stretched the line up some stairs and we put the fire out.

Later, as I walked by his office, I heard Captain Day say to somebody from the company, probably so I could hear, but I’ll never know, the most important words that anybody who works with a fire department anywhere can hear.

“Whatever happened is over, Morse is a good firefighter.”

Those words had, and continue to have a profound effect on every aspect of my career. A few years later I transferred to the rescue division, but I never forget what Captain Day said, or the lessons from one of the people who made me a “good firefighter,”  Lieutenant Frank Quetta.

Rest in Peace, Chief Day

And, to all those who came and died before me, thank you.

Providence Firefighters killed in the Line of Duty

Firefighter Joshua Weaver (March, 1828)

Firefighter Daniel Freeman (1847)

Firefighter Neil Dougherty (1853)

Firefighter John McLane (September, 1870)

Firefighter William Lasselle (1880)

Firefighter Charles Battey (1880)

Firefighter Alexander J. McDonald (October 7, 1883)

Firefighter Daniel W. Brown (October 10, 1883)

Firefighter Stephen Conroy (1885)

Firefighter Alonzo Clark (1886)

Firefighter Nicholas B. Duff (October, 1886)

Firefighter Benson W. Johnson (June 16, 1900)

Captain Hiram D. Butts (January 24, 1901)

Firefighter Joseph Devine (July 17, 1902)

Firefighter John E. Carlin (July 27, 1903)

Firefighter Crawford A. Cornell (Janurary 24, 1905)

Captain George H. Noon (January 24, 1907)

Firefighter Benjamin N. Brown (December 26, 1908)

Firefighter Thomas H. Duffy (January 9, 1909)

Lieutenant Christopher Carpenter (May 12, 1912)

Firefighter Harry H. Howe (May 13, 1912)

Firefighter Frederick A. McCaffrey (July 19, 1912)

Firefighter Edward J. Hogan (July 19, 1912)

Firefighter George McGinn (September 27, 1918)

Firefighter Thomas H. Kelleher (January 31, 1921)

Firefighter John I. Tague (January 31, 1921)

Firefighter Arthur Cooper (January 31, 1921)

Lieutenant Michael J. Kiernan (February 5, 1921)

Firefighter Lawrence H. Taylor (May 24, 1926)

Firefighter Walter F. Dammers (January 29, 1929)

Firefighter Charles Keegan (June 17, 1930)

Firefighter Richard Coleman (November 13, 1930)

Firefighter Robert F. McDonald (March 22, 1932)

Firefighter Thomas F. Drury (March 5, 1934)

Firefighter Julian Miluck (April 29, 1936)

Firefighter Raymond Winters (May 6, 1938)

Captain William J. Smith (June 26, 1943)

Lieutenant William J. McElroy (March 9, 1944)

Firefighter Raymond Dean (December 31, 1944)

Firefighter Chester King (July 10, 1945)

Firefighter Riley W. Wilcox (August 27, 1954)

Firefighter Louis Defresne (April 11, 1955)

Captain George O. Heustis (March 8, 1958)

Firefighter Norman Clark (April 23, 1960)

Firefighter George Magnan (June 26, 1961)

Lieutenant Joseph F. Dorsey (March 5, 1963)

Captain Francis A. Shea (May 16, 1964)

Firefighter Edward F. Theriault (June 17, 1964)

Firefighter John Sullivan (February 6, 1965)

Firefighter Alfred Milliard (November 6, 1965)

Battalion Chief Joseph J. Mainey (April 25, 1967)

Firefighter Earl T. King (June 29, 1967)

Firefighter Joseph H. LeBlanc (March 20, 1970)

Lieutenant William J. Moreland, Jr. (December 13, 1977)

Deputy Assistant Chief Michael J. Day (June 13, 2006)

Captain Frank J. Quetta, Jr. (January 6, 2009)

Rescuing Providence will be hosting live coverage of The 2010 Firefighters Memorial Weekend.

http://www.projo.com/news/content/FATAL_FOLO_09-27-10_IGK344M_v29.207e8c0.html

The accident was horrific. Seasoned firefighters, EMT’s nurses, doctors, police officers and State Troopers who responded carried the images with them throughout the weekend, and will for a long time to come. My shift started an hour after the crash, the aftereffects lingered in the firehouse, the emergency rooms and the demeanor of the first responders.

Our thoughts and prayers are with nine-year old Alexis Silva, who died instantly, and her family.

Shocked and grieving family members needed help as the hours progressed, they gathered in small groups at the emergency rooms, mixed in with the usual assortment of drunks, assault victims and emotionally disturbed people. Some were overcome with grief and became patients themselves. We did all we could to lessen their suffering.

I’m proud to be part of the emergency response community, whose actions following the tragedy were, as always, everything they could be. It was gruesome, and ugly, and heartbreaking. We did what we are supposed to do, held the community together, and put ourselves aside until later, when the crisis had passed.

Those who knew Alexis decided to hold a makeshift memorial of sorts at the accident scene. These tributes, while well meaning and possibly helpful to the family have become a very bad idea. Dozens of vehicles and hundreds of mourners gathered on the shoulder of Route 10 last night, endangering themselves and people not directly involved. There are laws against pedestrian traffic on highways for a reason. A different patient from a different accident was in the back of my rescue, wondering why we had stopped on the way to the hospital.

“Traffic jam,” I told him, as I looked out the side window at people milling around the highway. One of the mourners was overcome with grief and needed another rescue, which was delayed due to the residual effects of the memorial.

I couldn’t believe that of all the people who drove to the accident site, and parked their cars on the highway, not one had the sense to say that perhaps this isn’t a very good idea. Yesterday, another group of people stopped at the site to mourn, stopped their car, got out and walked away, forgetting to put the vehicle in park. Their car rolled, driverless, across the highway, into the opposite lanes of travel and across those lanes. It is a miracle that nobody was killed. Had they been not so lucky, the person or persons who died would be just as gone as little Alexis, and their families just as devastated.

Memorializing the place where a person lost their lives may be helpful to those who are left behind, but at what cost? Their memory resides in the hearts of the ones they loved, not on a litter filled roadside. We all mourn and remember in our own way, I hope the trend of accident site memorials goes away before anybody else dies needlessly.

Rik lives with his wife, Shelley somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. I didn’t know him very well when we were growing up, he was younger than me; five years  is a vast difference in time until you reach adulthood. Then, your age doesn’t matter much. What matters more is what you have done with that time. We have a start, and a finish, and some people fill the space in between existing, others living. Rik is not only living his dream, he’s leaving a timeless impression here. And, it’s pretty impressive. Some of us make a small dent, some leave nothing at all, Rik and Shelley, by doing little more than following the creative flow that resides in all of us, rather than letting it die, or lay dormant until it’s too late prove to me, and anybody that knows them that anything is possible.

We talk on the phone now and then. More times than not an hour or more flies by. It is always time well spent. I am a bit of an isolator, and Rik’s art, especially the space ships with the single, empty seat say more to me than the hundreds of thousands of words I’ve written. Funny thing about creativity, Rik seems to enjoy my words as much as I do his work. Some day soon, I plan on getting  my sorry Rhode Island ass out of my seat and onto a plane and into Rik and Shelley’s  world.

We have always been cousins. But over the last few years we’ve become friends.  His work, my words. Somehow they connected, and if nothing else comes from all of this, it was well worth it.

“Existence can be a myopic affair, focused on the immediate and the practical. We live our lives unaware of the true ways of the world. What lies beneath the surface of everyday? What collection of intricate quantum clockwork winds the mainspring of the universe? Those few that do gain access to those secrets – figures such as Nicola Tesla, Marie Curie, Albert Einstein – are isolated spelunkers into a vast hidden world, able with a single discovery, invention, or mode of thought, to pull back the veil of the visible and reveal in wondrous awe the true nature of Everything.Rik Allen’s current body of work mines that rich vein between the outward mysteries of creation and the inward journeys of the human imagination. What began several years ago as an exploration of the iconic rocketship in its purest form has evolved into a contemplation of the role of individuals in our finite world, all in relation to the infinite complexity and vastness of the cosmos. We are each explorers on a journey through existence and Allen’s sculptures evoke this introspection and conveyance – spacecraft captained by lonely cartographers mapping the inky black seas between us all, organic vessel-creatures harbouring spores of complex knowledge bound for undiscovered mental landscapes, or sentient mechanical emissaries propagating our viral truths through the fabric of being.

Merging his interests in scientific apparatus, electricity, cryptography, and invention, Allen’s sculptures feel neither new nor old, but simultaneously ancient and future – forever enduring – and reminiscent of a time before the Age of Plastics when objects were built to last decades, centuries, and perhaps millennia. Despite their overt technological form, in each piece there is a celebration of human imperfection and a nod toward life’s entropic nature – a slight skew in symmetry, bubbles suffusing a glass surface, corroded metallic structures – all evidence of the power of the natural world. These aged forms hint at a lost or hidden narrative: a winding staircase, a solitary chair, a captured key, a lenticular portal, mysterious interior apparatus, or sphere of motive force. Each of them are fractured memories meant to be enfleshed by the viewer, brought to life and imbued with meaning, completing the story initiated by Rik Allen while progressing on our own path through existence.”

A Public Service Announcement From Your Pals at Rescuing Providence!

Important, life saving information regarding minor motor vehicle accidents!

-If  you are tapped from behind and there is no damage to your vehicle, it is okay to wave it off and drive away

-When the EMT asks if you are injured, and you answer “I’m not sure,” you are not injured

-You do not  have to go to the hospital by rescue to pad “your case.”

-Having you car towed from the highway is a pain in the ass

-Faking an injury is not as simple as it seems

-The trip to the ER will hurt more than the collision

-Lying backwards on a hard board  with your head in a vice  in a box truck sucks

-16 guage IV’s hurt

-Coaching your children to say it hurts borders on child abuse

-You will not “get in faster” because you came in the rescue

-You will go to the back of the line, and then wait for the people who came in after you, because the “ambulance drivers” know the people at triage, and they will tell on you

-Going to the ER without an injury, “to be checked” is utterly absurd

-Karma is a Bitch

Remember, Buckle Up!

The patient is a twenty-two year old, intoxicated, emotional, possibly suicidal male. He’s six feet tall, weighs 250. He’s been drinking and fighting for two days. His clothes are torn, he smells like a cow and is soaked with sweat. His eyes are going in different directions. His mother states he is dangerous, she is afraid for her safety. Four or five police cruisers are on scene, the patient is slouched on some stairs, crying. Rescue 1 arrives on scene.

“You all set?” asks one of the cops as they prepare to leave.

All set? Just who is crazy here? Rather than transport a potential murderer to the emergency room for a psychological evaluation in  the back of a police car, with a cage between the driver and patient, locked and secure doors and hard to break glass and padded seats, let’s put him in a box with plenty of room to roam, glass and needles everywhere, sharp, hard things that could cause serious bodily injury if one were to be thrown or fall on if a wrestling match happens and a Rescue Lieutenant whose fighting years are long behind him, unarmed, untrained at restraining violent patients and hope he gets to the hospital.

All set? Are you crazy? The police tell me it’s their protocol to call EMS for transport of psych patients.

Well, it’s my protocol to tell you, no way. Usually. This time, for reasons I have no way of explaining, because I have no idea why I went along I put him in the truck. The hospital was only two minutes away.  I put him on the bench seat and fastened the seat belt. I should have known better. I should have put him on the stretcher, had a police officer come alonng and handcuff him to it. I didn’t.

Brian drove, checking the rear view mirror all the way. Half way there the monster  stopped crying and started mumbling unintelligibly. Then he figured out the seat belt was the only thing between him and me, his captor. He undid the buckle. Then he stood. Then, he fell. Right on top of me. I pushed him to the floor, he fought a little and started thrashing around at my feet. Then, he vomited, all over my shoes.

I should know better. Guess I’m the crazy one after all. Never again.

Yup, I’m all set.

http://happymedic.com/2010/09/19/offensive-or-educational/

Happy Medic’s post concerning the death of an intoxicated driver through nobodies fault but his own, and his friends and family erecting a roadside memorial in his honor got me thinking. Actually, the commentary got me thinking.

A lot of people have a lot to say about those caught driving drunk.  If that person caught driving drunk happens to kill himself, or somebody else, they become public enemy number 1. We sit back and judge these people, look at them with contempt saved for the most heinous criminals. Grieving families of those left in the wake of these monsters demand justice, decades in prison, destruction of character and a lifetime of shame and remorse.

But what about the millions of our friends, neighbors and family members who drive over the legal limit but don’t get caught? What about those whom fate treated more kindly than the ones who crashed? What about those of us who have driven while under the influence but made it home? Are they monsters whose poor choices should be their ruination? Is their crime less worthy of our rage?

What about you? Ever had a few and made it home safely? Even once? Did you ever stop and think just how fortunate you are that nobody walked in front of your vehicle, or you had a tire blowout, or you swerved to avoid an animal that crossed your path  and you just happened to have had one too many?

Nobody is perfect. Tomorrow is my ninth anniversary of sobriety. (thank you Bill W.) That’s a lot of twenty-four hours put together. But I never forget when I hear about a tragedy involving alcohol,

“But for the grace of God, there go I.”

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2006/11/03/dignity/

I thought about the lady in the post above when I first read the story below.

http://lifeunderthelights.com/2010/09/a-weighted-issue-the-fire-service-helping-private-ems/

I read the headline about the fire department refusing to assist the private ambulance company a week or so ago and couldn’t quite figure out why. Then I forgot about it until I visited Life Under The Lights a little while ago.

I’ve been a firefighter/EMT for nearly twenty years. Situations like this seldom come up. It happens, but not all that often.

As Rodney King said years ago, “Can’t we all just get along?”

Get the lady where she needs to go, then figure it out. For god’s sake, man this isn’t that difficult. We help people, that’s what we do.

My mother spent the last ten years of her life in a nursing home. On holidays and when we could, we would pick her up and take her out. We literally had to “pick her up.” She wasn’t light. I could do it, but it wasn’t easy. A lot of the events at the time happened at my grandmother’s house, that just so happened to be across the street from a fire station. (not Providence)

If me or my brother were not available, which happened a lot due to our occupations the nursing home staff would help get her into the car of whoever went to get her, usually one of her sisters who physically wouldn’t be able to do it on her own. I figured the firefighters wouldn’t mind helping a brother out. They didn’t, once. The next time, six months later, with my mother sitting in my aunts car, they refused, said call a private ambulance company, it wasn’t their job.

“Can’t we all just get along?”

* wish we had one of those ramps!

She walked out of the house, past the row of police cruisers and into the rescue. I followed. Brian had finished assessing her vital signs, we started the mile and a half trip to Hasbro for a psychological evaluation.

“Strong work, six cop cars, a fire truck and a social worker. And it’s not even seven o’clock,” I said, breaking the ice, I hoped.

She looked at me, through me, really, sizing me up. Thirteen years old, eyes deep brown, nearly black, olive skin and dark curly hair. Tears waited behind those defiant eyes. Tears of anger, sadness and frustration.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, gently.

“They don’t want me.”

We had been called here for an emotional, out of control female. The little girl in my truck was certainly emotional, but far from out of control.

“Why?”

“My mother won’t let me come home. I’m staying with my father and step mother but they have kids and they don’t like me. They fight with me. They take my clothes. I hate it here.”

The tears started.

“You can’t cry in the rescue, it’s a rule.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“No I’m not.”

What can I say, I have two girls. Kids  need an adult or two around with half a brain to take care of them. I wanted to take this one home.

She shook her head a few times and wiped her face clean.

“I’m good.”

“Me too.”

She didn’t know, nor never would that last night a girl from a foster family called the police to report a rape. The police called us. She was seventeen, met a guy online, had been texting him for a week and took a bus across town to meet him. Her foster family didn’t know she snuck out. At ten o’clock she arrived at his door. He let her in, led her to his bedroom, ripped off her pants and raped her. When he was through he said, “I busted that pussy, now get out.” She called the police, and told them that the boy she snuck out to meet was at least twenty-five. That girl sat in my rescue, in the exact spot Esther now filled. She told me her story with no emotion, dead eyes and matter of fact words.

A week ago a four year old filled the same spot. Her foster mother put enough salt into her feeding tube to kill her. She died, shortly after leaving the rescue. The essence of some patients lingers around the truck, I’ve learned.

I looked at Esther. She gave me a little smile. I gave her one back.

“They have to listen to my side of the story, don’t they?” she asked, trusting me, I think.

“I’ll make sure of it.” I said as the truck backed into the rescue bay.

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2008/07/18/i-wonder/#comments

I ran into Daniel’s cousin at the hospital the other day. A long time has passed since I dragged him out of the pick-up truck, two bullet holes in the back of his head, and brought him to the ER. I didn’t think he would make it, I’m happy to say, I was wrong.

Peggy told me he made a full recovery, is working at a job he likes and has turned his life around.

The day was busy, one call after another seemingly blurring into one, endless run. I had gone into auto-pilot mode, something I try to avoid but usually can’t control. After thousands of calls even the most challenging things become routine. Peggy reminded me that nothing is routine. Our actions that day are directly responsible for a living, breathing human being who should not be with us. What we did is actually pretty simple, oxygen, extrication, immobilization, IV, EKG and rapid transport. Auto-pilot stuff. But what a difference it all made.

Daniel will be starting a family of his own soon, and the story of his life has only begun, rather than ending on my stretcher.

A lady is dead in her bed at the end of the hall, we wheel our stretcher past the group, elderly residents who have gathered in the common room for a presentation by the nursing home staff. Twenty or so people look quietly our way as we pass. CPR is in progress, Elliot gives me the report:

“Seventy-two year old female, history of lung cancer, found unresponsive at eight thirty this morning, the staff started CPR immediately, defibrillator gave one shock, she’s asystolic now.”

“Thanks, Elliot, advanced directives?”

“Full code. No IV access.”

She had been down for nearly half an hour at this point. Her skin had started to turn blue, cold to the touch and clammy. It was obviously too late, but miracles do happen, we continued on. I placed a long board on the bed next to her and slid her over. With help from the firefighters from Ladder 3 and Brian we got her onto our stretcher. I took over doing compressions, Elliot operated the bag valve device and we got rolling.

The people who had gathered in the common room sat silently and watched as we wheeled their neighbor past them. How many times had this happened to them, I wondered. Some looked horrified, I figured they were the new residents, a few looked shocked, some people always do, and some just looked sad. A few had no reaction at all. They were probably the senior members of the club, and had seen this show one too many times. And, they probably knew their turn was coming up.

I managed to place the tube, her color returned after a few moments, artificially provided by our work. The emergency room is on the same grounds as the nursing home, I wasn’t able to administer and drugs through the tube, we brought her in where the code team took over. The woman’s family had arrived and waited in the waiting room for news. Ten minutes later, the wait was over. The lady was gone.

The people at the nursing home would find out later what they already knew. In another day, or week, month at most, another fire department or ambulance crew would invade their space and take one of them away. And that person too, would not return.

Overheard on the Street:

Police officer: “Hey, were you guys there that day when that girl flashed us?”

Firefighter 1: “Which girl?”

Firefighter2: “What day?”

Firefighter 3: “There have been so many, we forget.”

The police officer walks back to his cruiser, shaking his head.

Police Officer: “I think I took the wrong test.”

My brother, Bob called yesterday. He’s out in a field somewhere in Pennsylvania, training, learning how best to kill members of the Taliban. Funny thing is, he’s no killer. But he’ll do what he must. It looks like he’ll be moving out early next year, gone for a year, leaving his wife and four kids. War rages a long way from here, and our friends, and family members are fighting it.

We all remember September 11th, and treat it with the respect and dignity it deserves, for the most part. Lets not forget September 12th, and all the days since.  Soldiers are still dying as a result of that day, and coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan with wounds most of us cannot imagine.

http://burnedoutmedic.com/2010/09/dear-politicians/

Another reason I get more satisfaction remembering 9-11 in my own, private way.

http://www.projo.com/opinion/contributors/content/CT_morse_09-10-10_DCJP0GV_v23.2983d6c.html#slcgm_comments_anchor

Because Rescuing Providence readers are well above the curve, this was old news when The Providence Journal ran it in the OP/ED page the other day.

If you want a laugh, read the commentary. And if you throw in your two cents, feel free, but the only people who read it are the ones throwing the insults around, I think (hope.)

A little girl’s life ended this week. Somebody put two Tablespoons of salt in her feeding tube, allegedly as a home cure for constipation. She was beautiful, had long curly hair and big brown eyes. She didn’t have to die. I hope she finds peace, and safety on whatever journey awaits her.

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2010/09/02/salt/

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2010/09/05/more-salt/

He was dead. His friends paced the room, smoking cigarettes, sneaking glances at their fallen comrade. He died sitting in his favorite chair, or at least his most recent favorite. One of the smoking guys had let him stay with him these last few months, he had nowhere else to go. The doctors at the VA had given him six months to live a year ago, he was just holding on. One of the guys cooked a meal for him last night, a steak and macaroni and cheese. There was nothing left on the plate that sat empty in front of him.

We chatted for a while, the two guys, me and Brian. The dead guy may have been listening, some day we’ll find out for ourselves. He was a combat veteran of the Vietnam War, and so were his friends. Hepititis C is what eventually did him in. He was a good guy I was told.

The police handle these things once we declare a person dead. We waited for them to show up. I asked if the rosary that was wrapped around the dead guys hands was of his own doing. One of the guys said that he put it there when he found him. We stood by, silently until the police showed up.

“I can’t breathe in here,” was the first thing he said. “Put out those cigarettes.”

The tranquil, respectful environment was instantly transformed. Now, I stood in a section eight apartment with three nearly homeless vets, run down, kind of grungy and oppressive. And one of them was dead. I wish I smoked, I would have sparked one up right then and there. I was in their house. If they wish to smoke, smoke away, especially at a time like this.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said and told the cop the official time of death. The two living combat vets stepped outside to finish their butts. I couldn’t help but think of this line as we drove away.

“The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” William Shakespeare

Their friend was dead, and the government officials were assholes.

We find the apartment, nestled in the middle of one of Providence’s bigger housing projects. It is a tiny first floor apartment, one bedroom, one little bathroom and a kitchen connected to a sitting room. It is full of stuff, but immaculate. Three teens have gathered in that little sitting room, two girls and a boy. One of the girls pets a scruffy little dog who looks at me as I enter, cocks his head and wags his tail. The girl holds him, and tells me he’ll try to run out the door if she lets go.

Another teenage girl stands outside the bathroom, the door cracked a little.

“I think she has food poisoning,” she tells me. “She ate some fish at a restaurant  an hour ago and can’t stop throwing up.” She whispers, so the others won’t hear, “and she has diarrhea.”

A little old lady sits on the toilet, soaked with sweat, one end in a bucket, the bottom full of vomit, the other end on the toilet, which she reaches back to and flushes. She looks like death warmed over. The three kids stay in the living room, the old lady vomits some more and the other girl tries to help.

The old lady asks the girl to have the other kids step out for a minute. They do.

“She has HIV. And she can’t stop going to the bathroom.”

“Does she speak English?” I ask.

“Just a little.”

“Tell her it’s okay.”

The girl says something to the old lady while Brian gets a few sheets and lines the stretcher with a chuck. We wrap the old lady first in her robe, then some sheets and walk her through the crowded apartment and onto the stretcher.

“What is her date of birth?” I ask.

All four kids answer at the same time. The lady lies there, on the stretcher looking miserable. The kids are concerned. Genuinely concerned. They are polite, respectful and worried.

“Is she your grandmother?” I ask.

“No, she takes care of us.”

The dog. The food in the kitchen. A little TV in the corner. Little rubber bracelets on the kids arms. Their clothes. The little apartment in the heart of the projects where murder, mayhem and misery rule. But here, an oasis. A safe place where young people don’t look like thugs, have manners and actually care enough about a little old lady to know her birthday without thinking. They surround the stretcher as we wheel it toward the rescue. One of them comes with us, the sick little old lady leaves her door open so the kids have somewhere to go.

JoeEMT sent this:

http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/10242/1083758-100.stm

This is where blogging about EMS gets a little hairy. My original post was more about me and my little hissy fit over an ER doctor who chose to ignore me. The real story was inside the post and it had nothing to do with me, as I’m finding out.

I hope the girl is okay, I’ll try to find out more. I also hope I haven’t crossed any legal or ethical lines by posting the story in the first place. Just for the record, the names, times and dates, as well as the entire event are all fabrication based on a call that may or may or may not have happened.

I’ve found the perfect cure for low morale.

FILL THE BOOT!

First, I got to throw the bums out. I figured who better to emulate when soliciting donations from passing cars than the professionals? We’ve got some unemployed panhandlers in Providence this weekend, I hope they have something in reserves.

It was ninty-five degrees in the shade yesterday, must have been one-twenty on the corner of Thurbers and Eddy, but that is where we parked Rescue 1 and, boot in hand hit the street. Within seconds people were rolling down their windows and cleaning out their change containers, or reaching deep into their pockets and opening their purses to contribute to Jerry’s Kids. I had people in beat up pick-ups donate, Doctors on their way to work pitch in, a carload full of high school kids threw some money into the boot. A lowrider, Hip Hop blazing slowed to a crawl next to me, the tinted windows lowered, some delightfully aromatic smoke escaped and a twenty landed in my boot. As an added bonus, the heat produced some rather interesting wardrobe selections. My eyes were as full as my boot!

People from all walks of life contributed. In half an hour Mike, my partner for the day and I raised well over a hundred bucks.

Thank you People of Providence. You really are great.

* By the way, I just noticed that today is the forth anniversary of the blog, Rescuing Providence!

They used to live on the seventh floor.

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2007/03/22/seventh-floor/

Now, they live on the third. The move was made a year ago. I doubt if they noticed. Edward had been having trouble breathing, his sats were in the low eighties when we were called. Me and Brian got the stretcher into the elevator, I hit the three button.

“Have you ever been here?”

“No, why?” he asked.

“It’s awful.”

I wasn’t ready for the welcoming comittee. Four health care aids met us at the elevator. They were covered from head to toe with yellow gowns and masks.

“Where are your gloves?” one asked.

“In my pocket,” I answered.

She shook her head and said, “Put on some gloves, he’s over here.”

I thought I had entered a Sci-Fi movie set. Everywhere we went. somebody was dressed in a gown and had a mask and cap. Me and Brian, and the guys from Engine 3, dressed in our t-shirts looked like idiots from another planet who were about to contract the Andromeda Strain.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

“He has C-Diff,” somebody said from behind their mask.

http://www.webmd.com/digestive-disorders/news/20080530/c-diff-epidemic-what-you-must-know?src=RSS_PUBLIC

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“”It’s like MRSA only worse and more contagious, you didn’t know?”

“I missed the morning briefing on infectious disease,” I said. (It was 0200, I get a little cranky)

The boy lay in his bed, unknowing, unseeing, unaware. A non-re-breather covered his face, his withered body was covered with only a sheet. Cerebral Palsey.

One of the nurses said it was spread through fecal content, and Edward was clean. I gloved up and went in. Brian held his head and shoulders, I got the hips and legs and we moved him onto our stretcher.

“We’re going for a ride, Edward,” I said. Edward stared ahead, even more isolated now that he had the C-Diff. Eight other kids on the floor had it as well, I was told as we left. Somebody handed me a container of bleach based disinfectant as the elevator doors closed.

I hate being the last to know.

“Rescue 1, and Engine 10, respond to 532 Pavillion Avenue on the second floor for an unconscious five-year old.”

That will get you moving. I keyed the mike.

“Rescue 1, responding.”

Two minutes later, Engine 10 gave the initial report.

“Engine 10 to Rescue 1, five year old female, unconscious at this time, no fever or history, we’re assessing vitals.”

“Rescue 1 received.”

Immediately the scenarios play out in my mind. Trauma? Diabetic? Seizure? Five year old girls should not be unconscious at five in the afternoon.

“Engine 10 to Rescue 1, we’re bringing her down.”

“Roger, Engine 10, ETA thirty seconds.”

We approached the scene. One of the firefighters carried a limp, pale little girl in his arms. From fifty yards I knew something was seriously wrong.

“Rescue 1 on scene.”

Joe carried the girl into the rescue and put here onto our stretcher. The girls mother followed, I put her onto the bench seat.

Vitals upstairs were 112-72 with a rate of 130,” Joe told me.

“What happened?” I asked the mom while getting a pedi non-rebreather ready and handing Stephanie a 24 guage IV catheter. Joe had the glucose equipment ready, poked her finger and waited. I felt her skin, cool and clammy. Her hair was soaked.

It took a while, the mother was near hysterical and unable to communicate clearly the events leading up to the crisis.

“Glucose is 134,” said Joe. “Eyes are fixed to the left.”

I placed the oxygen mask over her face. She still didn’t move.

“IV is in,” said Stephanie, “she didn’t flinch and I stuck her twice.”

“Temp 97.8,” said Dave, another firefighter, a second later.

Josh from Engine 10 got into the rescue’s drivers seat.

“Let’s go.” We had been on scene for two minutes. Hasbro Children’s Hospital was a minute away.

I managed to get some information from the mom. The girl has Cystic Fybrosis and a feeding tube, but other than that is healthy, active and happy. She had been constipated for four days. The mother’s wife (I have no idea) suggested that they mix two Tablespoons of salt and mix it with some water and put the mixture through the tube. Ten minutes later the girl was unresponsive. The mom put her into a tub of cold water. The girl didn’t wake up. She called 911.

The ride to the ER was quick. I called on the way, stating our unit designation, age and condition of the patient and ETA of less than a minute. A medical team had assembled by the time we arrived. We brought the girl into the treatment room and moved her onto the stretcher. She had begun to cry, softly, and open her eyes.

“What have you got,” asked the Doctor in charge. I was three words into what I believed was a fairly cohesive narrative when he put up his hand, dismissing the ambulance driver, and directed his attention to the mom.

Rather than hearing the story, with every detail and vital sign, I even knew the brand of table salt, he decided to ask the still nearly hysterical mom.

As she rambled on I left my report on the desk and walked away. The charge nurse picked the report up immediately and recited the vitals. The girl’s condition was improving when I left a half hour later. The doctor ignored me the entire time. He was a young guy, one I had never seen before. I wonder if past experience with EMS crews was responsible for his actions or if he is simply an idiot.

She sat in the chair; her chair, facing the doorway. She looked comfortable, all of her stuff was nearby, the crossword book, remote control, a cool drink on a worn table. She stared  as I entered, focusing her fear and anger at me.

“She has Parkinsons, and has been forgetting things lately,” said her daughter. She was my age, pretty, looked a lot younger than she was, I suspected. She was troubled. A lot had happened in this room this morning, and the days leading up to it.

“I’m having a lot of trouble moving her,” said an elderly, frail guy, the woman in the chair’s husband. He shook as he spoke, only not from Parkinsons.

“She really is getting difficult, my dad has had chest pains all morning.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” said the man, apologetically. He avoided his wife’s icy glare.

I approached the lady. She set her jaw and continued to stare at her husband, then her daughter, then me.

“What is your name?”

“Eleanor.”

“We have to take you to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

She loosened her jaw, looked at the floor and simply shrank to half her size. We brought the stair chair over, picked her off of her chair and put her in ours. Then we carried her out of her front door, into the blazing late August heat, put her on the stretcher and took her away.

“She needs to be placed,” said the daughter, holding back tears. “My dad can’t take care of her anymore.”

“I’ll follow you,” said the old man.

“Meet us there, okay.”

“Okay.”

That was it. A lifetime together. Quiet times, arguments, sharing the bathroom, cooking, entertaining, raising a family. Living their lives.

It never fails to amaze me how quickly it all ends. I hate being part of it. They will forget the man that took her away within hours. The man will eventually forget, but not for a long time.