“Rescue 1 and Engine 10, respond to 1 Hospital Street for a pregnant female in distress.”

A pregnant female in distress could mean a lot of things. The call is dispatched as an Advanced Life Support run, an Engine company and a rescue.

The doctor’s office we were called to is connected by a long tunnel to the emergency room. A walk of perhaps 200 yards. Being called to a hospital to take a patient to the hospital is a common occurrence, sadly. A lady dressed in scrubs looked up from a report when we arrived.

“Christ, how many are they going to send!”

Not off to a great start.

We wheeled the stretcher past the waiting room and reception area, toward the treatment rooms in the back. The lady in scrubs followed.

“Would the entire fire department show up for a real emergency?” she asked, no attempt to disguise the contempt in her voice. We kept wheeling.

Going downhill.

Sitting on the doctor’s examination table was a thirty year old woman, thirty weeks into her third pregnancy in no obvious distress.

“Hello,” I said.  She smiled nervously. Four firefighters from Engine 10 filled the small space.

“They sent the Army,” said the person who met us at the door, chuckling. “This is how they spend your tax dollars in Providence.”

I fired off a warning glance to scrub lady, who completely ignored me.

“How are you feeling,” I asked the patient. Before she could answer the representative from the doctor’s office chimed in.

“She’s going to the ER.”

“Why,” I asked.

“Because they’re waiting for her.”

hippopotamus one, hippopotamus two, hippopotamus three….

“Really.”

One of the firefighters recited her vital signs, all normal. I have to give them credit for acting like professionals. Sadly, this is business as usual. People who should know better than to abuse the 911 system are concerned only with their bottom line and liability. “Turfing the Gomers” is a term I first heard in the book House of God, all about a first year intern in a New York City hospital and his disillusionment with the health care system. It was written in the late seventies, I think. Things have gone downhill since then.

What is your name?” I asked the patient. No Gomer here, just a patient.

“Maria Hernandez,” replied the lady in scrubs.

“I’m talking to the patient,” I said.

hippopotamus four, hippopotamus five, hippopotamus six…

“How are you feeling?” I asked the patient. She was a nice lady, embarrassed by all the attention. She wanted to go home.

“She may be dehydrated, the doctor wants her seen at the emergency room.”

The scrub lady was starting to get to me.

hippopotamus seven, hippopotamus eight, hippopotamus nine…

Hippo Ten waited. I hoped he stayed in his pen.

“I feel okay, just a little weak,” said Maria.

“You guys are all set,” I said to the man in charge of the Engine Company. They gathered their equipment and left. Me and Brian put Maria on our stretcher and got rolling. I stayed behind for a minute.

“What is your name?” I asked Scrub Lady, holding my pen to the report she had handed me a moment ago.

“Why?” she asked, a little curious.

“Because I’m filing a report to the Department of Health explaining this office’s continuing disregard for the sanctity of the 911 system, insurance fraud,  and your squandering of taxpayer dollars for reporting  a false 911 call. It’s a criminal offense.”

I turned and walked away. Hippo Ten went back to bed, we walked the patient to the ER.

The staff at the office are well aware that this debacle will cost the patient, or the patient’s insurance company about four hundred dollars. It is easier to call 911 than to wait for transport, or a private ambulance company, or, heaven forbid, put the patient in a wheelchair and bring her themselves.

My report will get squashed somewhere, and I’ll never hear another word. But, the look on Scrub Lady’s face was priceless.