He was in the back of the police cruiser, glaring at me. The cops wanted him transported to the hospital for a psych evaluation because he had been threatening some of the residents at his group home. I’ve been down this road with the police a number of times, this patient is considered by their, and our higher ups a medical transport situation for a change of mental status. I spend a lot of time in the streets with the cops, and know and like them, and understand they do as much running around as we do.
Common sense would dictate that the police transport the guy, but I have given up on that a long time ago.
His name was Theodore.
“Theodore, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“Why! They’re lying!”
The staff of the group home stood outside with the police; two ladies in their forties. They watched the proceedings from a safe distance.
One of the cops let him out of the safety of the caged back seat of the cruiser and into the unsafetey of the back of Rescue 1, where I lost my partner last week when a deranged Afghanistan Veteran attacked him during a transport for a change of mental status.
Theodore sat on the bench seat, and waited. The police asked if we should tie him to the stretcher.
“Can’t. He hasn’t done anything.”
Theodore gave me a smile, and relaxed. Kind of like the Afghanistan Vet did last week. We put a seat belt on him and got ready to roll. Rhode Island Hospital was two minutes away.
“He goes to Roger Williams,” said one of the social workers.
“Not today, he’s going to the closest hospital,” I said. Roget Williams is a fifteen minute ride from where we were.
“Our protocols say to take him to Roger Williams!”
“I don’t care what your protocols say.”
“Wait here,” she ordered, and dialed her phone. I have to admit I was rather amused by all of this and wanted to see how it panned out. She talked for a while, then handed the phone to me.
“The supervisor wants to talk to you,” she said smugly.
“Too bad.”
Theodore undid the seat belt and ran from the truck, screaming, “I want to go to Roger Williams!”
He doesn’t know where that is, somebody gave him an excuse to go off the deep end and he did.
We got him back, put him back in his seat, and made him promise to stay put. He was a likable enough guy, about six two and two-fifty. He also moved remarkably fast. I should have had a police officer accompany me during transport, but didn’t. I can be my own worst enemy. I think that somewhere deep down, in a place I don’t like to look, I wanted him to attack me. The primal instinct needed for survival would take over, and I would prevail, and get the adrenaline going, and feel like a real man. Sick, I know, but that’s what happens when you spend too much time dealing with these things.
The police followed us to the closest appropriate medical facility. The staff at the group home is compiling a full report and complaint that they will forward to the proper authorities.
It can’t make it back to me soon enough. I’ve got a lot on my mind.
