My kids took sailing lessons there. Friends have married there.  I always thought it would be there.

I drive by it every day, most times never looking down the hill. Today I slowed to a crawl, and looked down the hill, and it was gone. And it isn’t coming back. I just thought it would always be there.

So many things are taken away when I’m not looking. So many memories are just that, memories-because the things and people that created those memories are gone. And they are never coming back.

I don’t think things will always be there anymore.

I need to see and appreciate what I have at this very moment, because those things too could be gone in an instant. And they could never come back.

He’s on the floor in his bathroom, the pain in his leg excruciating after a fall off the toilet onto the hard tile. His wife sits in the bedroom, staring blankly. He begs her to call 911, to get some help moving. She continues to stare. Eventually the people from the assisted living facility do their rounds and find him. He’s in tough shape, been down for hours. Still, she stares. He’s supposed to take care of her, that’s the way it works when one of you gets Alzheimer’s Disease, and the ‘for better or worse’ part of the deal kicks in. At ninety years old, though, taking care of somebody else is a daunting task on your best days, impossible when you’re on the floor unable to get up.

We arrive, and talk to him, and roll him onto his side, and secure him to the board, and put a collar around his neck, then put him onto the stretcher and wheel him out of what has been their home for the last fourteen years.  She barely notices, and if she does she doesn’t show it. He tries to look at her as he rolls away, but his head is secured to the backboard and he can only look up.

http://firecritic.com/2011/01/the-black-diamond-fire-and-ems-blog-of-the-year-2010-2011-contest-has-begun/

I hope somebody nominates Rescuing Providence…hint, hint

Waking up is hard to do, harder still when the reason for the waking, after half an hour’s sleep, at four o’clock in the morning, is a twenty-something year old lying in bed complaining of aches since midnight-and she lives less than a mile from the ER, and her husband has the car running in the driveway so he doesn’t get a chill while following us. The fight or flight mechanism in our brains just doesn’t click, and sleepwalking through the run the norm.

Getting up is a little easier when the call is for a woman down at a “Social Club,” one that you are fairly certain is headquarters of one of the local swingers clubs. Funny how easy it is to rise when you are greeted at the door by several ladies in lingerie, and your victim is a thirty something year old, similarly dressed, complaining of back pain from landing on a futon a little too enthusiastically.

Ah, the ups and downs of life on a Providence Rescue. It really is exhausting.

He looked at her, smug smile on his face, the face we all know, the one that says I’ve seen it all, know it all and don’t give a shit, usually plastered on a five year “crusty veteran” whose sensibilities have been replaced by visions of grandeur emphasized by the mutual admiration society that poisons any organization that deals with public safety. There are always the few that think they are above the people we are paid to help, that because they managed to get on a municipal payroll and are affiliated with a fire department their mere presence gives them the right to judge.

“Take the razor and go up and down if you want to do it right,” he said the her, a twenty year old girl with small sideways scratches on her wrist, insignificant blood loss but quite significant emotional wounds.

I suppose Mr. Crusty old veteran firefighter has seen it all. I guess he saw the twenty eight year old former NHL player smashed at the foot of a tall building on Thursday. I suppose he saw the nineteen year old kid who hung himself from his kitchen light Saturday Night. Maybe he had the girl last week who overdosed and was found dead in the public rest room. Or the guy who blew his brains out in his car the week before Christmas. Or the one who closed his garage door and started his car and let it run till it ran out of gas, because there was nobody to turn it off, because he was dead. I guess he just doesn’t care, or he has it all figured out, and everybody is full of shit, and the ones that mean it do it, and the ones that don’t make little scratches.

A lot of these people are not coming back Mr. Tough Guy with your suicide lessons. So get back in your firetruck and keep your comments to yourself, and let the people who belong here handle the patients.

“Mr. Watson! To the buggy, another case is afoot!”

We left the station and travelled a mile and a half to find a school bus, stopped by the side of the road. Inside were students of a most delicate age, thirteen years to perhaps fifteen. A person stood by the doorway that led to the interior of the vehicle and waved us over.

“What have we here, madame?”  I inquired to the  matron of the bus.

“A boy is inside, sir, and he is bleeding.”

“Bleeding! Stand aside! Mr. Watson, gather the supplies, we have a life in jeopardy and a mystery to solve!

The woman stood her ground, and whispered in my ear before I could render assistance to the unfortunate lad.

“He’s trouble, I tell you, beware of this one, he’s cunning as a cat and sly as a fox.”

“We shall see about that, my dear. A boy is bleeding, I have no concern for his demeanor,” I said abruptly. “Now stand aside!”

Mr. Watson joined me and we entered the cylindrical vehicle. On either side were children, some laughing, some daydreaming. Halfway down the tube a young man sat, his face crimson. He smiled, revealing a row of bloody teeth.

“Great Scott man! What has happened here?”

A man, geriatric in age, perhaps forty if my eyes were true stood behind the victim, a stern look on his craggy face.

“He’s got blood on his hands, I tell you! Blood! He refuses to cooperate, and thinks this is a joke!”

“And who…are you?” I asked the old codger.

“I’m his one on one.”

“His one on one? What pray Jesus is that?”

“He’s a behavioral risk, I’m assigned to him, and him only.”

“Surely you jest, he’s but a boy.”

“Aye, a boy who causes nothing but trouble!”

The boy gave me a wicked grin, baring the bloody teeth once more.

“He is quite ghastly,” said Mr. Watson.

“He may be ghastly, my dear Watson, but he is still a human being!”

“Young man, what has caused you to present with such a hideous face?”

“It’s a joke,” he replied. “Nothing but a joke.”

“Know this my precious little horror, a bloody mouth and bloody hands is a serious, complicated matter. I need to know exactly what has befallen you to cause this dilemma. Are you in pain?”

“No, it’s a joke, I tell you. Nobody will listen! It’s Halloween candy. Look!”

He opened his pack and revealed an assortment of blood red gel caps.

“I wanted to scare the bus driver.”

“Great Scott, man you certainly succeeded! You managed to alert the fire department, the police department and Scotland Yard! Fine mornings work if I do say so!”

“We have to get him to a hospital,” said the One on One. “He needs medical attention! He says it’s only candy, but I believe he is capable of murder.”

“Murder? Are you mad, man, he’s just a silly boy.”

The prankster opened his mouth and grinned. He certainly was a devilish character.

“Mr. Watson, we have a bag full of evidence, to wit, some theatrical candies left over from Halloween. We also have a comedian it appears, one who successfully pulled off a great prank. It is my opinion we let him be, and let the Dean of Discipline handle this one.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, Dr. Holmes.”

“There is no Dean of Discipline,” said the One on One.

“Elementary, sir. And that is the only problem here. Mr. Watson! Gather our things, there’s a city full of cases waiting to be solved. Our work here is finished!”

We left the bus, much to the dismay of the driver, the monitor and the One on One whose only concern was to get rid of the troublemaker. The passengers were delighted by all the fuss.

“Sometimes you need to let them be kids, Mr. Watson,” I said to my trustworthy companion as we boarded our own vehicle and watched the bus continue it’s journey.

“Elementary, Dr. Holmes. I just wonder why they let the inmates run the asylum.”

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2009/10/07/one-hand-pizza/

I knew that burn must have hurt.

A little deja vu from New Years Eve.

It’s freezing and my sock has a hole in the heel and my shoe is rubbing and now I have a blister. The patients are driving me nuts, Captain Chaos continues to make life impossible at the fire station and I’m hungry.

One thing will make me happy, and one thing only.

Soup.

The Dudley Street Cafe has the greatest soup anywhere. They also have a huge variety that they rotate weekly. Two choices, one will be a winner, I’m sure.

I drop off the patient and walk the hallway toward my salvation, or salivation, I’m not sure. I take the long way, the Au Bon Pain lady gives me dirty looks when I pass her stand inside the waiting room and don’t buy anything.

The line is long, but I can wait forever for a good bowl of soup. I approach, and start to worry. Something is wrong. The closer I get, the more anxious I become. Then, I find out why.

“Today’s Soup:

Creamy Tomato

or

Curried Apple”

They’re trying to kill me.

He found his way out of the woods of Woonsocket and into the streets of Providence. I hope he gives it another chance, he is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, homeless, addicted, lost or not.

I heard it but couldn’t believe it.

“Rescue 1, respond to 232 Ellery Street for a female with “Pizza Burns.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

It’s New Years Eve, well, New Years Day, actually and it’s an all out drunken slug fest in Providence. Assaults are the  number one call, stabbings, falls and intoxicateds filling the middle, with  the customary elderly stragglers bringing up the rear. Thankfully, no shootings-yet.

We made the usual remarks, the “can you believe they called us for this” variety, punctuated with some ridiculous notions of co-pays, fines and legal ramifications for 911 abuse. It never occurred to me that the patient might actually be in pain.

“Rescue 1, stage for police, this is now a domestic assault.”

“Assaulted with a pizza. now I’ve heard everything.”

We waited at the corner, watched some patrol cars pull in front of the house, and then watched the officers enter through a side door.

“Rescue 1, the scene is secure.”

“Watch out for flying pizzas,” I said as we climbed the stairs toward the second floor apartment.

A woman in her late twenties sat at the kitchen table, a loose robe around her shoulders, tears streaming down her face. A guy in his late twenties, in handcuffs, was marched past us, down the stairs and out the door. I approached the woman, she shied away at first, then let me look at her back and neck. Burns. Pizza burns. Second degree burns are the most painful, and her skin was covered in them. Blisters were forming, her neck and shoulders, her arms and hands took the brunt of the attack.

We applied some dressings and administerd some morphine, which helped a little. She told her story to the female police officer that was on scene while we treated her. This has been a four year struggle, kicks, punches, verbal abuse, now this. He took a pizza from the oven and threw it at her. She was able to turn at the last second, the pizza hit her in the back. The officer asked what she was wearing. She answered shyly, “a nightgown.”

I pictured the whole thing in my head as I listened. New Years Eve. A party, lots of drinking, coming home, she’s looking forward to a romantic night, he’s looking in the fridge for more beer, she puts on a nice nightgown, he wants to keep on drinking, she begs him to stop, he gets mad, she gets her feelings hurt, he gets frustrated, she yells, he yells back, she calls him some names, he throws the pizza.

They took him to jail and charged him with felony assault. We took her to the hospital. She told us he has threatened to kill her, and probably will.

Happy New Year.

At the hospital, we wheeled her in, past the people who looked so pretty six hours ago, before the drinking got out of hand, and the punches started to fly, and the cars started to crash and the knives came out. The triage area was busy, I put her off to the side. When it was my turn, I started to tell the story.

“Twenty-nine year old with pizza Burns.”

“You have got to be kidding,” said the triage nurse.

I wish it were that simple.

Never one to end things on a sour note, I offer this:

Every one of us who can do this job , and do it well possesses the ability to transcend ourselves for brief periods, then return. It can be no other way. It wouldn’t be possible to survive in the state of action, emotion and power we are thrust into by events we have no control over.

I held a dying man’s shattered head in my hands the other night. During the time he was in my care nothing else mattered, not the coming New year, the drunk guy who delayed my response, the weather, the past or the future. Without even being aware, my love for my fellow human being took over, and allowed me to focus on the life in front of me; not the blood, gore or hysteria surrounding us or the inevitable outcome, but rather doing all I could to prolong his life and give him a chance.

A different man might have been in Rescue 1 a few month’s prior to this call, emotionally unstable after clubbing his English Bulldog to death with a bat and dragging him through the neighborhood on a leash as the neighbors watched, horrified. That this guy could be the same man never entered my mind as we worked on him, and got him to the ER, ready for surgery.

We get through the monotony, exhaustion and frustration, survive the nightmares and flashbacks and do it all over again. We are given the ability to perform five minute miracles for a reason, and I’ll be damned if I know what that reason is, but I do know that I love it, and am grateful for the opportunity to do so, again and again.

*Whiner Alert*

Proceed if you must, but be warned, Lt. Morse has taken too many bitter pills.

Mark, from medic 999 http://http://999medic.com/ asked some bloggers to write a post on our expectations for the new year. I wrote this in early December. Things can be pretty demoralizing around here, I hope things are much better elsewhere. Every now and then a call comes my way where we make a difference, and that is what keeps me coming back for more.  Even so, I’m running on empty, and have been for years. This blog, or more accurately the people who honor me by visiting has played a huge part in my decision to keep going. I don’t have to do this, there is a nice, shiny fire engine quartered right next to Rescue 1, a move would be as simple as a sentence on a form, sent into headquarters. My call volume would be cut by two thirds, and I’d get to fight some fire once again. Or, I could leave it all behind and begin another chapter.

Truth be told, I’m a pretty addictive person, and I’m addicted to this.

I’ll be taking a little time off from the blog, it seems like I’ve been forcing things lately. Happy New Year, and as always, thanks for stopping by!

New Year, Same Old Same Old.

I’ll be entering my twentieth year as a member of the Providence Fire Department in 2011, ten years as a firefighter/EMT, ten as a Rescue Lieutenant.

Twenty and out.

I didn’t start with this in mind, I thought I would stay until they dragged me out the door, kicking and screaming. Sadly, most days now I come to work kicking and screaming. An endless barrage of calls waits for me every day, and every night. There are never enough resources to meet the demands of the citizens, who have become increasingly demanding. The 911 system has been cheapened by a society that truly believes that the world revolves around them, and their problems. Our leaders, afraid of lawsuits send advanced life support vehicles to anybody and everybody who calls 911, and we are instructed to provide free rides to emergency rooms for any reason whatsoever. All a person need do is call 911, complain of a malady as common as a toothache or runny nose, and a vehicle staffed with trained medical professionals will show up at their door, normally within seven minutes, with lights and sirens leading the way.

Healthcare for profit now includes Emergency Medical Services for profit. The bottom line is more important than patient care. Getting more for less is the norm. A relentless media whose quest for truth is compromised by saleability of a story, and the ratings and subsequent revenue generated by them waits for opportunity to strike, and an anomaly to occur so the system can be “exposed” and the people who respond to emergencies be vilified, and stripped of their positions, and have their reputations destroyed all in the name of an “exclusive.”

Bad things happen. They happen all the time. Sometimes all we do isn’t enough. Sometimes it takes too long for us to get there, or a call is mishandled, an assessment incorrect. I’ve done my damndest to be flawless, but the law of averages is against me. How long before I slip up, and somebody dies? I can handle the lawsuits and media exposure, the ridicule and disciplinary action.  What worries me is how I would handle the guilt.

I’ll be watching from the sidelines after this year, maybe with a different perspective. Being in the trenches clouds ones ability to see the problem clearly.  It’s time to clear the view.

*addendum: It’s really not all that bad, I’m just tired.