Traces or red fills the western sky as sunset looms. Travelers throughout the city of Providence, Nomads really, the wanderlust in their blood, along with other, man made things, begin to drop. On the waterfront, near the courthouse, the homeless shelters and on the streets. Rescues are sent, one at a time, then all at once to assist these “men down.” Between the hours of five and eight, three hours, hoards of them are gathered and brought to the emergency room. Those who take care of these urban outdoorsmen wonder if there is something in the air that causes them to fall. Is there some cosmic reason for this mass hysteria, or, is it something far more sinister, an evil plot perhaps, poison, or mind control.

We bring them to detox, and they act like men possessed, and spit and swear at the healers, and some need to be restrained, and some try to flee, and some know each other, and they fight amongst themselves like animals. Hours later, as darkness descends and the poison leaves their blood, they are released, sane men for the moment, but only until they find more of the magic elixir that gives them temporary respite from their demons, but ultimately prevails, and rips the dignity from their souls.

And society points their fingers at these degenerates while glorifying and making obscene profits from the substance that causes so much misery.

Strong work, Brothers and Sisters!

Thankfully everybody got out safe. Sorry I missed it, we (Rescue 1, first due, one minute from scene unless…) were dispatched to assist a twenty five year old woman, pregnant with her fifth child who was having abdominal pains a few minutes prior to the fire. We have been to her house many times, she lives half a mile from the hospital.

Yeah, we’ve got our problems, and lots of them, but I’d much rather be part of the society that takes in the fifty-three year old woman in need of life saving heart surgery than be stuck wherever she came from whose culture either cannot afford to, or simply does not wish to care for their own.

She sat in a dark apartment, with her coat on because it was freezing in there, two directors chairs that probably came from Wal-mart the only furniture in the place, other than a twin sized bed, without a headboard or sheets, but at least it was covered with a blanket in the tiny bedroom. She had difficulty communicating with us at first, my limited Spanish just enough to let me know she was sick. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to lift herself off of one of the chairs and walk to the stretcher we had at the door, ten feet away. I helped her.

In a way, we all helped her, I was just the arm.

That is what we do here in America. We help people. We have plenty, complain all day about how much the other guy has, but in the end, we’re okay, with a roof over our heads, and enough to eat, and supermarkets full of food, albeit expensive food, but the basics are there, and we can afford them if we want, might have to put the cell phones down for a while and get rid of a few apps, but we can afford to live here, and live well, and still lend a hand.

We got her to the hospital. Her blood pressure was 78/40, heart rate 140, tears rolling down her face, bloody stool for three days, dizzy, weak and alone. She had had open heart surgery in February, done by the most respected heart team in the area, a very well known doctor the lead surgeon. People wait for months for this man. That a poor woman with nothing was his patient filled me with pride. I must be getting soft, one day I’m on a tirade about illegal immigrants,the next I’m in their living room, proud to be the figurehead of a society that takes them in.

I don’t know, we’ve come to a place where it will be impossible to keep it up. I only hope that the rest of the world catches up with us, morally, financially and compassionately. And we can all, as human beings with similar hopes and dreams and problems take care of our own, no matter from where we came.

Speaking of coming from places, my brother put his boots on the ground in Afghanistan this morning as part of the 115th Military Police Brigade, and will spend the next year guarding Taliban fighters.

Did I mention I’m proud to be part of this society? I am, and still wish there was a better way, but we do what we must to get it right, here and half-way around the world, and hopefully, within my lifetime I’ll start to see some progress toward that end.

Stay safe, brother, and stand tall, we’ll do our part to keep this a peaceful, benevolent society with opportunity and compassion for people who need and deserve it. And I suppose the ones that do not will manage to get theirs, but at the end of the day we will know we’ve done our best.

They put the lonely woman into intensive care. I wonder why she lived in an empty apartment with no furniture.

http://www.boston.com/lifestyle/health/articles/2011/04/20/for_doctors_social_media_a_tricky_case/?page=full

It has often occurred to me that this blog may not be the brightest idea I’ve ever had, and it may only be a matter of time before somebody puts two and two together and recognizes themselves in something I’ve written. One post that I wrote involving a motorcycle accident on Route 95 had a number of comments from people who witnessed the crash. I figured “Rescuing Providence” had arrived, and my blog was the place to find out all the latest news. Then I realized what was really happening; people would Google “motorcycle accident on Rt. 95″ and viola, my story would pop up on the first page. Lesson learned, thankfully not too late.

I write about a lot of things here, but try and stay away from the traditional headline newsworthy stories. I didn’t realize why I did it, maybe some instinctual survival mechanism, or a guardian angel, or maybe it is simply that I like to find interesting things in seemingly uninteresting people and situations, but I’m glad I did, and continue to do so. I just don’t like to write about the truly disturbing things that go on around here.

I honestly have no desire to be a news reporter, or capitalize on somebody else’s misfortune. I like to write, and the city gives me an endless supply of things to write about. So far, so good on the recognition scale, and if somebody does notice something oddly familiar in one of my posts, hopefully it was done in such a way as to not exploit the person, or persons, and give them no reason to file a complaint.

I don’t know what the doctor who was fined and fired wrote about, and I certainly don’t want to ever have to explain this little piece of social media to people who have the power to terminate me. I just hope I continue to have the good sense to keep people who need to be anonymous anonymous.

Thanks for reading.

She waited on the front steps, purse in one hand, cigarette in the other. When she saw us approach, the cigarette was flicked to the side and she bent over and held her stomach, but manged to shuffle toward the rescue.

“What took so long?” She asked. “I have to lay down,” she said. “Give me a bucket,” she demanded.

At least she walked to the truck.

“Wait, my boyfriend is coming.” she said. he joined us.

“What took so long?” he asked.

“What is wrong?” I asked the patient.

“I woke up sick.”

We started toward the ER.

“I hate this hospital,” she said.

“She better not have to wait,” he said.

We pulled the stretcher out of the back, and brought her in. Multiply that by 100 a month.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?

I wonder if they have a program for Frequent Flyer Burnout Syndrome

http://www.jems.com/article/health-and-safety/battling-pstd-brattleboro

He volunteered at the senior center for a few years before the people who ran the place recognized his value and gave him a job. It didn’t pay much, but he didn’t need much, and he enjoyed helping the people from his generation who suffered with dementia. Alzheimer’s Disease is cruelly random on whom it chooses to attack. It very well could be the other way around, he figured, with him forgetting his wife’s name, or who his kids were.

He doesn’t forget his wife’s name, or that he has an obligation to keep their marriage alive and vibrant, even fifty-eight years later. I saw him a few months ago, dressed in a nice sport coat, starched shirt and snazzy tie.

“Where you going, El?” I asked, “All dressed up.”

“You should know, young man,” he grinned. “It’s Valentines Day. I’m taking Mrs. El to The Coast Guard House for dinner, and maybe a little dancing.”

He looked sharp, and had a little skip to his walk as he left that day, not knowing that by next week he would be let go from his little job that gave him the ability to take his wife out for a night on the town. It was a different man I saw then.

“What happened, El?” I asked when I saw him, shoulders slumped, walking a little slower, a lost look in his eye. He had just left a meeting with the administrator, during which he begged for his job back. His pleas fell on deaf ears.

“A lady I was helping take care of put a little ball in her mouth,” he explained. “It was part of a game they were playing, little bowling pins set up, then knocked over with the ball. I was worried she would choke. I called for the nurse, but she wasn’t moving fast enough. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I reached into her mouth and got hold of the ball and pulled it out. She doesn’t know any better and might have died.”

“Sounds like you’re a here. So why the long face?”

“They fired me.” His eyes glistened now as he thought of his situation. His “little job” meant far more to him than anybody, himself included realized. An elderly man, one who lived his life in charge, and fought in the Korean War, then came home and spent forty years at Gorham’s, a fine gifts manufacturer based in Rhode Island that closed its doors a decade ago, the ruins of the remaining buildings razed over the years until there was nothing left of a piece of his personal history except for his memories.

He survived a war, raised a family, worked his way to a position of respect in a company that no longer existed and ultimately found purpose helping those who needed somebody their own age, with similar life stories, only to be let go by somebody his grandchildren’s age because of a potential liability issue.

“Can you come in next week?” the administrator asked him. “We’d like to give you a going away party.”

He didn’t come in “next week.” Now he spends his days going to the gym, walking, pulling weeds in the springtime and wishing that if he had to get old, at least with that age could come some dignity, and purpose.

We pulled the latest patient from the adult daycare center, walked past El who looked as lost an lonely as the patients he once cared for. And in their own way, had cared for him.

I hope they miss him, or even realize that he is gone now.

I complain a lot about the people who abuse “the system” and take advantage of the benefits that the society we have created offers. These benefits, such as the 911 system serve a purpose, and though the purpose has been distorted and abused, there are those who do need us, and appreciated what we offer, and lean on us when the life they once took for granted comes crashing down.

It is these people that make it all worthwhile. I am constantly reminded how fragile is the human body, and mind. For every person who convinces themselves that they are ill, or deserve others to fund their habits and self-destructive behavior there is another who through no fault of their own contracted some horrific disease or had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and find themselves immobile, temporarily or for good.

Though difficult at times, it is essential that I look past the abusers and see through them, for on the other side of them are people who deserve our help, and when I show up at their door, or their vehicle, or their side I need to put the baggage away, and start fresh.

Everybody deserves a chance, and to not be judged by the actions of others. I posses the ability, education and desire to help people who need it, and that truly is a blessing, the evidence of my good fortune presented to me constantly. From the moment I open my eyes until sleep takes over hours, or sometimes days later life comes at me, and I’m able to handle most of it with ease. I can stand, and walk, and think, and my hands work the way they are supposed to, and I’m not sick from chemo, and the pain is manageable without medications that dull my thought process and leave wanting more. I’m not burdened with the grief that comes with watching loved ones suffer and die before their time. There are a lot of people who are not as fortunate.

In all probability, eventually it will be me, or somebody close to me at the mercy of somebody, either a firefighter, an EMT or Paramedic, and when that need arises, I hope that whoever shows up is able to put aside the baggage, and see me for who I am, not a problem, or a job; rather a person whose circumstances led him to have to call for a stranger’s help.

Come to think of it, I need to find a way to put aside the baggage every time a stranger calls.

I will release the prisoner only when she confesses!

Without rules, this place would be a madhouse! Dang cats are running the asylum.

I honestly don’t know how much longer I can respond to 911 emergency calls, ride through the city with lights and sirens as people may or may not move to the right, kids may or may not speed up their little ghetto walks and may or may not stare us down when we blast them with the digital air horn, and arrive on scene for the difficulty breathing to find a person much younger than me lying in bed in her rent subsidized housing, surrounded by family members with cars nicer than mine lining the street, and communicate with them in my Sesame Street Spanish that I took the effort to learn, and carry her out of her rent subsidized home and into my rescue, and ask her her name in Spanish, and have her answer so softly and indecipherable a name that I have never heard of and have no idea how to spell, and the take from her the state subsidized-no scratch that- the completely state paid for medical card, the one that boldly states on the back “Emergency Room co-pay-0 Dr.s Office Copay-o Prescription Copay-o” and write down her name and date of birth, then pretend at the triage desk that I have a real patient when in actuality I have a person who has a cold and wants free medication that I would pay for at the local CVS, then get back in the rescue and turn on the radio and hear about the greedy municipal employees who want more and more and how they should be paying their fair share for health care and then get back to the station and pick up the paper and read about how the police and firefighters pensions are crippling the state and then wait a minute before another one calls and I do it all over again.

I honestly don’t know.

Top Ten Signs You Have Become a Blog Snob

10. “No comments! How dare they!”
9. A hit counter displayed on the main page
8. “I got no time to read anybody else’s blog!”
7. The booze, the broads…
6. Your blog is your favorite page
5. “Respond to comments? Are you kidding me? I barely have time to write the posts!”
4. “Hey! I wrote about the same thing five years ago! Plagiarism!”
3. “Ambulance Driver Schmambulance Driver.”
2. “What, this wasn’t good enough for JEMS Connect? Screw them!”
1. “That’s it, no comments, no Rescuing Providence!”

I just got off the phone with The Happy Medic and mentioned my lack of participation in anybodies but my own blog. Got me thinking.

Thanks HM, I’ve got some soul searching to do.

http://www.jems.com/article/news/conflict-arises-over-ems-respo

It WILL happen here, and when it does, watch the cover-ups as the politicians and brass start their spin. I’ve written on this topic for years, had OP/EDS in the Providence Journal, called talk shows, written numerous blog posts, all for nothing. Until somebody of consequence gets killed nothing will be done, and the Providence Fire Department’s EMS division will continue to be under staffed, underfunded and overwhelmed. Somehow, the people in the street will end up getting the blame. I can hardly wait for the finger pointing to begin, too bad somebody must die before something gets done. Somebody important that is.

Providence Journal, 2007
When Seconds Count….

Twelve people manning six rescues in a city of 180,000 is woefully inadequate by anybody’s standards. The dozen medics on call manage to provide Emergency Medical Services to the people of Providence in an efficient, professional manner when they are available. Their lack of availability is the issue.

http://www.projo.com/opinion/contributors/content/CT_morse20_11-20-07_AL7LTKO_v26.2a7ab8c.html

From “Rescuing Providence” Chapter 1, page 12

“The crew of Engine 3 assisted us as we loaded the patient into the truck. I noticed that Donna was not with them. She was helping load a motor vehicle accident victim into the rescue a few weeks ago. While lifting the stretcher into the back of the truck, she heard and felt a “pop” in her sternum area. Further tests indicated the presence of a growth behind the breastbone. She is a great kid, one of the few women on the department and very well liked throughout the job. We deal with sick people all day long with detached efficiency, but when it’s one of us, the reality of our vulnerability hits home. This job has a way of making you feel invincible; untouched by the sickness and suffering we surround ourselves with daily. It seems inconceivable that one of our own may have succumbed to something only “other” people have to deal with. I hope she is all right.”

Looks like she’s all right.

Well done, Donna, it’s a pleasure to work with you.

http://www.projo.com/lifebeat/content/thrive_whats_your_workout_0404_04-11-11_JQN30_v8.581d5e.html

It’s all clear now. I live with an alien.

http://www.wheelchairkamikaze.com/2011/04/accidental-alien.html

(My other half was diagnosed with MS in 1991)

When I am King

CONSIDERING:
You are only as old as you feel. and

BECAUSE:
I feel like I’m one-hundred and fifty. and

DUE TO:
The fact that I have an insurmountable list of tasks to complete. and

IT IS MY UNDERSTANDING

My life expectancy of one-hundred and fifty years, minus forty-nine already lived leaves me with one-hundred and one years left. therefore

I SURMISE

I have plenty of time to finish the insurmountable pile of tasks. so…

IN CONCLUSION

I hereby decree today a day of official loafing.

So it is written, so it shall be done!

He laid there, in the bushes next to the railroad track and waited. I wonder how many trains passed before he made his move. One? Three? A dozen? Maybe the first one. Maybe, if he waited any longer he would have changed his mind.

He didn’t wait. You feel the faint vibrations before you hear it, see it long before you hear it, it is upon you and you never hear it coming. Unless the engineer blows the whistle, which he said he did, far too late.

He saw a shadow emerge from some overgrowth next to the tracks behind the Stop and Shop, in an empty field that used to be the home of The Redd Foxx Ginger Ale Company. The building was long gone, broken glass from empty soda bottles that will never be filled littered the sand, sparkling in the sunlight. I always stop and look at places like these when I get the chance, the contrast between urban blight, progress and beauty draws me in. I guess the driver of the train will always remember sights like this as well, only his memory will be scarred by the shadow that sprang from his hiding place, ran toward the tracks, and threw himself in front of the train.

Quarter sized pieces of flesh littered the landscape, covered the tracks and railroad ties, and the gravel next to them, and mingled with the colored glass. It was impossible to avoid the blobs of humanity as I walked toward the carcass. His head was gone, his legs disintegrated and his torso torn open. I swear a mist of blood hung in the air, filling my nostrils, entering my lungs and traveling through my bloodstream as I walked closer to the body, sheet in hand. In the distance, cars sped past, probably looked over the embankment and saw us, but had no idea how it felt to inch closer to the mangled corpse, stepping on parts of him, wondering where the head was, or if it even still existed.

I covered the body with the sheet, my skin crawling now, my mind a blur as the oppressive atmosphere took over. I nearly fainted, and couldn’t breathe for a minute, but slowly things returned to normal, and I went back in service when the coroner arrived. As normal as they can be, anyway.

I was watching a movie last night, and a teenage kid was considering jumping off a bridge, and the people who made the movie did great job of capturing the moment, and as my wife watched the movie and enjoyed the story, I was in an abandoned field full of broken glass, and the coppery smell filled my nostrils, and the blobs of gristle littered the floor of my bedroom, and I closed my eyes, and couldn’t breathe, and when I opened them, the kid had decided not to jump, and my wife asked me where I was.

“I’m right here.”

Just a little detour. It comes with the territory.

“Dr. Watson! To the coach, the game is afoot!”

“”Has a heinous crime occurred?”

“Perhaps, the investigation is already underway. Our reconnaissance team has discovered a twenty-nine year old male, unconscious in the ladies room of the local Burlesque!”

“I do enjoy the Burlesque, Mr. Holmes.”

“Elementary, My Dear, Watson, Elementary!”

We drove to the destination in amiable silence, the hi-lo wail of the siren piercing the mist as the fog rolled in from the Port of Providence. A hound crossed our path, not hurriedly as one would expect, but in a nonchalant fashion reserved only for the most cagey of city beast. He stopped before entering a vacant lot through an opening in the wrought iron fencing, turned his head to the moon and emitted a guttural howl.

“Turn down that siren if you will, Dr. Watson, no sense disturbing the nocturnal inhabitants of this desolate place.”

“The coyote has made a remarkable resurgence, Mr. Holmes.”

“Correct, Dr. Watson, the more we progress, the further we regress.”

We turned into the parking area of our destination, stopped our rescue wagon at the front doors of the place and disembarked. Dr. Watson retrieved the stretcher from the rear of the wagon and I made my way past two fierce guardians who glared at me, as I returned an equally fierce look of consternation their way. The denizens of these places are a tough lot, and must be treated with the same degree of intimidation techniques they themselves use.

The fire brigade that had arrived prior to us filled me in.

“We have a man in his twenties, wearing tight leather pants and no more, lying on his back in the ladies room, unconscious with no response to painful stimuli. We’re bagging him now.”

“Great Scott! Does he have a pulse?”

“Indeed, and a strong one at that.”

The patrons of this den of inequity parted way as Dr. Watson, the Lieutenant and myself made our way to the Ladies room. The Men’s room was across the hall, and ladies, some pretty, others, well, manly, all in various stages of undress came and went.

“What sort of madhouse have we entered?”

“Swingers Ball, I suppose,” said Dr. Watson.

“It is a strange world, Dr. Watson. Quick, no time for distractions. We have a man in his twenties, in a state of unconsciousness, wearing only leather pants. What could possibly have befallen this lad?”

“A beating, perhaps?”

“No sign of trauma.”

“Too much champagne at the fountain?”

“He would flinch when I tweak his nipple. Look here!”

I pinched his nipple between my thumb and forefinger and gave a hearty “tweak.” He did not flinch.

“Perhaps he is plagued with the sugar?”"

“I think not. Gentlemen, look about! Is there evidence of laudanum ingestion, opium or other narcotic substances afoot?”

“Look here! A syringe and the corner of a plastic bag, in the trash!” said Dr. Watson.

“It is as I suspected. Prepare the antidote, let’s bring this corpse back from his early demise.”

The squad got to the task of preparing the necessary delivery devices for the administration of the antidote, also known as Naloxone, a dandy little invention used to counter opiate overdose.

“Shall we start an intravenous?” asked Dr. Watson.

“I think not. The less time I spend in this wicked place the happier I shall be. In intra muscular administration will have to suffice.”

One of the men held the victims arm, and Dr. Watson pushed a 22 guage needle into the triceps muscle, depressed the plunger and covered the injection site with a sterile dressing. Then, we waited. It wasn’t long.

“Who, are you!” exclaimed our hitherto unconscious person.

“We are the men who saved you from an early demise, young sir. Your affinity for opiates was nearly your undoing!”

The victim regained his bearings, rubbed his irritated nipple and tried to flee. We would have none of that, the antidote would not last long, and respiratory arrest a real possibility.

“You will have to come with us,” I informed my ungrateful charge. He struggled, and attempted to worm his way away from us but we held fast, and escorted the young man away from the place that nearly did him in. He remained steadfast in his denial of illegal substance use, all the way to The Yard, where he was placed under constant observation.

“When will they learn, Mr. Holmes?” asked Watson as we returned to headquarters.

I neatly packed my pipe with a fine tobacco, lit a match which illuminated the interior of the wagon and puffed, filling the space with aromatic smoke. Watson lowered his window but did not complain.

“Sadly, Watson, for him, I believe it will not be until it is too late. This case may be over for tonight, but it is far from closed. Our young friend has a long way to go, and may fall victim to his own demons.”

“Elementary, Mr. Holmes.”

We returned to our chambers, each lost in our own thoughts.

“Goodnight, Watson, until the next one.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes, pleasant dreams.”

She spends hours at the gym, had her nails done, a pedicure, her hair is perfect and she spent a few hours getting ready for a fun night out dancing in Providence with her friends. She is beautiful, and looks fantastic, and people notice, and she doesn’t mind, as long as they are not creepy about it.

Some moron crashed into their car at two in the morning spoiling a great night. She had a few drinks, but was far from intoxicated, and wasn’t driving anyway. She was hurt in the accident, and needed to be seen at the ER for some stitches and x-rays.

Sometimes, all we can do for our patients is make them feel better during transport. The high tech equipment and highly trained EMT was reduced to performing one of the simplest, kindest and most ancient of all medical techniques.

I covered her with a blanket. Her anxiety level dropped in half. The beautiful body that she showed off earlier in the night, and did so with class and style was no longer on display.

Hey guys, I don’t mind defending our right to shop for dinner, and argue our point, and write the occasional letter to the editor or OP/ED. I believe in what I say and write, and don’t mind putting my name on it.

But can you do me a favor? Don’t park the ladder truck in the fire lane right in front of the supermarket, and please, when there is a line, wait your freaking turn! If you get a run, drop your stuff and go, if not, wait like the rest of us!

You would be amazed at what our supportive public has to say about us when you are off duty in street clothes picking up some ice cream at Stop and Shop, and the local firefighters take the store over, and go to the front of the line when they open a new register.

It ain’t pretty.

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

Two old guys are waiting. We arrive, two young guys (relatively speaking) and ask what’s wrong.

“It’s his legs. Can’t hold him up any more.”

One of the old guys sits on a couch in a barely furnished living room in a rent subsidized apartment in the West End. The lenses of his glasses are smudged, his once white socks now a dingy gray. He’s got an old man smell to him, few weeks without a shower, I recon.

“Are you in any pain, sir?” I ask him. He stares blankly ahead.

“He takes these,” says the other old guy. “For his back.”

He hands me an empty bottle of Oxycontin.

There isn’t much else to do, but load him up and get him to the hospital for a refill.