She got real close, and with the air of authority thirty years of life and a few of Med School bestowed upon her demanded her patient be taken where she, the physician demanded. I stepped out of the elevator, asked my partner to continue toward the ER, which was one-hundred yards away, in the same building. My patient was having enough problems and did not need to witness a very unprofessional display.
"My protocols are very specific," I explained to Daughter of Socrates, "The patient is in sinus tachycardia, and the appropriate facility for this patient is here, not there."
"Are you a physician?" she gloated, as twenty now extremely uncomfortable people watched the display, some eager for the elevator doors to open and offer an escape, others amused by the spectacle.
"No, I'm the EMT, and she is now my patient."
"She's my patient, and you will take her where I tell you."
"Is not."
"Is too."
"Is not."
"Is too."
"Is not."
"Infinity!"
Won that one. I couldn't wait for the doors to open so I could get back to MY patient. The doctor fumed. Had she greeted us and explained the situation, and had a continuation of care form and a copy of the ekg and pertinant history ready, rather than a curt reply bfrom the secratary stating, "it's in the computer" when asked for some paperwork, things would have gone differently.
What is your name?" she demanded.
I told her.
"Who is your supervisor?"
I told her. And for good measure also told her the name of the director of emergency medical services for the State of Rhode Island.
"I want their phone numbers?"
"I've got a patient to take care of, go away."
"There are plenty of people taking care of her," she replied, referring to the four firefighters and my driver who responded to the 911 call for a female with a rapid heart rate. We come to this place a number of times every week, the staff refuses to use the hospital's transport system or a private ambulance company, prefering the speed with which the 911 responders arrive.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea,the elevator doors opened. I jumped into the full car, behind the other passengers, and waited for the doors to close, separating me from the aggressor.
"What is the phone number!" she repeated.
"Call 911, you have that one on speed dial."
The doors closed.
Looks like I've got some typing in store.
I get more respect from people living on the streets, with nothing, no money, no food and no education than I did from the doctor. I think I'm going to put a little extra effort into my report.















