Providence is still standing, time to get home.

I left work yesterday at six and got home in time to secure the summer stuff and get some shopping done. I'll be back at five, the working group is being held until Monday morning. The house should be okay, and the people in it as well. I made some phone calls, made sure the kids had a plan, and were taking things seriously, checked on Mary, whose husband is in in Afghanistan and a little worried about his boat which is docked in Newport. All is well on the home front, for now, nothing much for me to do but worry.

My  brother-in-law, Bob will be working round the clock with the Electric Company, I'm sure, leaving his family at home alone. My sister Susan lost her husband years ago, and she and Jackie are  on  their as well. The hospitals will be full of doctors, nurses, secretaries and security, all there leaving their families on their own.

It's easy for us, the ones working. It's actually kind of fun, in a weird firefighter mentality kind of way. This is what we do, what we train for, who we are. We respond to emergencies, and this one could be a doozey. It's the folks at home that need our thoughts and prayers, as they can do little more than watch and worry. They are the heroes here, the ones worthy of our respect and admiration. The folks in The Morse Camp certainly have mine.

Stay safe everybody.

Hurricane Irene preparations are in full swing here at the Allen's Avenue Fire Station. Generator is functional, fluid levels checked, outside perimeter secured, apparatus ready. The Captain has the troops on high stress level and ready to blow at any second. Mutiny is imminent. Should a bloody coup develop and the Captain made to walk the plank, I, as second in command hereby promise to refrain from accusing the men of, and I quote the nefarious Captain, "looking like a bunch of monkeys trying to fuck a football."

He may be an imbecile, but he does have some good lines.

She’s eighty-four, lying on her side in some mulch outside of the nursing home. Her left ankle was broken. She was conscious, and moaning, afraid. The primary assessment was unremarkable, vital signs stable. We boarded and collared her, started IV’s, administered oxygen and got her into the rescue. I did some more vitals, still stable. She stayed awake.

Before leaving I looked up, and did some math. Forth floor window, a little above the utility pole. It’s an old building, maybe ten feet per floor, and the pole is usually forty feet.

An eighty-four year old lady fell forty-five feet and broke her ankle.

Just when I thought I’d seen everything, I see something I’ve never seen.

Tough old lady, that’s for sure.

Irene is coming. There's something about a big storm that brings people together, and creates an air of excitement and anticipation that you can feel, as though an electric current was put in the air getting us moving. New England hasn't seen a big storm in decades, Bob in '91, Gloria in '80, Belle in '76 I think, Carol in '56 and the Hurricane of '38, the big one.

My father was ten during that one, but it never occurred to me to ask him about it until I had my own kids. Funny how your parents are not that interesting till you have kids of your own. Anyway, Danielle had a school report to do which involved interviewing a person of interest that survived something big, and I thought my dad was the perfect person, and his story a good one.

We loaded up the cassette recorder and headed for my parents house, a little apprehensive considering my new family wasn't quite what my parents had expected, coming all at once and all, and five and eight years old to boot, but they were okay with the kids, figuring I would either come to my senses, or not.

Dad was at his finest as we sat in the back yard on an old fence railing that bordered a basketball court and Danielle played news reporter, drinking lemonade and asking all the right questions and getting some great answers, ones that I had never heard. It was like history coming to life before my eyes, one that I never would have known about if not for a third grade project and my father's willingness to share with his new step-granddaughter. I'm not quite sure how true the stories were, alligators and snakes running down Huntington Avenue, trees and phone poles, live wires, houses blown thirty feet in the air and other mayhem, but it was a heck of a tale, and brought us all closer.

They say the best memories are small moments in time rather than whole days, and are seldom planned. That half hour with my little reporter and her cassette deck, and her willing accomplice who gave a great interview is more memorable than any old hurricane that has blown through New England since.

No matter what happens in the next couple of days, keep your family and friends close, batten down the hatches and let life come at you at its own pace, because it will weather you let it or not.

If you call one of us a name, well then, that just ain't right. If I have to use the "N" word in a post describing the verbal abuse we endure, well, that's just too bad. I work with black people. Respond to their homes, treat them in the street and don't see a bit of difference between them and me.

To think that my parents lived in a time when black folks were not treated as equals is simply unbelievable, so far detached from my own views I find it hard to believe. But it is true, and keeping that in mind when writing about race and prejudice and affirmative action is imperative. If I were black, and my parents were looked down upon by society I'd have a chip on my shoulder the size of The Lincoln Memorial, never mind how my grandparents were treated in the twenties and thirties. And make no mistake, my grandparents thought quite differently when it came to race relations than I do.

A few of my friends who happen to be black thanked me for describing the venom and hate we endure on a daily basis. It's not just the black people either, a partner of mine from a few years ago has roots in Ecuador. He speaks fluent Spanish, his parents, who came from there and The Dominican Republic are first generation citizens in good standing who raised one of the best firefighters I ever had the pleasure of working with. He looks as white, well, maybe not that white, as me. People had no idea when they would get in the back of my rescue and start complaining about the dirty "S" word illegals that are ruining their neighborhood, their city and their country. Mind you, a lot of these people were healthily disabled, in their early adulthood and sucking every nickel out of our system they could when they conspiratorially confided in us "white" boys. Renato handled the situations with class, and I always wondered how he managed it. "You manage," he would say. I suppose he grew up in a different world than I, where a person gets used to being treated differently.

My current partner is a Chinese American. His dad was a cop in Providence, did twenty-four years before retiring honorably. His mom is a nurse at Rhode Island Hospital. They own a nice home, take care of their kids and grandchildren and live their lives. Of course, just about once a week somebody calls my friend a "Walking Wonton," or "Chopstick," or whatever else they think of.

I've had female partners and watched them take their share of abuse simply because they are women. It really is unbelievable what goes on out of the glare of television and the media.

Somehow, through it all those of us who work together don't see it that way. We're all the same but different, and treat each other as equals, and when you insult one of us, you are insulting us all, which allows me to use the "N" word in the proper context, and sadly there is a proper context, without offending anybody.

It's not as if we haven't heard it before.

As for me, I consider my self fortunate to be exposed to different  cultures most will never experience. I see the ugly side of race relations, but far more importantly, I see more often how race doesn't make a damn bit of difference, and those are the race relations I choose to follow.

I saw him while driving to work, standing on the corner, sign in hand, people passing, not giving a second glance. He looked familiar, but they all look alike after a while, I kept driving. An hour later I was in my other seat, Rescue Lieutenant in Providence, and we were called to the same corner for an intoxicated male. This time I couldn't just keep driving.

It was Paul, and I haven't seen him in a few years. Back then he was a daily caller, never gave us much trouble, always said he was going to stop drinking tomorrow.

"Paul, how are you doing?"

"Drunk."

"Where have you been?"

"In Maine, three years sober."

"What happened?"

"I came back to Providence."

He told me all about the program, the twelve steps, his sponsor and how he let it all go just for a drink. He'd been at it for a week, now, he said, killing himself a half pint at a time. He came to Providence to visit some friends, had a pocket full of money and good intentions. But he knew I knew he was lying. He came back to Providence to get drunk, and stay drunk, and die drunk. Something happened in Maine, he started to tell me but couldn't finish his story, getting choked up before he could speak.

"You need to get back to AA."

"That's why I called you."

It was a short ride to the ER, but long enough for two drunks to have a little meeting. I shared some experience, strength and hope, and hope that it does some good. It's a little different getting a life back when you have nobody who cares telling you the things you need to hear. So I told him what he needed, and can only hope he's ready to listen.

People who suffer with alcoholism give everything up for what to most is a take it or leave it substance, a little buzz, something to do or a way to get the wheels of conversation turning. Families are destroyed, relationships ruined, fortunes lost and self-esteem and confidence drowned in a sea of nothingness; no job, no friends, no money, no hope.

To beat it, one needs to ignore the million dollar advertising campaigns, the endless billboards and attitudes glorifying the very thing that will be your undoing. It is a disease of isolationism, most die broken and alone, yet to fully grasp the thing that will restore sanity reaching out to others is imperritive.

And for me, staying sober means helping other alcoholics. The back of Rescue 1 has been host to more than a few AA meetings.

It will be ten years in a couple of weeks, as long as I remember to take things one run at a time.
 

I just learned Benjamin has passed away. Rest in peace, Benjamin, and stay safe in Afghanastan, Brother. I can't beleve it's been four years.

Benjamin (from 2007)

Our patient lived above a restaurant on Wickenden Street, one of the more “hip” spots in Providence. Traffic was tight, the sidewalk busy while people shopped and relaxed at the many coffee shops, art gallery’s and antique stores that line the street. We had to block the travel lane when we stopped the rescue at our destination. As soon as we stopped, three Japanese sushi chefs escorted an older guy from their doorway. He was limping; our patient. He owned the building and rented the lower floor to a popular Japanese restaurant. From the concern showed by his tenants he was a well-liked landlord. I knew right away I was going to enjoy this call, the guy had character written all over his craggy face. He hobbled up the rescue steps; no easy task for somebody half his age with two good wheels and sat on the stretcher.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.
“My leg is swollen and my toe hurts. It’s been going on for weeks. I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow, I hope I can make the trip.”

I took a look at the leg and toe. His left calf and shin were twice the size of the right and his big toe was bright red.

“How are you going to get around Europe on that?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Can you take me to the VA?”

We took his vital signs and got going. He was a Navy man, WWII Vet, disabled. He was there at Normandy on D-Day, lost some friends as wave after wave debarked from his ship into the slaughterhouse. When that job was done he went to the Pacific and was training to parachute onto Japan when the bomb was dropped and the war ended. He spent a lot of the war with the Merchant Marines, a group who suffered staggering losses during the war. He survived the war, sadly, his brother did not. Ben told me about him.

“He was a gifted musician and brilliant Brown grad whose life was cut short in the Black Forest during the Battle of the Bulge.” I thought of my own brother, fighting the war in Iraq and the loss my family would suffer if he doesn’t make it home. All of these years have passed yet Ben’s eyes still filled up when he mentioned his brother.

“My father is a Navy Vet, Korea, and my brother is in Iraq,” I mentioned, proud of my families accomplishments. We talked a little more during the trip to the VA. Thankfully for us, Ben lived through the war. He taught art at RISD, displayed his work at gallery’s through Providence and is a successful restaurateur.

I can only imagine what contributions to society have been lost, greatness unknown and words unspoken. How much more music will we never hear, art we will never see, or lives we won’t be able to share and enjoy before the world makes peace with itself?

God, I hate this war. Five soldiers dead, three missing this morning west of Baghdad.

They call us niggers, spicks, crackers, douchebags, assholes and punks. They punch, spit ,kick, bite, head-butt, and throw things. They piss on the floor of the rescue, shit on the stretcher and put their bloody hands, their blood infected with Hepatitis and HIV on us.

“We’re public servants and we need to have thicker skin. … We’re expected to take verbal abuse — to an extent,”  City of Providence Public Safety Commissioner Stephen Pare

Sorry  Mr. Commissioner, but I respectfully disagree. Just as I have to use the word "respectfully" addressing you, the citizens of Providence, and everywhere must also use respect while interacting with us. It can be no other way. To allow, and condone any degree of disrespect to anybody, public servant or not is unacceptable.

If the public, who called us to help them cannot muster the civility needed to ensure respectable discourse they need to be exposed, criticized and the abuse stopped. Tolerance is not an option. Acceptance of  abuse is unacceptable. The fine threads holding this city together are frayed already, it is time to repair those threads, and begin rebuilding the decayed foundation that holds this place together.

We are representatives of the city, ambassadors sent into peoples homes and neighborhoods to render assistance when things go wrong. Allowing those people to treat us with disdain is essentially allowing them to spit in the face of America.

We have a retired State Police Executive running public safety in Providence. I respectfully suggest he clean up the streets and start policing this place before suggesting the EMT's in his city grow some thick skin and allowing  the criminals we are forced to treat as patients with kid gloves.

I'll try to remember to raise the bar a little higher the next time I'm sent to deal with an intoxicated, combative "patient" off their meds.

It won't take long.

http://www.projo.com/news/content/Providence_Fire_08-18-11_A8PQ37C_v41.4fb77.html

"There is a public perception that the workings of the department are opaque and that the citizenry lacks access, according to Paré, who said he wants the permanent chief to address the perception. There have been complaints that emergency medical technicians, for example, have displayed insensitivity on rescue runs, he disclosed. Paré said he wants the bar for EMT behavior set higher.

“We’re public servants and we need to have thicker skin. … We’re expected to take verbal abuse — to an extent,” he said."

That's it, no more Mr. Nice guy!

I'm nearly speechless. Commentarry appreciated, (and needed.)

We find our "patient" pacing like a madman in front of the shelter. He called 911 from his cell phone, said he was having an emergency, send an ambulance, and hurry. I got him into the truck and sat him down.

"What is the emergency?"

"Ten days ago I started drinking energy drinks."

"And."

"Now I have abdominal pains."

"Okay."

"And I can't sleep."

"Right."

"And I feel nervous."

"Um-hmm."

"I need to go to the hospital."

"Why?"

"They can give me something to calm me down."

"So can I."

"Do I have to get a shot?"

Now that is a loaded question if ever there was one.

"You need to get a brain."

"And?"

"And stop drinking energy drinks."

"Okay."

"And get some sleep."

"Okay."

"And the pains will go away."

"Right."

"They have decaffeinated energy drinks, drink those if you must."

"Um-hmm."

"You don't need to go to the hospital."

"Why."

"Because if you don't drink energy drinks you won't be sick."

"Really?"

"Really."

I swear they could put a talking monkey in my seat and it wouldn't make a difference.

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2007/03/seventh-floor/

I've got a respiratory therapist assisting ventilations, a full time nurse monitoring vital signs and suctioning, a baby whose heart is somehow attached to a five pound bundle of intestines that protrude from her abdomen, resembling a bag of snakes and a smile that would melt the heart of Osama Bin Laden, curse his soul, and a world class pediatric hospital half a mile a way full of doctors. The baby went into cardiac arrest while undergoing a tracheotomy change, the staff at the pediatric nursing home was on it immediately, did CPR for a minute, got a heart beat, some color and that smile back. They needed transportation to the emergency room.

We loaded the baby and all that went with her, respitory and nurse included and moved. I introduced the respitory therapist to the trauma team that had assembled at the ER and let her tell the story as I helped move the bundle onto their stretcher.

Sometimes, you gotta put the ego and training aside and be the mule.

And mules don't have to think too hard, so it's kind of nice now and then.

We're called to Crossroads, a community outreach center  and homeless shelter. It is also a gathering spot for people with nothing to do all day but get high, drunk, kill time and look for victims. A woman on the eighth floor is suicidal, locked in her room, (which has a big window) after seeing her friend jump off of the bridge in front of the building last night. Engine 3 is first on scene, parked in front of the hi-rise. Rescue 1 pulls up behind the engine. As I get out of the passenger side door, a group of people rush toward the rescue.

"She's over there!"

"Who's over there?"

"What are you an idiot, the lady we called for."

The others in the group start yelling when I don't rush to the side of the building. I radio fire alarm to see if Engine 3 has a report. They are with the suicidal person on the eighth floor. I have John, the driver of Rescue 1 stand by while I investigate the other woman. The homeless contingent follows me, asking "what kind of idiot would park on the wrong side of the building, move faster, racist white boy don't care bout nothin" -the usual from the homeless crowd of twenty somethings who hang around the shelter looking for people to intimidate.

I turn the corner, the rescue is 100 yards away, the members of Engine 3 on the eighth floor. A guy five inches taller than me and twenty-five years younger stands in my way.

"Are you a cop."

"No."

"Why you disrespecting me?"

"Get out of my way."

He doesn't move.

"I'm talking to you. Why you disrespectin me!"

It's me and the Motorola, and a gang of thugs. A woman is sitting in a chair a few yards away, looking sick.

"I have a patient to take care of, get out of my way."

I walk forward, the tall thug still doesn't move, but nods his head up and down and smiles. At the last second he gives just enough room for me to pass on the sidewalk as the crowd jeers. The radio sparks on, Engine 3 had assessed the suicidal person on the eighth floor, told them that the lady who jumped from the bridge last night survived and is in intensive care expected to make a full recovery. The woman who initiated the call decides she is okay now, and runs away.

"Rescue 1 A to Fire Alarm, have Engine 3 and the rescue meet me on side 3 for a woman down."

The lady in the chair had fainted while walking to the hospital to visit her son. The crown taunts me, I have no idea why, but keeps their distance, I also have no idea why. I ignore them and talk to the woman who fainted. They walk away when the engine company and the rescue round the corner and reinforcements arrive.

Cowards.

They say it's a jungle out there, and they are not kidding. Get separated from the pack and it's a whole different world.

We're driving down Angel Street at three o'clock in the afternoon, perfect late summer day, nice iced coffee in the cup holder, pretty girls in summer dresses everywhere and no runs coming our way. We approach The Rhode Island School of Design just as a bus is leaving, full of kids going home from a week long summer program. The bus is packed, and it slowly pulls away from the school ready to bring the kids back to wherever it is they came from. I hear shouting behind us, a happy sound, kids whooping it up. Dozens of kids run past us, flanking the bus, jumping up and down, waving, smiling from ear to ear. The kids in the bus respond in kind, and it is sweet mayhem for a minute, then the bus moves down the hill, toward the city. The spontaneous honor guard follows, escorting the bus, shouting, waving, keeping pace for a while before the machinery outpaces the humans and distance spreads. The guard keeps running. They catch the bus at the next light, more euphoria ensues, the joyous cacophony contagious as pedestrians and drivers, and tired EMT's are caught up in the display of affection, and sheer, unblemished happiness. A few join in, and honk their horns, or raise their hands in the air, or chirp their siren and the bus moves again, finally outdistancing the pack. The tired runners slow down, then stop, then turn around and head back up the hill, and wait for their bus to take them back to whoever it is they come from, new friendships formed, and an experience that will last them a lifetime. I'm stunned at the effect this little moment of magic has on me. The drowned two year old, the dead twenty-five year old, the beaten teen, the hopeless and lost all recede into the back of my mind and light shines through. It is a moment of grace delivered at just the right time and I never saw it coming, or knew how badly I needed it. A call came in, we had to respond, and my voice sounded a little different when I answered the radio, and wiped  my eyes, knowing that no matter what, things will be alright.

From the front line…

http://www.insomniacmedic.com/2011/08/londons-burning.html

Stay safe, Insomniac Medic, and don't lose hope!

We're ready to leave the loading dock after dropping off a patient who was assaulted on Sunday. She said her headache came back and wants another Catscan. A security guard approaches the rescue and asks if we could check on a couple of babies that were in a car in their parking lot. There was nothing wrong with the babies, but the parents "wanted them checked."

We find the car, no damage, no scratches, nothing. The two infants are sleeping in their car seats, parents walking around. The lady who backed into them is carrying on about how the babies need to go to the hospital in the rescue because they need to be checked.

My radio comes to life. Engine 10 and Rescue 6, the rescue from the other side of the city, respond to Homer Street for a possible drowning. The victim is reportedly two years old. I try to get myself out of the mess I'm in, Homer Street is a few minutes away, in my first in district. The people involved in the accident insist the babies "be checked."

The radio confirms my fears, Engine 10 reports a two year old not breathing, no vital signs, CPR in progress. Rescue six is still five minutes out.

Somehow, I get the two babies into my rescue and 100 yards to the Children's Hospital. Rescue 6 is approaching the scene, slowed by the dozens of speed bumps that litter the street.

Ten minutes later, they arrive, the two year old is still not breathing, we get him out of the rescue and into a trauma room, where the life-saving efforts continue as I write this.

I don't know if I could have made a difference, but when seconds count, being minutes away is sheer torture. Seeing the child that I should have been able to get to quickly rolling past me is torture. Seeing his mother arrive a few minutes later is torture. Looking at the people who kept me from doing my job is torture. Feeling contempt for a couple of babies who have nothing to do with any of this is torture.

Being here is torture.

It's broken, and she knows it, I can see it in her eyes. She knows I know, and I know she can see it in my eyes. I try to keep my face expressionless, but fail. I see the the disappointment in her eyes when she looks into mine. Not a word has been spoken, not a word needs to be. Her right foot is flexed, pointing outward 90 degrees, left foot strait as an arrow. Little tears stream down her cheek, but no pain shows on her wrinkled, stoic face, her tears are the only things that betray her fears.

She's ninety three, and fiercely proud of it. Her home is meticulous, built in 1820 by a craftsman who raised his family here, and it has stayed in the family until now. Mary is the last in line, and now she is leaving, and in all likelihood will not return. She knows it, too. People in their nineties fear broken hips more than death. They have seen friends fall, and with their broken hips have witnessed their spirit broken as well. It is often a death sentence, the death of freedom that even limited mobility offers, the death of independence, the slow, creeping end of an upright existence. Then, even that existence is taken.

We lift her, and she hates it. We gently place her on our stretcher, and she grimaces. We carry her out of the home that has been in her family for generations, and if she could, I think she would have grasped the door jambs and gripped them, and held on with every ounce of strength she possessed, and made us pry her bony fingers from them.

But she didn't hold on. The hip is broken, her spirit not far behind.

Who is doing the hiring around here? These kids look younger and younger, when I started they only hired people my age.

"Rescue 1, Respond to 198 Darwin Street for a fifty year old female with a headache."

"Rescue 1, responding."

First call, new week. Nice and easy. We roll from the station, the bright morning sunshine filling the cab. It's a beautiful day in Providence, RI.

"I like a nice easy call to get me going," I say to Brian, who simply nods his head in agreement.

The door at the top of ten steps is open, a man stands there and directs us in. The patient is sitting in a chair in the living room. A fifteen year old boy interprets.

"She has a headache," he says.

"Okay. did she take any aspirin?"

"She already takes blood thinners."

The plot twists.

"When did the headache start?"

"She woke up with it."

"Does she have a history of migraines or headaches?"

"Sometimes she gets headaches, but not like this."

The patient begins to vomit into a bucket. She looks pale and has some swelling above her left eye. I rub my thumb gently over the bruise and ask how it happened.

"She had the headache, started to vomit, sat on the toilet, had diarrhea, then blacked out and fell onto the floor."

The plot thickens.

"Did she lose consciousness?"

"No but her neck hurts too,"

"Brian, get the board and collar."

"Where are her meds?"

"Right here."

Simvastatin, Prilosec, Furinol.

Her vitals are stable and within normal range, but she retches every minute, producing nothing but phlegm. Her neck is nonexistent, the no-neck C-collar lands around her nose, she retches ito it, drool escaped. She chokes when we lie her on the backboard. Then she panics, and grabs her head between her hands and starts to cry.

"Nice and easy," says Brian.

The firefighters unions oppose any and all incursions by private ambulance companies into our turf. All 911 calls are handled by the appropriate agencies, in Rhode Island's case, local fire departments. Private companies are always trying to get into the "lucrative" 911 business. A line is drawn, sides taken, an Us against Them environment fostered.

Nonsense I say!

Nonsense. There, I said it. Finally.

I am not a fan of EMS for profit. Something is fundamentally wrong, there. Something is fundamentally wrong with EMS, for that matter. Our industry has allowed itself to be cheapened by doing everything. Just calling EMS an industry is ridiculous. We respond to emergencies. Period. Unless, of course, you consider that the dialysis patient "might" have an emergency during transport, or the heroin addict "might" have an emergency during transport, or the elderly person "might" have an emergency on the way to the doctor's office, then, everything becomes an emergency, and there are plenty of private companies waiting to fill their ambulances and pockets with government and insurance company money to provide "Emergency Medical Services" for routine transports.

Fire departments are not much better. We sit upon our throne, answering the 911 calls as they come, never thinking of the future, or even the present state of our service, or the people who make up that service. When a private company secures a contract to provide EMS at a private event, we are supposed to unite, and stand strong, shoulder to shoulder and oppose the evil entity that dares stepping on our toes.

The bane of my existence, Crossroads, RI, a homeless shelter and community outreach center calls 911 for routine transport of their clients dozens of times a day. Most of the calls are for intoxicated people. They reportedly are going to try positioning a private ambulance company at their facility to transport these people.

One of the firefighters caught my ear the other night, expressing his rage at the audacity of this particular company, and insisting I do or write something about the sanctity of a fire department response to all 911 emergencies. The same firefighter never leaves the station for these calls, they are handled by us, the six  ALS units currently in service in Providence.

I bet if we put a BLS ambulance behind every fire company in the city, and sent them to pick up the BLS calls some things would change, first thing being the line in the sand attitude concerning private EMS.

It is easy to be a pro-union person, and say all of the right things about modifying the present system when you are not a victim of the system. If everybody "got off the truck," as is vociferously suggested by my brothers whenever I dare mention that the run volume is killing me, there would be nobody on the truck, and that would be that.

Why can we never be progressive? Is it always so black and white? Us vs. Them, Public vs. Private, Conservative VS Liberal, Republican VS Democrat, it's enough to make me crazy. I don't want to play these games anymore. There has to be a better way. I suggest some sort of compromise. Bring in private EMS. Work together, come up with a plan. Maybe between the two entities we could improve a broken system.

Because the fire department in Providence is doing a horrible job.

There, I said that, too, and it kills me to do so, but the truth is obvious to anybody who bothers to look.

I've got a brother over there. A lot of people have brothers over there. A lot of people have lost loved ones over there.

Just wondering, how many from over there, or over anywhere have ever lost a drop of blood, or shed a tear for anybody over here.

Just wondering.

Rest in Peace.

http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/U/US_US_AFGHANISTAN_SEALS?SITE=RIPRJ&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT&CTIME=2011-08-06-13-49-29

For the first time since 1917, when the United States was issued a AAA rating by Standard and Poor's, the United States credit rating has been downgraded. S&P's spokespeople cite  "difficulties in bridging the gulf between political parties" as a major reason for the downgrade from U.S.'s top shelf AAA status to AA+, the next level down. The rating agency has essentially lost faith in Washington's ability to work together to address its debt.

Gee, I never would have guessed.

I've always been bewildered by how our two party political system works. I could never quite figure out how votes on things as important as a balanced budget, or weather to go to war, or how to administer healthcare could be split nearly perfectly down party lines.

Didn't we elect our representatives as individuals, beholden to us, not "the party?" The party holds the purse strings of course, and if "our" representatives don't toe the party line, then "our" representatives will be right back where they started next election, as one of "us."

Ever wonder how revolutions begin?

I used to to, until I started paying attention.

Speaking of paying attention, if you are reading this, congratulations, you care. I care, because I'm writing it. A lot of people not reading this care, because they are listening, or watching, or reading and talking about it somewhere else. Just be aware that what I believe to be the majority of Americans don't care in the least.

I'll "never forget" the days and weeks following 911, when responding to homes in Providence, my mind reeling from the images and grief nearly overwhelming, when people would call 911 for their fever, or because they vomited once, or were intoxicated, or more often their boyfriend was intoxicated and they called us for removal. I would leave the TV for a while, and turn off the radio, and respond to their homes, lost in my thoughts but still willing and able to carry on. Walking into their homes was a stark reminder of how low some in our society have sunk. The Jerry Springer Show would be on the TV, people completely unaware and unaffected by the terrorist attacks. Lots of people. More that I dared imagine didn't care. The tragedy did not effect them, their checks continued to appear, their rent continued to be subsidized and their lives did not change in the least.

Only when the unearned checks stop magically appearing will things change. Because until then, the forty percent of American's paying for the sixty percent who do not are outnumbered, and the majority wins the election.

My apologies if you heard this story before, but some stories just get better with age. It's been a great twenty years, if I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.

Twenty years ago, this very day, a twenty-nine year old man stood at attention with sixty-three other trainees listening to the Chief of the Division of Training, Chief Turbitt, welcome us to the Providence Fire Department. One by one the training officers introduced themselves to the class. I stood next to the open overhead door on the apparatus floor, a warm summer breeze ruffling our freshly pressed blue t-shirts and khaki pants as Lieutenant Thomas addressed the class, telling us to forget anything we knew, or thought we knew about firefighting. We were there to learn how to do things the Providence Fire Department way, period.

I had been told by people who had been through the rigorous six month academy to keep my mouth shut, do what I was told and learn as much as possible. “Whatever you do, don’t bring attention to yourself.”

As Lt. Thomas continued his lecture my eyes kept wandering to the other side of Reservoir Avenue. There, on the sidewalk, a thirty year old woman stood on the side of the road repeatedly lifting her shirt and waving to passing motorists. Without turning my head i watched the spectacle unfold. I was sure this was some prank, what else could it be? Eventually the shirt came off. When she sat on the sidewalk and started to take off the rest of her clothes I reluctantly raised my hand, trying to think of how my first words as a Providence Firefighter would be remembered.

Lt. Thomas looked at me, amazed that one of the trainees had the temerity to raise his hand five minutes into his new career.

“Sir.” I said when he glared at me and gave a tiny nod of his head. “I believe a woman across the street needs help.”

The Lieutenant stood there for a moment, obviously not impressed with my assessment of something he was sure he had seen already and casually strolled to the open door. The ladies pants were now down around her knees and she was enjoying herself on the sidewalk.

Lt. Thomas keyed his mike and asked for police and a rescue to respond to the address for a “woman in distress.” He sauntered back to the front of the class, completely forgetting his opening remarks, shook his head and finished his speech.

“Welcome to Providence.”

Happy 20th Anniversary to everybody in the 42nd Academy. What a long, strange trip its been!

"Rescue 1, respond to 342 Smith Street, on the third floor, for a man ill."

"Rescue 1, responding."

Flies meet us at the door. Big ones, buzzing lazily on the other side. They exit the place en masse when I open the door. Three flights of stairs feel like twenty in the oppressive heat, and I'm sick,and dragging. It's an inner ear infection, and I should be home, but I've got the next few days off, I'll be fine. At the top of the stairs a woman meets us, smoking, the ash at the tip of her cigarette an inch long. She's dirty, the place is dirty, and the patient is dirty.

And, he's dying.

He lays on a couch, covered with filthy sheets, food stuck to the fabric, moldy, moving. His respirations are shallow and about six per minute.

"How long has he been like this?" I ask.

"About a year, he has cancer.  Is he okay?"

"No. Do you have any advance directives?"

"What?"

"Hospice paperwork? Comfort One? Anything that expresses his final wishes?"

"He won't go to no doctor."

"He's been dying here for a year?"

"I take good care of him."

I key the mic and radio for assistance that I know is five minutes away. My partner has the stair chair ready, I pick the man out of his death bed and plop him into it. He groans, and vomits. We put a non-rebreather over his mouth and nose and secure him to the chair.

By the time we get him to the top of the stairs, the reservoir stops moving. He's no longer breathing. We're at the top of three flights of narrow stairs with a dead, or dying guy strapped to a chair.

"Let's go."

I'm on bottom, and start walking backwards, bearing his weight. The world starts spinning, I've lost all equilibrium. It's a vertigo attack, and I'm in big trouble. Nothing will stop it but time, and laying on my back focusing on a spot on the ceiling. They usually last five minutes. Haven't had one in years. great timing.

The walls keep me upright as I back down the rickety steps, slowly, eyes closed.

"Are you alright?" asks my partner.

"Just take it slow."

I hear sirens in the distance, probably two minutes out. If this guy has a chance he needs defibrillation now, not in two minutes. We keep going. The straps loosen and he tips closer to me, the vomit covered sheet rubbing on my face. Bile rises, I swallow it and keep walking down and backwards, leaning against the walls all the way. We get to the door, I nearly fall over, but somehow keep moving until we get him to the rescue.

Engine 7 arrives, I stumble to the captains seat and collapse, then force the spinning to slow down enough so I can run the code. The guys get the dying man on the stretcher and into the truck, and begin CPR while I get the defibrillator ready. My partner sinks the IV, I don't even try the tube. He's got a rhythm, we shock him, feel for a pulse, find none, continue CPR and push some Epi. I get a driver and we roll, I close my eyes and pray for the spinning to stop. It doesn't.

Another shock, more epi, no pulse, the truck stops, we move the patient into the hospital and the trauma team awaits. I can't see them. I give them the story the best I can, walk away, find a bathroom and empty my stomach into the toilet.

The spinning stops. The guy dies at four-thirty. My shift is done at five. We make it back to the station, I drive home and come back three days later.

A city close to Providence has declared bankruptcy. The retired police and firefighters were asked, and rightly refused, to sacrifice half of their pensions so the city MIGHT be able to remain solvent. What happens now is anybodies guess.

The first of the month carnival is in full swing here in Providence. Government checks come out, and the lines at the banks, food stores, barber shops, beauty parlors, liquor stores and restaurants grow. The traffic on 95 South picks up as people with pockets full of government money head toward the casinos. It is Festivus time here in the capitol city. I worked a thirty-four hour shift during the worst of it, thirty calls, seventeen for intoxicated people dropping in the streets. The City of Central Falls sent a rescue on mutual aid to Providence, along with Warwick, East Providence, Smithfield, Pawtucket, Cumberland, Cranston and a few from Massachusetts.

I couldn't escape the irony there, bankrupt Central Falls sending mutual aid to Providence. Bankruptcy for us cannot be far behind.

The popular sentiment is to blame the public sector unions and our pensions for the financial woes. I've got an idea. Let's get busses, and put the keyboard commando's and talk show hosts into those busses, and give them a little tour of the inner city on the first of the month. Let them see for themselves where their tax dollars are going, and what the police and fire departments are confronted with.

Of course, then the cry will be to eliminate welfare, disability and all government assistance. I'm no economics expert, but it is plain to see just how dependent our economy is on the government. Get rid of the handouts, and watch the small businesses crumble, and with them all of the employees who depend on a check from those small businesses, rather than the big business, aka The Government. Nobody will come to Providence to buy anything, because there will be nothing to buy, nothing but burned out shells where government dependent businesses used to cater to people with government money.

Then we will witness real depression, much like the one our grandparents survived, not this little recession everybody considers the end of the world, or at least the end of the public employee.

I'm stockpiling Chef Boyardi, guns, ammo and whiskey. I figure the whiskey will be the best currency when the system collapses, and with it I can trade for water and toilet paper. Or, I could just use our currency for that, and save the whiskey.