I am very happy to announce the release of my new book.  Responding picks up where Rescuing Providence left off, I'm heading back to the city for a thirty-eight hour shift following the thirty-four described in the first book. Both books follow a similar path, but just like every shift, things are completely different!

I will post ordering information when I have all of the details, the publisher, Emergency Publishing will be distributing the book primarily through http://www.emergencystuff.com/ and as time progresses Amazon.com will get on board. If all goes well bookstores will stock it, but as I've learned over the last four years the publishing industry is a very strange place since the digital age took over.

I am truly grateful to have experienced the process of writing, pitching, finding an agent, then a publisher and seeing my words in book form. There is nothing like holding a book, and turning the pages, and folding a corner to mark where you left off, then picking it up and starting over. I hope the days of books are not coming to an end, but time will tell, I suppose.

I'll probably have some copies to offer here at www.rescuingprovidence.com, and hope to figure out a way to personalize copies for people who are kind enough to order one, I'll keep you posted.

For now, tonight's Rescue Rounds features yours truly, and Dr. Sullivan has purchased the ONLY thirty-five copies available, and is giving complimentary copies to the first thirty five people who show up. In addition, he had also purchased thirty-five copies of Rescuing Providence, and will be giving those out as well. I'll be signing books and talking about my experiences, so the free books do not come without a price, this you must endure, but I promise to keep it short!

Hope to see you tonight.

I wrote the books Rescuing Providence and Responding hoping to convey an accurate and honest look at the delivery of Emergency Medical Services from my viewpoint, Lieutenant of Rescue 1, Providence RI. I told the story as it happened, changing names and addresses only, and followed the course of a typical thirty- four, (Rescuing Providence)  then thirty-eight, (Responding)  hour shift.

I am an ordinary EMT with no remarkable skills, no EMS Jedi tricks up my sleeve and a true reliance on our Protocol book. Like most EMT's here in Rhode Island I do a good job, work hard and enjoy the precious few moments where I actually make a difference. Those moments are far from the whole story, as I describe in my books, and here on this blog. Surviving the mundane, the abuse and the grind, then performing when our skills and training are needed is the real trick, and I hope that if nothing else I've managed to help some people get through the long shifts, the nonsense calls and the burnout that inevitably follows us along our path. There will be some glorious moments during a career in EMS, but those moments come in ways that you would never expect, and job satisfaction appears when you least expect it.

One of the more satisfying moments for me is the continuing support from Dr. Francis Sullivan. Since my early days as a Rescue Tech Dr. Sullivan has been present, seemingly always on duty at one of the area hospitals, at all hours. He always treated me with quiet respect, and as the years progressed taught through example how to thrive in this field. He has invited me to speak at this month's Rescue Rounds at the Collis Auditorium at Hasbro Children's Hospital, and has the first thirty-five copies of my new book, Responding, and thirty five copies of Rescuing Providence for the first seventy people to show up.

Thanks to everybody who continues to read my musings, and I hope to see you Wednesday Night!

Francis M. Sullivan, MD
Clinical Associate Professor, Emergency Medicine
The Alpert School of Medicine of Brown University
Staff Emergency Physician
Rhode Island Hospital and The Miriam Hospital
Providence, RI

Dr. Francis M. Sullivan has been a strong patient advocate and outstanding clinician for 25 years. He is a consummate team player and always willing to help out the department in any way possible. He served as the Rhode Island ACEP Chapter president and has been named one of Rhode Island’s top physicians. Dr. Sullivan has been extensively involved in EMS in Rhode Island for many years, participating in the Rhode Island Disaster Initiative and the development of Rhode Island’s first critical care transport service.

                                                                RESCUING  PROVIDENCE

                                                           Providence FD Lt. Michael Morse

                                                 Professional  reflections  and book signing

                                  Complementary copies of  Rescuing Providence and Responding

                                                     DEPARTMENT  OF  EMERGENCY MEDICINE

                                                                 RHODE ISLAND  HOSPITAL

                                                           HASBRO  CHILDREN’S  HOSPITAL   

                                                                 THE  MIRIAM  HOSPITAL

                                                                      NOVEMBER 30, 2011

                                                                                     6 PM

                                                                COLLIS CONFERENCE ROOM

                                                              HASBRO CHILDRENS HOSPITAL

                                                       DINNER AND PERHAPS PARKING SUPPLIED

                                                                          A UEMF  PRODUCTION

                                      http://www.rhodeislandhospital.org/rih/about/directions/hch.htm

"Blood Glucose 25, I'll get the D-50," said Angus as I started an IV in Chief Charlie's left arm, the one that still had all its fingers. I was aware of the FDNY firefighter and his daughter, they were just within reach of my peripheral vision, and stood silently and still and watched us work. I felt the firefighter's confusion, which might be mistaken for anger by a less experienced Vampire-paramedic, but his feelings were  crystal clear to me. He was confused, and appeared angry but was more afraid than mad. Confusion and fear masks itself as anger, especially within men of a certain age who are used to being in control. He was afraid, having just witnessed a violent fight to the death among creatures that he hitherto had no idea existed. He watched. We worked. Crissy let him protect her, and I felt a little happiness seep into his consciousness.

Angus had prepared the medication that would bring Charlie back among the living. Living. Ha!

"He's going to be back among the living any second," I smirked toward Angus, who shook his head and pushed the drug. Sometimes he just doesn't get me.

The vial was emptied into Charlie's veins and it wasn't long before life flowed through them once more. I once sucked the blood of a diabetic who had just had in infusion of D-50. The blood tasted great, a little too sweet but pleasant, and the rush from the sugar was delightful. I eyeballed the IV and brought the tip to my lips.

"What are you doing?" gasped Angus.

"Having a drink, what does it look like?"

"Don't be a fool. Malcolm. We need these two on our side."

We simultaneously looked across the room at Crissy and her dad. They were frozen, astonished, perplexed and horrified.

"It's okay," said Angus. "Charlie had a diabetic emergency, he's coming around now."

As good as Angus's word, Charlie's eyes rolled, then opened. He shook the cobwebs from his head, then sat up.

"Christ my hand hurts."

His vision cleared and he looked me in the eye.

"You!"

He tried and failed to stand, The firefighter broke the trance he was in and approached.

"What's wrong, Charlie?"

"Everything, Bob. This man is a fiend!"

"I assure you, I am most certainly not  'a fiend!" I said, leaning back on my haunches and snarling like a fiend at the old chief. "I am a man of the highest character and moral compass. At least most of the time."

"You were about to drink his blood, I saw you!" said Crissy, rushing to her father's side.

"We need to treat this hand. You lost a finger, I've got it wrapped in gauze, we might be able to save it but we have to get you to the hospital, now!" said Angus, ignoring the chaos that surrounded us, and in doing so bringing calm into a crazy situation.

Charlie looked at his hand, which was indeed missing a finger. Bob the firefighter helped his old friend stand, I gathered the supplies and licked the needle while Angus explained things to Crissy.

"Those firefighters that responded here? They are not what they seem. They're Vampires, and not at all honorable."

"Vampires?" said Crissy. "Like True Blood?" She grinned. "How romantic."

"Anything but," said Angus. "There is nothing romantic about these creatures that Sid has brought among us. They are animals, and cannot be broken. True fiends," he said, looking at Charlie, "who will kill, maim and destroy anything in their path in their blind devotion to their leader, and to stave their hunger."

"If they are vampires," said Bob, "What are you?"

Angus and I exchanged glances, passed some thoughts among us, then answered.

"We're better Vampires."

"Better Vampires?" said Crissy.

Angus smiled at her, and the fact that he was dead never crossed her mind. He didn't look dead to me, either.

"Kids," I said. Bob and Charlie did not return my grin.

It's three hours until dawn," I said, feeling the hour in my soul, and knowing it receded. "More will be coming."

""They are already on their way," said Angus. "You need to trust us," he said directly to Crissy.

"Time to go!" I said and started for the door. Bob and Charlie stood like statues in the old chief's kitchen,

"You will be dead in less than three minutes," I said, no more grins. I looked Bob in the eye, and let the full force of my power of persuasion go. "You, Crissy and Charlie will be torn to pieces, your blood drained, your bodies destroyed and your very soul ravished. It will not be painless. It will not be quick. Maybe they won't kill Crissy right away, maybe they will take her to Sid, he needs a new plaything."

"He has my granddaughter," said Charlie, a light coming on in his mind as he realized I told the truth.

"I believe he does," said Angus.

"That is unacceptable." I said.  "What must be, must be. Let it be."

When a vampire makes up his mind to do something as dire as bringing war on others of his kind he does so not without great sacrifice and risk. I had just stated my desire to cut ties with Sid, to protect these people from a renegade band of heathens and to free a human from my maker. Nobody could know the depth of my decision, nor the ramifications. Well, maybe Angus.

"Let it be," he said. We locked eyes for a long moment, then sprang to action.

"If you want to live, do exactly as we say. And do it now!

And we moved.

It's the Night Before Thanksgiving. Shots fired. Rescue 1, Responds.

He had a hole in his lower abdomen and one under his armpit. Vitals weren't bad, considering, he was conscious and breath sounds equal. We hooked him up with supplemental oxygen, started some IV's put him on the monitor and carried him from his porch, where he was when he got shot, and took him to the ER. People go downhill fast, I figured it was a matter of minutes till his BP tanked and he lost consciousness.

He didn't. The day after Thanksgiving we returned to his house, this time his mother was having an anxiety attack- no surprise there- and found him sitting in the same chair he was shot in, only now he was stuffed with turkey, not full of holes. He showed us the dressings, the ones on his body, not the ones in the turkey, and said it was his lucky day. It was one shot, entered through the abdomen, went through his body and didn't hit any vital organs.

We took his mom to the hospital. I don't think she feels so lucky.

In a two room apartment on the twelfth floor a man sits on the floor, smoking, popping pills and trying to figure out how he will get the money for booze not just for today, but tomorrow as well. The first is a week away, he's been running on empty for days. He considers panhandling, and looks at the cardboard box that holds his old records, but doesn't have a marker to make the sign. His bottle of vodka is nearly empty, only three packs of smokes left in his carton and nothing in his wallet.

Hours creep by, the TV drones on but he isn't watching, only three channels and nothing on. He's too depressed to listen to his music, that just brings him down, reminds him of the days when he was somebody.

He was a roofer, worked hard by day, drank hard by night, he had friends, or drinking buddies anyway, and some women now and then. His daughter is in Florida, doesn't hear from her much, but that's okay, as time went on and he saw and thought of her less and less it didn't hurt as much. Didn't hurt at all once he had a few, but therein lies the problem;Thanksgiving is tomorrow and he's got nothing.

Time drags by, the solution to his problem remains elusive. He's alone, truly alone, a situation of his own making. Most days it's okay, but today the loneliness is unbearable. He begins to feel sick. Then his chest starts to hurt, a broken heart perhaps, more likely a phantom symptom brought on by self-loathing and an overwhelming desire for some human contact. He pulls some old jeans over his dirty underwear, throws a Patriots Sweatshirt over his dirty hair and scrounges up a quarter, forgetting that he doesn't need it, and leaves his prison and walks to the pay phone in the lobby and calls 911.

Then he shuffles back to his apartment and waits for somebody to show up, and take his pain away.

We create our happiness , or misery. Embrace those closest to you, nurture difficult relationships and let go of useless resentments. All we have is each other, and in the end, each other is all we need.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Emergency Medical Services Headquarters

G.O. Memorandum # 007

Attention All Units:

In our continuing efforts to support and improve the working conditions of our valued employees the Study Commission, after fifteen years of meetings, surveys, coffee breaks and more meetings has developed the following plan to assist our people in the field whose long shifts and extreme workload may expose us to costly litigation:

1. EMT fatigue has been cited as the #1 cause for injury, medication mistakes and vehicle accidents in the field

2. Due to the increase in calls and decrease in resources THE DEPARTMENT has procured Eighteen (18) Head Bed units. The Head Bed is designed to offer maximum comfort in a confined space, ie. the front of an ambulance.

3. Head Beds will be distributed to all units effective immediately

4. Only under extreme circumstances is the Head Bed to be utilized while driving or during patient care, and must be approved by headquarters prior to emergency utilization

5. While utilizing the Head Bed a minimum of One (1) member of the emergency response team must remain conscious

6. Eating while sleeping will be allowed only during peak hours, to be determined by headquarters accordingly

7. Monitors will be distributed, and must be worn under the uniform to ensure Headquarters docks pay according to conscious time while on duty

By Order of The Department                                                                   23 Nov 11   0800 hrs.

Any Medic worth anything needs multiple personalities to thrive. Personally, I've been aware of my multiple personality traits since I can remember, or at least since one of my others told me so. Some days one personality dominates, and stays for a while, not letting anybody else through. Other times two of me appear, and argue amongst ourselves, which gets complicated when my third joins the fray, and downright impossible when number four joins the party.

As you can see by the following descriptions of the most basic personality types, an internal war rages at all times. We need all of these skills to do our job, sometimes all within seconds of each other.

A. Choleric: This is the commander-type. Cholerics are dominant, strong, decisive, stubborn and even arrogant.

B. Melancholy: This is the mental-type. Their typical behavior involves thinking, assessing, making lists, evaluating the positives and negatives, and general analysis of facts.

C. Sanguine: This is the social-type. They enjoy fun, socializing, chatting, telling stories – and are fond of promising the world, because that's the friendly thing to do.

D. Phlegmatic: This is the flat-type. They are easy going, laid back, nonchalant, unexcitable and relaxed. Desiring a peaceful environment above all else

I consider myself an A Type personality due to my natural ability to be awesome. People follow me no matter what I do, most of the time anyway, I think. The more I think about it perhaps there have been times when I led nobody but myself. Hmm, the facts suggest that I have led myself at times, right to where everybody is because I do love telling stories, especially ones about myself, the best of which revolve around my most recent fishing trip, or laying on a beach somewhere, peaceful, relaxed and nonchalant.

Anyway, I've used all four of these personality types to get the job done, sometimes all at once, sometimes one after the other, at times a combination, and more often than not chose one that fits best into whatever the situation dictates.

We need to adapt to be effective, and adapting ourselves to thrive in any environment is a vital first step.

It's 1977, I'm fifteen and inside The Living Room, a Downcity nightclub with a bad reputation. Drugs, fights, debauchery-the kind of thing that sucks any self-respecting high school kid in the seventies right in. It's late, I had concocted an elaborate ruse to get the night off from the family, which by today's standards didn't need to be all that elaborate, what with no tweets, Facebook, cell phones and GPS we were pretty much able to lead the life of our choosing without much interference. This night, a week before Thanksgiving I chose to change everything.

I'm surrounded by people much cooler than me, dressed in black leather jackets, torn blue jeans and t-shirts. It's mostly guys, but the girls there were just my style, a little dangerous, reckless and totally out of my league. I'm milling about, getting a feel for a world that was completely new to me, this being only  my second time here, last week being my first. Steppenwolf played that night, they of the famous Born to be Wild, and all that went with it. Tonight's crowd is edgier, more vibrant, There is electricity in the air, I can feel it and have no idea why.

Midnight. Closing time is at one. The crowd is getting restless. I'm getting worried, it's a school night and I have to show up the next morning or my entire fabrication of the night's events will be exposed for the lie that it was. I can't leave though, just can't. Something is about to happen and I have no idea what but absolutely cannot miss it. The house lights are dim, a cocktail waitress gracefully slides through the crowd that has grown to capacity now, people shoulder to shoulder looking forward at the stage. The waitress finds me. Again. I'm almost out of money but I think she likes me so I give her five dollars for the two dollar draft and tell her to keep the change. I'm rewarded with a smile that stays with me to this day, thirty-five years later. Money well spent.

A chant begins from the back of the room, now packed with a thousand people. "Hey, Ho-Let's Go! Hey, Ho-Let's Go! Hey, Ho-Let's Go! Its contagious, I join in, somehow making it to the front of the stage without spilling my beer. The chant continues, I'm shouting Hey, Ho-Let's' Go! The lights go down, it's pitch black. The crowd erupts. A roar louder than any I had heard at any Black Sabbath, Jethro Tull, Steppenwolf or Foghat concerts I had been going to. Four silhouettes take the stage, the crowd gets louder, somehow.

Above it all come the four words that changed everything, Dee Dee Ramone gets things rolling..

1-2-3-4!

The lights come on, the crowd goes crazier still, pandemonium breaks out on the dance floor, my beer goes flying and I am in the middle of the original mosh pit, where I stay for the next hour, lost in blissful happiness as the Ramones crank out one two minute song after another, never taking a break, just letting it roll.

Then they left. A fifty minute set that left the crowd exhausted, covered with sweat and completely satisfied.

I asked for a black leather jacket for Christmas. Some days I wish I still had it, and could wear it just one more time and let everything go.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JDBu3tRm1E&feature=related

I came across a great story about Providence and The Narragansett Brewery recently, thought you might enjoy it. I tipped more than my share of Gansett's back in the day, and must say I enjoyed every drop!

http://www.7stopsmag.com/street-level/have-a-gansett/

It's three in the morning, back at my desk, the bunk becons but the hope of rest is just that, hope. Soon the tones will go off, and Rescue 1 will follow, and the night will go on.

The Homeless

It's late, I'm tired, the worst mankind has to offer has been paraded in front of me for thirty hours without a break. People void of emotion, beaten down by their own failings, their childhood dreams broken by a life of selfish pursuits drink themselves into a stupor hoping to escape the reality of what they have become.

The Party

Fights spontaneously break out at closing time, the streets littered with broken glass, which not long ago held the shape of bottles that held the fuel that fired the emotions that lead to the fighting, and pain. A kid loses an eye, another is scarred for life, a girl loses her dignity in the gutter, her make-up smeared, body exposed as she vomits the nights magic onto the street where it festers until the rats come out from hiding and feast.

Home

I see the rats that appear when everybody else has left, watch them scurry in and out of sewers, grab a bite here, chew something there, then vanish as if they never were. I would never know this world exists if not for my position. I would be sleeping, happy in my blissful ignorance as the city three miles from my home went on without me.

Three in the mormning. Time for three more calls, if I'm lucky, one of them will remind me of why I'm here, and why I love this job. If I'm not so lucky it will be more of the same.

Either way, I'll be here.

* RANT ALERT- LT MORSE HAS BEEN TAKING BITTER PILLS AGAIN!

Let's see if I've got this right: We have been in a recession that began sometime in 2007 or '08. The sub prime mortgage industry, at the behest of some powerful lobbyists in Washington whose enormous financial reserves help elect our leaders and keep them there, basically serving as pawns to the power brokers fueled the collapse of what was a strong economy. A lot of people made a lot of money by lending at inflated interest rates, or government backed loans to people who did not deserve the money, not because they are bad people, rather they had not had the opportunity to sweat, and worry, and pinch pennies, and cut costs, and suffer a little until they saved enough for a down payment on a home that would have meant a lot more to them than it did when gotten with little or no sacrifice.

People who should not have qualified for mortgages in the first place defaulted, the banks lost lots of money-for a little while, lending tightened, no more loot for everybody, the building trades suffered, the real estate brokers saw a vast downturn in their income, people slowed down their spending, defaulted on loans, foreclosed on their property and started to feel what it is like to have to save, and sacrifice, and pinch pennies.

The pinching penny people who cannot get loans or credit cards can't spend their borrowed money, people who run small businesses can't stay open, the middle class sinks further into debt and insolvency and the government bails out Wall Street and tries to add jobs to an economy that is destined to fail because it is built on borrowed money that no longer exists.

Enter the firefighter who has worked for twenty years, and wants to move on. The pension system, which has been underfunded, or not funded at all by local politicians is on the brink of collapse, and the pensioners are being hung out to dry by anybody with a hanging stick. Radio talk shows, editorials, news stories-all told with the municipal workers as either moronic dupes who were led to slaughter by their "union bosses," or greedy thugs who live a life of leisure at the detriment of the average taxpayer.

The middle class is being led to believe that the middle class municipal workers are fat and happy, living in relative luxury while they toil and sweat and produce things so that their counterparts in government can take it easy. They are being willfully misled to their own detriment. If things continue, kiss the forty hour workweek goodbye, weekends, and work place safety. Think I'm being dramatic? Look at your Health Care package, or your feeble IRA's.

So anyway, back to the intention of all of this, a typical middle class homeowner in Rhode Island pays anywhere from $2500 to $6000 give or take in property taxes. For that investment, he or she gets a police force comprised of people who would take a bullet for them, a fire department full of folks who at a moments notice respond to any and all emergencies that may occur, and are willing and able to put their lives on the line every time they do so, a decent education for their kids, and if they do not have any an educated workforce, safe, lighted streets, parks and playgrounds, trash pick-up, storm drains and a lot more.

Yet it is not enough. The thought of more taxes sends them over the edge. Business owners form coalitions aimed at "exposing the pension problem" and taking benefits away from the public sector.

Things cost money. Good people do not come cheap. You cannot get something for nothing. It is easy to sit back and point fingers and blame the unions rather than taking a good hard look in the mirror.

You get what you put in, and if you choose to not put much in, you will get not much in return. Unless you happen to be a firefighter who has put everything he was supposed to in, and now finds himself staring down a populace that feels justified in taking it away.

These are truly crazy times we live in.

* Disclaimer: I was listening to the Patriots game on the radio Sunday night, when I started the car Monday Morning I was bombarded by AM radio talk show banter, namely one John DiPitro, who has a tendancy to get under my skin whenever I have the misfortune of being sucked into his self-serving little web.

"Dr. Watson! To the study, it seems we have a complaint that needs to be addressed!"

"Shall I bring the brandy, Mr. Holmes?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary."

We retired to the study, Dr. Watson stoked the fire as I prepared the documents to be perused. One Mrs. Waddingon from Pembroke Lane had sent a letter to The Yard indicating that one of our medics had behaved in a less than admirable fashion whence called to her home to treat her husband, Manfred, for a cough.

Dr. Watson handed me a snifter of my favorite late night libation, I placed it next to the complaint, took my pipe from its pocket inside my jacket, opened my pouch and filled the bowl with Turkish Tobacco. Only Turkish will do on a chilly November evening when a mystery must be solved using our wits and age old deductive reasoning rather than my preferred means of investigation; feet on the ground, so to speak.

"It says here that one of our people acted surly on a late night call  needs to be addressed."

"That could be any one of us, Mr. Holmes," said Watson, swirling the brown elixir around his glass.

"She continues. See here," I shook the correspondence in front of me and held it near the candle's glow and read it aloud:

"My husband had been coughing for three days. His incessant noises had been keeping me awake, three nights running! I called for help and explained the situation to the person who answered our call. He had a look of disdain upon his face from the moment I told my story, and acted as if he were being put upon, answering our call for help. He barely glanced at Manfred, who sat in his recliner, poor thing, sniffling like a pup, eyes all watery and nose a dribble. "Where are your shoes," he said in lieu of a proper greeting, and crossed his arms over his chest and did no more. His partner was no better, slinking to the shadows and offering no comfort whatsoever.'

"All due respect, Mr. Holmes, but was any harm done to the complainants?"

"Allow me to continue;"

'The medic looked on as Manfred sneezed, once, then again, and a third time, right if front of him! He offered no handkerchief, or words of comfort, but asked if we wanted to go to the hospital! On such a chill evening as the evening in question! I think not!'

"I'm curious, Mr. Holmes, what exactly did these fine people expect?"

"Allow me to finish, Dr. Watson, and the mystery may be solved:"

"Have you no medicines? I asked the medic. Have you no comfort to offer? Cannot you give him a shot to help him sleep? The surly young man said only,  "It looks like Man-flu. It will pass."  The audacity of that insolent man, a worker from the city whose very paycheck comes from our pocketbook! He checked poor Manfred's sugar, and blood pressure, and performed some ritual that he states indicated Manfred's heart was stable but pah! how is he to know! Is he a doctor? I think not! Being upstanding members of society whose income comes directly from the state's coffers I write this letter imploring you to discipline this man and his cohort, and spare not the rod!"

"Mr Holmes! surely this woman jests!"

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Watson, the citizenry has been bred to expect much from its public servants."

"Too much, I say!"

"Alas, action must be taken. Find this medic, whose behavior is in question, find him and bring him here. I believe we have an extra snifter waiting for a warm hand to hold it, and to enjoy it's contents."

Dr. Watson smiled, and left the room, headed for the home of the off duty medic whose behavior was in question. I brought my pipe to the corner of my mouth, breathed in and admired the glow from the bowl, walked to the fireplace and deposited Mrs. Waddington's letter atop the burning logs.

Satisfied with the case's resolution I poured another snifter of brandy, and set it upon the table and waited for Dr. Watson and the medic to return. It was a perfect night for a story.

Thank you, Veterans for your service to our country.

He’s eighty-five and thinks his days are numbered. He felt the same way back in ’43.

I had to pick my chin off the floor when he told us about the German Luger that was missing when he returned from a ten day “kind of” unauthorized tour of Rome.

“I was a little late returning from leave,” he explained, grinning. “When I got back, my unit was gone, I had to catch up with them.”

“Where did you get a Luger?” I asked, off camera.

“Off the German I captured,” he said as if ordering a pizza.

Dennis and I exchanged glances, both of us knowing something special was taking place. We knew Uncle Tony was a World War II Veteran and hoped to talk him into telling his story on camera. Until this day any questions we asked were quickly dismissed. The subject would change and Tony seemed happy to be out of the spotlight.

We are running out of WWII Veterans. Soon there will be nobody left to tell the story. Watching old footage or a reenactment of the War staves our thirst for knowledge but will never fully quench it. Dennis’s and my fascination with the war and the people who fought it has a lot to do with our age; Dennis’s dad was a World War II veteran, my father served in Korea. When we reached an age where our dads might confide in us, tell us what it was really like, man to man, it was too late, they were gone.

Will our children, and then their children know and appreciate the bravery and sacrifice made by the people of that era? Without a link to the people who were on the ground at Anzio, Palermo, The Po Valley, Normandy, Iwo Jima and everywhere the war was fought, even the factories at home where wives and mothers worked will they care? Dennis decided that they would care.

Our kids know and love Uncle Tony, the funny, generous “old man” who shows up on holidays and family functions. They don’t know the nineteen-year-old soldier who earned a Bronze Star by crawling through the battlefields of Italy establishing communications between the front lines and the artillery. As the interview progressed, I found that neither did we.

“The Germans would shell us at night and the phone lines would get blown up. Somebody had to put them back together.”

“Did you wait until the next day when the shelling stopped?” I asked.

He tilted his head and grinned. I saw the fearless nineteen year old in his eyes then as he described running in front of the artillery to repair the broken lines.

“We went at night, followed the lines until they came to an end.

“While they were shelling?”

“While they were shelling.”

“You shouldn’t be alive,” said Dennis.

“I never expected to come home.”

A peaceful silence filled the room as we absorbed the enormity of what Uncle Tony survived.

“How did you capture the German?” I asked, not wanting to change the subject but afraid this “small” task might be overlooked.

“I needed his motorcycle.”

What started as a tense interview was now three guys in a room, one telling stories, two listening. Uncle Tony relaxed knowing his audience was putty in his hands. We would have listened all night. The camera rolled. The footage will be part of our family for generations, maybe forever.

“You captured a motorcycle?” Dennis asked, completely charmed.

“I was tired of walking. Those radios were heavy. I asked Captain Dole if it would be all right. He saw the sense in it. Not Senator Dole, I knew him too, we used to talk on the radio. His arm got hit pretty early on.”

Dennis and I sat back, speechless as the living history seated with us told his story.

“I was a little different then,” he said, his eighty-five year old eyes sparkling like I imagined they did when he commandeered a Luger and a motorcycle from a German officer in 1944.

“Wasn’t afraid of anything. My family doesn’t know it, but I was a crazy son of a bitch.”

I believed every word.

He survived the Battle of Anzio. Fought with General Patton in the First Armored Division, marched into Rome and saw “Mussolini and his Girlfriend” hanging at Piazza Loreto in Milan. He joined the 10th Mountain Division for the Po River Valley campaign, survived when German Fighter jets “strafed” their position. A medic found some shrapnel in Uncle Tony’s “gut.”

“I told him to leave it alone, I was ready for a five day leave and didn’t want to get held up.”

Ten days later, after some “crazy times,” Uncle Tony returned to his base to find his unit had shipped out and his duffel bag was missing, along with the Luger.

“What could I say, I was late,” he smiled.

Every day since I’ve been thankful that we weren’t late, and managed to get Uncle Tony’s story recorded. When the interview ended after about an hour and a half we met our wives and kids at a nearby restaurant. Tony took us out to dinner. We talked, told stories and laughed the entire time. Tony sat next to his wife of sixty years, Auntie Rose and joined in the lively conversation. He didn’t say a word about the war.

He's a big man, really big, in life he took up a lot of room wherever he went, same as he dies in my rescue, spilling over the edges of the stretcher designed for people three hundred pounds or less. With the extra weight come extra problems, IV access is difficult to say the least. We're doing CPR, have an OPA in place, getting lousy chest rise, minimal air exchange, I tilt the chin, reposition the best I can and have Kevin continue bagging while Keith does compressions.

Brian continues his search for a decent vein, Kevin stops bagging and I prepare to sink the tube. I'm not too hopeful right from the get-go, but put my best foot forward and move the giant purple tounge to the left and take a look. Lots of flesh, mucus, vomit, no vocal cords. Some suction helps, but not enough, there's nothing visible. We're seven or eight minutes into the resuscitation efforts, the patient is running out of time, there is no IV access, and none on the horizon and my intubation attempts may be the only chance we get to get some meds in.

Brian tries what he hopes will be a good one, but the fluid refuses to flow, he pulls out the catheter and tries again. The ER is a few minutes away, I attempt another tube, this time I think I have it, visualizing vocal cords that are figments of my imagination but I really want this tube. I goes in easily, and just as easily fills with vomit before I can inflate the cuff.

I pull it out as we pull into the ER, put the OPA back in place, clean up as best we can and wheel our IV less, tubeless and lifeless patient into the trauma room where he dies twenty minutes later.

The man's family waits outside, expectantly, hopefully, believing the TV shows they watch where CPR always works, and the patient gurgles up some fluid, starts to breathe and everybody goes home happy.

We go back to the rescue to clean up the truck, the doctor and social services man walk the family members down the hall to the family room. The news given there is never good.

Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, we are mere days away from the long awaited sequel to Rescuing Providence! Responding continues the story of the four day war which Lieutenant Morse, his partners Mike, Renato and now Al embark upon every week.

This book begins at the beginning of a night tour, 1800 hrs and moves through the next thirty-eight hours one run at a time. The people of Providence are the real characters in the book, we begin with a cardiac arrest, roll through assaults, shortness of breath, a stabbing, (double stabbing actually), abdominal pains and a shooting, plus whatever else came our way during the shift.

To write the book, I wrote notes as the shift progressed, then later put everything together inter spaced with my thoughts and ramblings, plus some home life and history of Providence.

Thanks to you all for continuing to support this blog, and hopefully the new book.

Ordering information to follow soon.

When I think of why I feel blessed to be part of the Providence Fire Department, I think of Bobby Dunne. I think of my first fire, wondering how badly I screwed things up, wondering if I did enough, fought hard enough, was brave enough or if I even belonged on the fire ground with people like Bob. It was cold, so cold I couldn't believe we were standing in a street in Providence in the middle of the night, our turnout gear stiff with ice, mustaches frozen, hands brittle, but laughing, and packing hose and working together. There was no place I would have rather been, then, or now, especially after the guy who looked like the most bad assed firefighter of the bunch took his spot in the line, next to me, and as we passed the three inch feeder lines from one to another, then onto the hosebed to be packed for the next one told me, in his raspy voice earned through years of eating smoke, "nice job, kid."

He was cool. Best I can describe him. Graceful works, nice, funny, kind and all that, but cool describes him best, to me anyway. I'm sure that the people he was closest to have different words come to mind when they think of him, and I'm sure he deserves every one.

To me, he was a giant, the best of the best, and I will never forget him, and part of him lives on in me. I remember how he made a new guy feel like he belonged, and did okay, and I have passed his kindness on to new people whenever opportunity presents itself. From this day forward, whenever I do so, I'll do it in memory of Bob.

Bob passed away a few days ago while vacationing in Florida with his wife. I do not have the details, but have heard from some firefighters he may have had a seizure, and fell, striking his head, He did not regain consciousness.

He retired this year. To me, he WAS the Providence Fire Department, and through his actions, in my heart and mind he left us in the line of duty.

Nice job, Bob.

Rest in Peace, Brother.

From Rescuing Providence

Chapter 12

2129 (9:29 p.m.)

     “Rescue 3 to fire Alarm, we are clearing Rhode Island, we’ll handle.”

     “You have it Rescue 3, we have a report of four cars involved.”

      Renato hit the lights and sirens, reversed direction and headed to the scene. The majority of auto accidents in the city seldom result in life threatening injuries. Minor scrapes and bumps, small lacerations and the like are common. The most prevalent injuries are neck and back pain. Soft tissue injury is also common. Insurance fraud is epidemic. Lawyers advertise their business on daytime TV, their premise being that if somebody caused an accident, that person should pay. Often there is no visible damage to the vehicles or occupants, but in hopes of a big insurance settlement some victims go to the hospital. Talent agents could scout accident scenes looking for the next big star, the acting is remarkable. Some of the injuries are legitimate, most are not.

     Four cars, probably ten people involved could tie up the EMS system for hours. If every person on scene claims to be injured, at least five rescues will have to respond. The patients have to be placed on a long back board, a cervical collar applied and transported per state protocol lying on their back and immobilized. The victims must be extricated from the cars, a process that usually takes three firefighters. If you neglect to do the extrication perfectly, you can and will be sued.  Lawyers can be unscrupulous. There are actually advertisements asking the public if EMS and Emergency room personnel have mistreated them, and if so, you can “Make Them Pay!”

     We navigated through the traffic on Atwells and pulled up to the accident scene. The officer of Engine 14, Bob Dunne had assessed the accident scene and gave me his report.

     “Minor damage all around, looks like everybody’s refusing.”

     “That’s a miracle,” I said.

     “We’ve got an old guy in the white Buick who says his shoulder hurts, you might want to get him to sign a refusal.”

     “Good idea, thanks Bob.”

     The four cars that were involved in the accident had all pulled over to the side of the road, except for the white Buick. I walked over to the driver’s side and saw a well-dressed man in his eighties sitting at the wheel.

     “Sir, are you hurt?” I asked.

     “Yup,” he answered, looking strait ahead.

     “Where are you hurt?”

     “My shoulder, I’m waiting for my wife,” he replied.

     “If you want to be seen at the hospital, we’ll take you, your wife can meet us there.”

     “I’m not doing anything without my wife,” he said, all business.

     “That’s fine, but you’re tying up traffic. Why don’t you let us move your car out of the way until your wife gets here?” I tried.

     “Nope.”

     “Then sign this refusal and wait for the police. I can’t wait here all night.”

     “I don’t care what you do, I’m not refusing, and I’m not signing anything. I’m waiting for my wife.” This guy was really starting to get on my nerves.

     “We’re not waiting for your wife, so come with us or sign the refusal.”

     “When my wife gets here I’ll decide what to do,” he says, and that appears to be the end of it, for him anyway.

     “When is your wife getting here?” I asked. “When she gets here,” he replied.

     The man refused treatment, refused to sign the refusal form and refused to move his car from the intersection. Anybody that refuses treatment is required to sign a refusal if they are competent. The man in the Buick is competent; he is just an asshole. The police had not made it to the scene yet, the guy could sit in the intersection for the rest of his life for all that I cared. I walked away from the car, unsigned report in my hand and back to Lt. Dunne.

     “Bob, the guy in the Buick won’t come with us, won’t move his car and won’t do anything until his wife gets here.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” Bob says, “we’ll wait here for the police. Not much you can do with a guy like that. Try to get some rest.”

     Lieutenant Dunne has been with the fire department for at least twenty years. He is one of the last of a dying breed. He has done it all. He loves the job and is one of the most liked and respected people we have. Firefighters are not given respect just because they are firefighters. The respect is earned on the streets and in the stations. Bob has earned the respect that he now enjoys by being a hard-nosed front-line firefighter as well as a great guy in the station. He respects the guys working the rescues and understands our workload is extreme. He would give you the shirt off of his back in a blizzard if you needed it, I’d do the same for him. His willingness to stay on scene gave us the opportunity to get back to the station and rest for a little while, and lets Renato finish his dinner.

     Renato had assessed the other passengers in the cars involved and confirmed that there were no injuries. I shook Bob’s hand and we left the scene. I explained to Renato during to ride back to the station what had happened. Without trying, Bob had earned the respect of another new guy. The kids striving to make their mark as firefighters never forget little gestures from grizzled veterans.

I've been reading more and more about EMT's firefighters killed in the line of duty while directing traffic, or just being struck and killed while doing their job at accident scenes. I have done a lot of things during my twenty years as a Providence Firefighter, spent time on icy roofs chopping holes, been inside burning buildings waiting for my line to be charged as fire rolled overhead, suited up at Haz-Mat incidents, dug people out of cave-ins while deep inside unstable holes in the earth and been witness to shootings, electrocutions, stabbings and life ending falls.

Nothing scares me more than a motor vehicle accident on the highway on a weekend night. We are all taught that scene safety is our first concern, and that is just great, but like most emergency scenes, the scene is constantly changing, and not much changes faster than a highway alive with traffic, a large percentage of the drivers impaired, many looking at us rather than what is happening in front of them.

I am stationed less than a minute from the infamous Thurbers Avenue Curve (picture above.) Often our little rescue is first on scene. We're EMT's not traffic police. People who are injured need people to treat them. The people who treat the injured need people to keep the scene safe. It all looks good on paper, but in reality people are dying on our highways who did simply showed up for work, and died doing their jobs.

I'm seeing a trend toward less police, fewer firefighters and reduced personnel on rescue runs, something about saving tax dollars. I'd like to take the people who make the staff cuts, or the proponents of such on a little ride down the Thurbers Avenue Curve at closing time on a rainy Friday Night, and have them feel the wind from a speeding car as it whips past them at ninety, or hear squealing tires and the roar of eighteen wheelers who pass so close and so fast the earth shakes as you are busy extricating people from their wrecks. Maybe if they were the ones waiting to see the warning lights from the State Police on the horizon as they worked, and only then felt the scene was reasonably safe they would see things a little differently.

Reduced public safety affects much more than the crime rate, or response times to burning buildings.

http://www.jems.com/article/news/milwaukee-firefighters-seek-ambulance-fe

http://www.emsworld.com/news/10443513/ohio-emt-struck-killed-at-crash

http://www.emsvillage.com/articles/article.cfm?id=2336

http://www.wsfa.com/Global/story.asp?S=13676701

http://www.mlive.com/news/grand-rapids/index.ssf/2011/05/grand_rapids_budget_cutting_go.html

He's eighteen, in great shape and at walk-in clinic getting a work-up. His chest started to hurt yesterday, not so much today, but he needed to breathe easy, and wanted to be certain there was nothing seriously wrong with his heart. He has had a heart murmur since he was an infant, I could hear it clearly when I listened to his heart.

"Are you in any pain right now?" I asked after taking the stethoscope off of my ears.

"No, but it was bad yesterday."

"1 out of ten, ten the worst?"

"About an eight."

"Any shortness of breath?"

"No. I have a soccer game tonight, just a little scared."

I looked at the EKG the doctor from the clinic handed over as we were leaving. There were some abnormalities but nothing remarkable.

"Has anything like this happened before?" I asked, wondering if I should do the full cardiac work-up.

"Not to me, but my cousin died from a heart defect."

"Really? When?"

"Three years ago."

"I'm very sorry, how old was he?"

"Fourteen."

I developed some shortness of breath when I looked more closely at my patient and saw the similarity.

"Was he at gym class at the high school, about two in the afternoon?"

"Yeah, he had a heart defect that nobody knew about."

We did the full cardiac work-up.

Big city, small world. His cousin died in my truck three years ago.