The panic one feels is transferred to one such as I once intimate contact is established. As much as I hate to think of such things, Bob the firefighter and I have shared blood, he is part of me now, and his being the last blood I drank, the bond is strong.

Death in all it's blackness still has a shimmer, and that shimmer is coming through loud and clear. Bob is not only in trouble, but close to losing everything. The sun creeps toward the horizon agonizingly slowly, inching toward the ground in miniscule increments, slowly, slowly, slowly. As the edge of the giant orb touches the earth's line, I stir. The deadly UV rays diminish, and my eyes flicker, and the sun sinks, and I rise.

Smoke. There is something sinister in this, I know, for mixed with the pleasant aroma of burning wood, flesh mingles. Whose flesh is the question, and if the last of the light would finally creep into the abyss for the evening, I could crawl from my grave and find out. My body is stiff, but my brain increasingly alert. Going, going, gone! I'm free.

Heat. Intense heat. It sears my skin, but that's okay, my skin has taken much worse. Orange glow from the crack in the barn floor outlines the shape of the hatch that sealed Angus and I this morning.

"Malcolm, we need to get out. Crissy needs us."

"On three. One. Two. THREE!"

Together, we push the door up, exposing us to the smoke and heat. We are through the door in a flash, and tear through the flames and out of the barn, and into the cool Vermont dusk. Light retreats as the sun falls behind the earth, but its afterglow lingers, and fills me with mourning. If I had one wish, it would be to set foot on a bright, sun filled field, and walk among the plants and flowers, listening to the creatures that stir under my feet, and watch the birds in flight as they live their mortal lives, oblivious to their own impending demise, just content to be alive, and free, and busy, bathed in light.

Flames roll behind me, the heat now on my back as I run forward. Charlie is down, Bob swinging an axe as three fiends surround him. Sirens wail in the early evening stillness, beating the crickets to fill the quiet night with noise. Crissy is nowhere.

I surge. The fiends are new, no match. They are a mockery to the uniforms they wear. Firefighters! How dare they desecrate the name! Rage fills me as I attack. I've grown fond of the profession since joining the ranks some seventy years ago, and my affinity for those who filled the boots rather than simply wore them fuels my rage as their memory is tarnished by creatures of the night using the world's most honored profession as no more than a means to fill their veins with the blood of a populace that trusts them.

Just as Bob nearly succumbs to the onslaught, I appear in the fray, taking the heads of two of the vampires and smashing them together, stunning them, and crushing their skulls. They won't be dazed for long. The third looks upon me with eyes wide open, and anger fills his face, and his body prepares to attack.

"Malcolm! How could you turn your back on your own kind! You are Vampire!"

"You are neither Vampire of Firefighter!" I scream, the rage taking over now, blood lust creeps in slowly, but once stoked is difficult to control. I clutch the Vampire's throat with my left hand, put my right on his forhead, pierce his skin and clutch his skull, then twist, not stopping until the head is severed from the body. He doesn't bleed, does not scream, does not twitch, but does die, forever. His form is reduced to ashes, and they fall at my feet. Bob catches on quickly, and uses his axe expertly, taking the heads of the other two monsters, who also turn to dust and leave this earth forever. The sirens are closer now, no time to reflect.

"They have Crissy!" shouts Bob.

Angus appears, the Cadillac purring, and ready to go.

"Let's go!" he says, flashing a fanged grin that makes me believe for the moment that he has things under control. Bob lifts Charlie over his shoulder and puts him onto the stretcher in the back of the Caddy, then closes the door. I take the passenger seat, Angus hits the lights and sirens and the chase is on.

The look on their faces said it all. They didn't have to say a word, their body language spoke volumes. When they did speak, it was nothing he hadn't heard before.

"Everybody's back hurts."

"I've got back pain too, and I'm still working."

"Where are your shoes."

It's different, he wanted to say. I live with it most days, but every now and then something happens, and the pain is paralyzing. I have to crawl. It takes four, sometimes five or six days to go away, and it never goes away completely, and every time it happens a little more pain stays.

"Come on, get up."

"We're not carrying you."

"Here, take my hand."

Take my hand. Take my hand! Why did I bother calling. These guys think I'm another scammer, drug seeker, disability fraud. I'm just another face in a sea of discontentment, all looking for a handout, a free ride, a little high to get me through the day.

"We can't bring the hospital to you."

"If you want to go, you have to get up and go."

"We don't carry morphine."

Now I've done it. I could have just layed here in misery for a few days till I could move. Instead Laurel and Hardy are here and I've got to make a move. Why they have to do this song and dance routine every time is beyond me. Just get the damn stretcher!

"All right already, no need to get testy, we'll carry you.

"Must be rough letting two guys carry you out of your house."

"They should put a Vicodin lick at the entrance to the ER, save a lot of seats."

What are they doing? They cannot be serious. No way. Ain't going to happen. Morons. I call for help and they send me morons.

"Lie flat we're going to immobilize you."

"It only hurts for a minute."

"There is no other way."

No other way. There's always another way! Don't they teach these people about back injuries? Have they never heard of slipped discs? Nerve damage? Bulging discs?

"You have to sign here."

"It says you are refusing treatment AMA."

"Have a nice day."

AMA. Must stand for Ambulance Manned by Assholes. Where's the remote?

Due to a recent brain power outage, you may have noticed that the usual fabulous content found here has been a bit less than fabulous. May I suggest the fine book, Responding, available here:

http://www.amazon.com/Responding-EMS-Lt-Michael-Morse/dp/1887321144/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1328714467&sr=1-1

If you have read the book, I would appreciate it if you took the time to write a review at Amazon, even if you didn't like it, just be kind, and honest, thank you!

or directly from the publisher here:

http://www.emergencystuff.com/9781887321143.html

And there's always Rescuing Providence!

http://www.amazon.com/Rescuing-Providence-Michael-Morse/dp/158160629X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1284387630&sr=8-1

Thank you for the continuing support, the power outage should be rectified soon!

.

Things on the streets can get a little discouraging. There is a lot of negativity out there, and if you allow it to it will swallow you whole. Now and then, a little trip to the museum keeps things in focus.

We are not alone. We have history. We have pride. We have a future.

I'm glad I found the National EMS Museum. I can't believe it took me this long. The blinders I have firmly attached to my perception of EMS and all the difficulties we face need to come off now and then, so I can see the big picture.

http://www.emsmuseum.org/

The City of Providence is on the verge of bankruptcy. Retirees and tax exempt property owners are being called upon to save the city from insolvency. A handful of retired fire department personnel-mostly chief officers and some police department members are part of a strange retirement package offered from the mid eighties to the early nineties giving them 6% cost of living increases. The top pensioner, a retired fire chief is pushing $200,000 a year in his pension check. He made $63,000 when he was working. These pension deals are the result of a corrupt city government and city employees looking to get whatever they could from that government with no regard for anybody but themselves.

It didn't have to be that way. The degradation of a person's ethics, and morality through years of immersion in criminal behavior from the leaders of their organization seeps in slowly, but takes over a person's dignity, and before they know it they have rationalized that their obscene pension was either earned, or deserved. Or, more likely than those two reasons, is something they got because if they didn't somebody else would.

Providence mayor Buddy Cianci was convicted of RICO crimes and spent five years in federal prison. He is out, and hosts the area's most popular talk radio program, The Buddy Cianci Show on 630 WPRO. RICO, WPRO, who cares. He was the longest serving mayor of a large city in the history of this country, and was instrumental in getting the 6 % COLA's implemented. His legacy is one of mistrust of all city government officers, caution in dealing with them, contempt for city hall and the general consensus among city workers that we are being played by people whose quest for power is greater than their desire to do what is right.

http://news.providencejournal.com/breaking-news/2012/02/providence-mayo-24.html

Good luck, Mayor Tavares

Meanwhile, on the front lines, Providence Firefighters stay focused, show up and get the job done. Fires go out, six rescues do the job of fifteen, stations and apparatus are maintained and we take care of each other. Local 799, The Providence Firefighters Union fights the good fight, and stands up for what is right through mounting criticism and accusations from a disgruntled public.

Thanks Former Mayor Cianci.

http://seanmcnultyphotography.smugmug.com/FirePhotography/2012-Fires/Providence-135-Almy-St-2nd/21321714_jSC4kM#!i=1698058105&k=dkMFn6J

Great job brothers and sisters! Don't let the bastards get you down!

“Engine 11 to Rescue 1, bring some sheets and the stair chair.” I keyed the mike and answered, “Rescue 1 recieved, on scene.” The apartment house used to be a one family place in what used to be a prestigious part of Providence. Peeling paint covered the ornate entryway which protected the carved oak doorway from the weather. We passed under the scrollwork, through the doorway toward our victim. Residents peered from the cracks of their partly opened and chained doors lining the hallway. The guys from Engine 11 had opened the windows inside forcing the putrid air down the stairs we were climbing. I pulled my t-shirt over my nose and mouth and entered apartment 6. Anna waited, lying in a pool of urine, her legs covered with feces. “I fell off the toilet she told me.” I asked her how long she had been on the floor. “Just a couple of days.” I checked for any bleeding or gross deformity before trying to move her. The clean white hospital sheet I placed over her was a sharp contrast to her underthings, years old and yellowish grey, whatever color the material once held washed away. We managed to get her onto the stair chair, a long a laborous ordeal inside an enviornment we found reprehensible yet Anna called home. The guys carried her into the fresh air toward the rescue as I took note of her living conditions. Refrigerator empty. Closets empty. Floors and walls covered in filth, rat and mice droppings swept to the corners, displaced cockroaches scurrying for cover, no room to hide in walls already full. Anna begged me not to take her away from her home. She told me she just needed to tidy up and get some rest. I felt like I betrayed her when I put on my report that she needed intervention, her living conditions unfit for humans.

The first traces of light appeared on the horizon as we drove through deep woods populated with a scattering of homes. The people who inhabited this part of Vermont were of three varieties, deeply rooted Vermont residents, with family lines dating back generations, millionaires and their families who bought land at inflated prices from those deeply rooted residents, or people like Bob and Crissy, owners of a parcel of land that had been built upon over the years and was now used as a mountain getaway.

"Which way, Bob?" asked Angus as a fork appeared in the road ahead of us.

"The road less taken," he said from behind us. "Bear right and follow that road for a mile or so. At the Old Stone Church veer to the left and go up the hill. At the crest of the hill you'll see a graveyard, my cabin is directly across from that, up about one-hundred and fifty yards.

"A church and a graveyard?" I said, turning my head toward the back of the ambulance, giving a grin and flashing a fang, "you just can't make this stuff up."

Angus gave me a wry look, then focused on his task.

Bob's vacation home was as I expected, small, organized and serene. It would serve as a perfect getaway from the rigors of city life, and the woes that come with a career as an urban firefighter. I've learned a thing or two during my centuries long walk among mortal men, a mind and body can take only so much grief and trauma until it either breaks, or the inhabitant of that mind finds the sense to get away, and leave it for a time, regroup, refresh and learn to live again, free of the baggage that accumulates. The same strategy is imperative for a vampire. Killing is necessary for those whose existence depends on other of their kind's life blood, and while that killing is rather satisfying at times, it still takes a toll on the sensibilities of a once civilized man. Some habits, and the spirit of human kindness are difficult to shake, even after death.

"Pull the rig in front of the barn," said Bob. Angus steered the old Cadillac over a gravel driveway and stopped where he was told. Crissy opened the rear door of the ambulance, walked toward the barn doors and lifted the latch, opening a black hole in the exterior of the building. Angus pulled our ride in, and we were home.

"It's a little dilapidated," said Bob, "but I hope it will do. I'm not used to accommodating vampires."

He led us toward a trap door, and lifted the heavy oak, which groaned as it opened, and exposed another black hole, this one disappearing into the earth.

"Your graves await," said Charlie.

"Know this," I addressed the assembled people, Charlie, the de-throned Fire Chief from Essex County, Bob, recently retired FDNY firefighter, Crissy, his eighteen year old daughter and my partner, Angus. "Sid will pursue us now, he has much to lose. His is a black heart, turned that way from a human one that began it's journey corrupted, then filled with poison fed by his birth parents, gypsies who would cut a man's throat for the coin in his purse. He is ruthless, and has much to lose. The vampires he sent to your home, Charlie, were two of his best, bloodthirsty and clever, third generation soldiers, you are lucky to be alive."

"My finger wasn't so lucky," said the chief, raising his left hand, bandage crimson with his blood.

""We'll need to get you to a hospital," said Bob, as Crissy held the old chief's good hand.

"We need a plan." said Angus. "And protection. Sid's web is vast. He controls not only creatures of the night, but a legion of followers who are yet to be made. They are able to hunt in daylight, and hold powers greater than a mortal, but not nearly as strong as ours. They will come, and come today.

"The sun is nearly upon us," I said, feeling the aches and pains in the body that once held a beating heart re-appear, as they did every day the sun rose.

"This whole thing is a little hard to swallow," said Bob, but saw the desperation in mine and Angus's eyes begin to grow. "What do you need??"

Angus and I exchanged thoughts and glances, and decided to push our luck, the decision borne from desperation rather than coherent thought.

"We need to feed," I said. eyeballing Charlies blood soaked hand hungrily.

"No fucking way," said Charlie, stepping back, away from Angus and me.

"I'll do it," said Chrissy.

"No fucking way," said Bob.

Angus's normally serene face began to turn, the frustration and despair showing through his features as time ticked and the sun began its relentless ascent.

"We can survive the day, but will wake weakened, frantic and unpredictable. It is difficult to control the hunger."

He cast his eyes down, ashamed of his admission, never being one to admit the beastly side of our nature freely. Crissy approached him, and extended her arm. Angus glanced at Bob, who looked at his daughter squarely, saw the determination set on her face, shook his head and acquiesced. Gently, Angus took her hand, thanked her with his eyes, closed his own, then licked the inside of Crissy's elbow. A vein rose, and he sank a fang in. I watched him, aware that he could overdo things and drain his new friend. My interventions were unnecessary, however, Angus, the perfect gentleman stopped after about a half pint had been extracted from Crissy, who looked dazed for a moment, then happy.

"That felt pretty good," she said dreamily, "am I a vampire now?" she giggled.

"That is not funny," said Bob, who broke the trance between his daughter and the vampire who had drunk her blood. "If she is harmed, you will be dead by nightfall!"

"She is better for it," said Angus, his mood improved considerably. A young girl's blood tells a tale of it's own, simply from the taste and texture. A vampire worth his salt can discern the feelings of the person whose blood force has entered his body, and for a brief moment shares a bond more intimate than sex.

"I'm dizzy," said Crissy. I'd like to help you, Malcolm but I don't think I can.

I looked at Bob, then his beautiful daughter, then felt the familiar hunger that needed to be fed.

"Oh for Christ's sake," said Bob, and held out his hand. "This better not hurt, and don't go getting all vampire freaky on me, I want nothing to do with any of this shit!"

I looked longingly at Crissy, and drank her father's blood. The taste was bitter.

We went to our graves then, Angus enjoying some morning wood, and me stuck with the bitter taste of a jealous, angry firefighter from New York coursing through my veins.

"Haven't seen him in a week."

"Is that unusual?"

"He stays to himself mostly, but there's usually some sign of life up there, footsteps, a TV, doors closing, you know."

Yeah, I know. Wish I didn't. Wish I had some Vicks for under my nose.

"How old is he?"

"Not too old, fifty maybe,"

Fifty. Not too old. Ha ha.

We entered the rear hallway, stairs led strait up to a landing and a door. There was a shamrock decal stuck there, greasy fingerprints around the doorknob.

"Is the smell normal?"

"He's not the cleanest tenant, but this is bad."

"Yeah, it is."

The landlord opened the door and the smell got worse. Kitchen, empty, some empty cans on a folding card table that served as his dinette, dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter, the refrigerator stood in the corner waiting for me to open it up. Nothing.

"Hello, anybody home?"

He was home alright, I could smell him. The trail led me to a door in the middle of three. Door number one, door number two or door number three. One of the doors had a string of neckties tied together, starting at the door handle and going over the top.

"Rescue 1 to Fire Alarm, start the police to this address."

"Roger Rescue 1, nature?"

"Possible suicide."

I pushed the middle door, it gave a little but would not open. So I pushed a little harder.

"Here he is."

It was a crime scene, but I needed to confirm the man was gone. I got the door open about a foot, squeezed through and watched a dead man's weight force the door shut. He had tied the last of the neckties around his neck, strung the rest over the top of the door, tied the last to the opposite side doorknob, kneeled in front of the door, inside his bedroom, facing the back of the door  and closed it.

Slowly?

Quickly?

Did he slam the door?

Did he lean into it?

I couldn't figure out the mechanics of it, and realized I was spending way too much time thinking about it. Everything inside him had let go, he was bloated, and stiff, and dead.

Pictures of a woman and some kids had been pinned to the back of the door. I squeezed back through the doorway, pushing the body with the door.

Thankfully you can look at pictures, but they can't look back.

"Does he have any friends or family?"

"He's lived here for a year, since he got out of prison. Nobody visits that I've seen."

Nobody.

Who's better? Me? You? I'm better, they're better, you're better, the better man wins! Better yet, let's make everybody better.

I've never been a competitive person. I like to win, and like it when my teams win, but I really don't get too unraveled when I or they don't. The Patriots are in the Super Bowl, and so are the Giants. I'm a Patriots fan, but if they don't win the big game life will go on, and I'll be on to the next thing.

I do have to admit, it was sweet when the Bruins won the Stanley Cup. I'll never forget one game when I was playing junior hockey. A little shit was flying down the boards toward the goal, and the big galoot defenseman was the only thing between him and our goalie. I may be big, but I definitely ain't fast, so I positioned myself in the right spot and made the kid go behind the net. I had a chance to crush him into the boards, but I outweighed him by fifty pounds and just harassed him with my stick instead. The little bastard snuck around the net and snuck one behind our goalie. And if that were not bad enough, he laughed.

Next shift same thing was happening, and he tried it again, and I crushed him this time. I didn't laugh when they carried him off the ice, and neither did he, but he definitely did not score. I may not be all that competitive, but a guy's got to do what he's got to do. Years later while watching Saving Private Ryan, in one of the movie's pivotal moments one of the soldiers shoots a German soldier who he had let go earlier in the movie. It was symbolic of the death of innocence in the movie, and I had a flashback to my own little experience. Art imitates life, I suppose.

Firefighters are a competitive bunch, and I went along with all of that for ten years but my heart was never really in it. I knew I was good, and that was enough. I cannot be great at everything, but I am pretty good a lot of stuff, and might be great at one or two things, but there will always be somebody who does something better than me. And I'm okay with that. I'm done crushing people into the boards, it just doesn't feel very good.

I've found my experiences in EMS more satisfying that firefighting, and maybe the lack of constant competition is a big reason for that. There is no need to prove I'm better, or stronger, or faster or smarter than anybody else. The only one who matters is the person I'm taking care of, and they just want somebody who cares, usually.

Of course, competing with myself is vitally important. I need to know I've done all I can to be the best I can be at what I do, because people's lives literally depend on it. Either I do it, or I don't.

It feels great to be one of the people who can do it, and not have to prove myself to the rest.

Monday's Musings

We tend to run faster when we have lost our way.

I've seen it, done it, and will probably do it again. Bad idea, this running faster thing. The faster I run, the more problems I run into, and the fewer problems I solve. A steady, productive pace is needed most times, even when another person's life is at stake.

One of the more intimidating challenges I've faced is being in charge of an ALS unit during a cardiac arrest. The first few times my natural inclination to go faster took over, and I was three steps ahead of myself rather than focusing on what I was doing. 

I've learned to slow down, take each task as one accomplishment that has a beginning and an end, then move on to the next one. I've also learned to trust people, and to delegate. Many hands make light work a wise man once said, and it is great advice.

Local author Michael Morse at The Coffee Grinder, 961 Namquid Dr

Tel: 401-463-3300 Sunday, January 29, 2012 from 12-2.

A different world exists ten minutes from your door. Find out what really happens in Providence from somebody who spent twenty years in the homes and on the streets of Rhode Island’s Capitol City!

Responding, by Michael Morse   $22.50

“Responding” is a fine, skillfully paced second book that offers more fascinating pieces of life in the city, of the tragedy and the brutality and the small rituals that order the time between calls at the firehouse.   Bob Kerr, Providence Journal

Rescuing Providence, by Michael Morse   $20.00

“Rescuing Providence, a new book by Providence firefighter Michael Morse, is an interesting look at the Providence they don’t put in the travel brochures, all told in a very readable, effective, descriptive style.” Bill Reynolds, Providence Journal

Two surviving members of the original Lynyrd Skynyrd and a new guy were on FUSE last night, talking
about the band, the impact of losing the original members in a plane crash in '77 and how they have managed to go on, keeping the spirit of the deceased alive while charting new territories. My favorite part was when one of them, his name isn't important to me now, though it was before I watched the show, went into great detail about how as individuals they are nothing, but when they get together, and each one does his part, and the back-up singers chime in, and the drums get beating, an the bass kicks in-well, feet get tapping and magic happens…

Smoke fills the arena, obscuring the scene. It lifts a little, the crowd roars and through the haze the band takes the stage. I've got a part in this, and I get things moving, a man is down, possibly injured, not breathing. I need some rhythm, and the drummer and bass player take the stage and start pumping. One beat a second, small pause, a ventilation and more beats. The roadies move in, taking the lifeless form with them, and into the van they go. The drummer keeps his steady beat, the wind section kicks in and with his usual flourish, the lead guitar player knocks out a face melting, adrenaline charged solo.

The band pauses, I feel for a pulse, watch the monitor, and kick the band back into their song. Our roadies get the van moving, we're headed to the next gig, but this isn't a practice session in the back of the van, this is the show, mistakes are not part of the program. In perfect synchrony we play on, the steady beat from the rhythm section keeping the lead guitar and myself focused, doing the tings that make it all come together in perfect harmony. Now, if we could only get the singer to cooperate.

A crowd waits, apparently we are the warm-up band, but that's okay, it's all about the music anyway, the beauty of the band is there can be no ego's, without each part performing their job, it all falls apart. We need the roadies to get us there, the drummer, bass and sax player to keep the beat, the guitars to add flourish, the back-up singers to keep the harmony, the security detail to keep the gang at bay and if we could just get the singer to come back we would have a hit record.

We enter the next arena, security parts the crowd, bright lights blind us, the singer has his own rhythm now, a pulse, strong and steady, and he's breathing on his own. He pops up on the stretcher, ready to rock.

God, I love Narcan.

I woke up, and the TV was still on. Lynyrd Skynyrd was long gone, but like any great rock band they stuck in my head, and let me dream about being a rock star.

Scientific Method Pertaining to Book Sales.

considering…

Not a lot of people buy books from people they don't know.

and …

I don't know a lot of people.

therefore…

I'm not selling many books.

When my first book was published, I thought I would be on Oprah, and everybody would absolutely HAVE to have Rescuing Providence. Then, I found out that 90% of books sold are written by about 25 authors, and I am not one of them. Most books published sell less than 500 copies. Rescuing Providence is well over 2000 at this moment, and the Kindle version is doing quite well. Therefore, after letting the air out of my head, I have concluded that for a Firefighter in Providence who doesn't know a lot of people, I ain't doing too bad!

Responding has been available for a little less than two months now, and has sold about 300 copies. Considering about 100 went to friends and family, (much appreciated!) and another 100 to aquaintances, either on-line or casual friends, (also much appreciated!)100 people who I don't even know bought my second book. That's 100 people who forked over $22.50 plus shipping and handling to read my story. Plus, all of the folks I don't know who bought, or read Rescuing Providence.

And I had the balls to be dissapointed.

More Scientific Method Pertaining to Book Sales.

considering…

There are millions of things to read for free.

and…

Somebody I do not know is reading something that I wrote, probably right now.

therefore…

I am a one lucky guy.

Thanks for reading.

Hope to see you Sunday.

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2012/01/good-coffee-good-books/

She lived in a third floor apartment, exterior cement stairs led to her steel door that was secured with a lock and a dead bolt. Neighbors saw her earlier, standing on a balcony with her two year old daughter. At seven o'clock at night, the two year old girl's father, who lived forty miles away received a phone call from his ex, telling him goodbye.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch, Engines 2, 12, 7, Ladder 7 and 3, Special Hazards and Battalion 3 were dispatched to a Still Box on Chatham Street, occupied apartment fire. I was in the tool seat, behind the officer in a four man company. Arthur was driving , Kenny had the pipe, Captain Kozak in charge.

We arrived on scene and reported a smoke condition. Fire was visible on the third floor, behind a secured window, the smell and feel of smoke growing heavier the closer we got. Arthur spotted the engine perfectly and got ready to pump, Kenny climbed onto the rear step of Engine 2, grabbed an 1 3/4 line with a Task Force tip, loaded a length of line on his shoulder and followed the Captain up the stairs. I shouldered about thirty feet of line and then flaked the rest as I caught up with the Captain and Kenny.

Using his Haligan tool, Captain Kozak forced the secured door and we made our way in. Neighbors had gathered, screaming there was a woman and infant inside, Flames rolled toward us, apparently originating in a rear bedroom, followed the ceiling and filled the apartment with heat. We crawled forward.

"Charge Engine 2's line," said the Captain, and I felt the line give a little hitch, and a lifetime of seconds later, as heated smoke drove us closer to the floor felt it fill, and so did Kenny, and he opened the gate, and he hit the fire just as it was about to overtake us.

Instantly the hallway was gone. Nothing but black in front of my mask. Kenny, two feet in front of me-gone. The Captain, ahead of us-gone. I heard a crash, and felt the heat let up a little and figured Ladder 7 had the roof. We pushed forward, hit some fire on the way, fogged the hallway, took a right into the fire's room of origin and put the rest out. The Captain appeared through the smoke, carrying a woman in his arms, and got her out of the building. More companies arrived, we did primary, and secondary searches of the two bedroom apartment but never found the baby.

She was gone, at a friends house. He mother dropped her off, went home, set a mattress of fire in the baby's bedroom then locked herself into her room, called her ex, said goodbye and prepared to die. She didn't die, she was carried out of her death trap by Captain Kozak while we put the fire out. I saw her a few years later, same apartment, but clean and sober, and she had her baby back. Both seemed to be doing well.

The city gave us medals. Meritorious Action, First Class. It looks good on my dress blues.

At the time I thought the medal kind of silly, I was simply doing the job I loved. Now, some twenty years later, I'm glad they did, life and careers go by in a blink, it's nice to have something solid to hold on to, and remember people and events through it.

Alone with his thoughts most of the time, he sits in his room and doesn't make much of a fuss. The staff lets him be, figures he is content. There are plenty of other patients to care for in the nursing home, ladies mostly, older men are the minority. He gets visitors, not often, but more than some of the people who spend their last days here.

He was too young for the big one, but served in the Army in Korea, even got a few medals. Doesn't talk much about those years, ancient history. Raised a family, worked two jobs, held a position of authority then, at work and at home. He was respected in the community, everybody knew him, couldn't buy a coffee at the local diner, he had lots of friends.

Life was hard, but good, bills were paid, a vacation now and then, watched his children grow from babies, to students, to graduates then parents. But even the grandchildren grew up, and the once vitally important man started to lose his position, and the world sped past him. Then his wife, the woman he spent his life with got sick, and he wasn't able to take care of her, and they put her in a nursing home, where she died one night, alone in a hospital bed while he slept peacefully in the bed they had shared for fifty years.

He's alone now, the kids call now and then, grandkids less so, but that will change he figures, once they get a little older. They have lives of their own now, and their own legacy to fulfill.

Where did it all go, he wonders as the man half his age takes his blood pressure, asks the usual questions and gives him a nitro.

"Put it under your tounge, don't chew," the young man says, then puts the leads on his chest, exposing a once powerful frame, a build he used to be proud of, but even male vanity has fled the scene, and he cares not that the EMT has to lift his fatty breast tissue to attach the electrodes.

 The EMT reads the EKG. His expression does not change.

"Did the nitro help the pain," he asks, and the old man grins.

"My heart feels better," the old man says. "Less pressure. But the pain won't end until it stops beating."

"Rescue 1 to Fire Alarm, time on scene?"

"0645 hrs., Rescue 1."

"Roger, cancel Engine 10, send a Police Sergeant and notify the Medical Examiner."

"Roger that, at 0652."

Repeat after me: "My job is lucky to have me."

Do not ever say: "I'm lucky to have a job."

People who say they are lucky to have a job have either been brainwashed and beaten down by the present state of the economy, and manipulated by the near mythical "Job Creators" into actually believing that their job, their means of survival, their contribution to society and the very essence of self worth is a product of luck. Their uncertainty about the future, and anxiety about their ability to find work, and somebody to work for fuels the machinations that lead to a culture's decay. A population beholden to people who control the wealth and fuel industry and commerce is doomed.

 "My job is lucky to have me."

There is no need to begin a shift bowed to powers beyond our control. The economy is a complicated, fluctuating thing, fed by us, the people who make it work. Without us, it dies. As it stands now, people are depressed, tired and uncertain. Their sense of value to themselves, their families and their community is under constant attack. The economy, or rather those adept at manipulating it feed off of that uncertainty, and profit from it, and wear a man down until he utters those words, "I'm lucky to have a job."

"My job is lucky to have me."

Say it. Believe it. Make it true. Be on time, be prepared, learn everything possible about whatever it is you do; be a great cook, clean as good as you can, write well, teach well, drive well, and be well. Some people are actually fortunate to love what they do, most of us are not. That is no reason to not excel at work, and no reason to go through your days content to just get by, put in your time, cash your check on Friday and tell yourself you are lucky to have a job.

"My job is lucky to have me."

Luck does not exist. Luck is a myth. Work is real, and good work a valuable commodity. This economy is not going to right itself. Without us, the people who power it being healthy,  productive and confident in our abilities and worth mediocrity will rule. We will be a country full of mediocre people doing mediocre things for mediocre wages as the world generations of hard working, productive people have built crumbles into a pile of mediocre things that nobody wants.

"My job is lucky to have me."

The power of one person who believes in himself cannot be understated. We can't all own the companies that employ us. Everybody can't be the boss. Most of have to do the work that keeps everything going. Every person who contributes is vital. So stop telling yourself that you are lucky to have a job, and start believing that your job, or the job you seek is lucky to have you.

Save the Date!

Sunday, January 29, 2012 from 12-2 PM at The Coffee Grinder Inc, 961 Namquid Dr, Warwick, RI. Tel: 401-463-3300.

I'll be selling and signing my two books on that day, so stop in, say hello, have a coffee and a bagel or muffin and buy a book! You will be glad you did, and so will I!

http://www.paladin-press.com/product/Rescuing_Providence/Action_Careers

The brave men and women who make up our nation's EMS system willingly risk their lives every day to save people they don't know and often cannot communicate with. See for yourself how difficult, frustrating and at times heartbreaking this job can be, as lives are lost, scarce medical resources squandered, futures altered, and hope abandoned and then reborn. Despite this, most rescue workers cannot imagine doing anything else. For them, every day is different, every patient is unique and they know with certainty that they make a difference in people's lives. And, as Lieutenant Morse so eloquently states, sometimes it is the rescuers whose lives are saved by the job they do.

 $22.00

http://www.emergencystuff.com/9781887321143.html

I always thought that my job,or better yet-a day of my job, would make a great book. I had all of the ingredients for a good story, some crazy characters, life and death situations,  a ticking clock to add suspense, a pace that goes from auto-pilot to full throttle when you least expect it, and most importantly, a beginning, a middle, and an end.

What seems a lifetime ago I decided to go ahead with my plan to write the Great American Novel. On the way to work one random day I absorbed my surroundings a little more than usual, and made notes in a little pad that I bought just for that purpose. At the station I tried to remember conversations, and wrote remarks made, jokes told and anything else that caught my interest in my notebook. On calls, after the smoke had cleared, sometimes literally, I would get back to the pad and make more notes. When I called home, again I wrote down little nuances of my conversations with Cheryl, and added some thoughts and descriptions of our life together.

The shift went on for thirty-four hours, and those notes became Rescuing Providence, which was published in 2007 by Paladin Press. But the story did not end there, it was only half way through. The next day, I started a thirty-eight hour tour, and continued to write down everything that happened during that time. Three years later I finished putting those notes into book form, and those notes became Responding, published this week by Emergency Publishing.

$22.50

http://rescuingprovidence.com/2011/07/the-ems/

From the Executive Office of The EMS
 

Directive 1-A

Please post in a conspicuous place

Effective immediately:

There will be an Emergency room, and somewhere else, somewhere nearby,  a REAL EMERGENCY room

Field Units will evaluate patients and transport to the appropriate facility

There will be no Entertainment Weekly, People, or Star magazines permitted in The Emergency Room

Posted in The Emergency Room will be an updated list of local clinics, Primary Care Doctors and detailed directions on how to apply band-aids

People waiting in the Emergency Room will be shown REAL Emergencies while they wait

The Jerry Springer Show or similar entertainment will be banned from The Emergency Room monitors

Emergency! re-runs wil be permitted

The Emergency Room will have a mandatory five hour wait, whether it is needed or not.

The REAL Emergency Room will  have no wait at all

People who call 911 for rides to The Emergency Room and do not need The REAL Emergency Room must pay in advance for the ride

The REAL Emergency room will be staffed by people rotating from the Emergency Room

Persons who "might be" having an emergency will be allowed five (5) mulligans, after which they will be directed directly to The Emergency Room for treatment

A complimentary buffet will be served after each shift for both The Emergency Room, and The REAL Emergency Room staff.

Open bar  will be included with proper ID

That is all, carry on and stay safe…

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I do."

"State your name for the record…"

I forget most of the rest. I forget a lot of things, apparently. A letter arrived by carrier to my home one day, a subpoena, hand delivered by an officer of the court. A few weeks went by, the day of the deposition arrived and I showed up, as ordered.

"You were first on scene at a fatal motor vehicle accident on Route 95 on December 9, 2007, do you recall the event?"

"Yes, I do." I'll never forget it.

"Can you tell the attorneys exactly what you saw when you arrived on scene at," a shuffling of papers, "1134 hrs.?"

"A van was on its side, broken glass, major damage. We drove past the vehicle and stopped in front of it. When I got out of the rescue I saw a childs safety seat twenty feet away from the vehicle. I saw an infant in the seat, and the infant appeared dead."

"Lieutenant, you state that you drove past the damaged vehicle is that correct?"

"Yes." I remember it vividly.

Glances between the assembled lawyers, and clerks, the stenographer stayed on task. Pens on paper, then silence.

"Continue."

"I approached the seat and found an unresponsive infant. Another rescue arrived on scene and I handed the seat off to them and continued to assess the accident scene."

"Did you initiate any life saving efforts?"

"No."

"Can you tell us why?"

"The other rescue arrived on scene within seconds and i needed to size up the scene."

"Continue."

"I looked into the van and saw two more victims. One appeared dead, the other still breathing. By now more help had arrived, a chief officer, an engine company and a special hazards unit."

The deposition continued. I told the story exactly as I remembered it, each detail clear in my mind. The incident happened years ago, but the memories from that day are embedded into my subconscious, and easily pulled to the front of my mind when called upon.

"Any more questions?"

"No."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. We have footage from the scene and would appreciate it if you could identify some personnel, we need to get more information before the case begins."

"I'd be glad to."

A TV monitor turned on, and news footage from the incident began. My rescue was there, right behind the wreckage. I never drove past it. I also learned that the child seat was never thrown from the vehicle, though I vividly recall seeing it twenty feet away from the wreckage. Nothing was as I "vividly" remembered it. Nothing. It was as if a reenactment team did a poor job of reconstructing the incident. Actually, it was my own mind that did a poor job of recreating the incident.

I have no idea how many other things that I vividly remember are actually fabrications. The mind is a strange place, bearing witness to things better left unseen must scramble things up more than I thought.

"I wish you had shown me the footage before the questions."

"Thank you for your time, Lieutenant."

And that was the end of the deposition. I doubt if they call me back.

It matters not who calls us, what matters is their condition upon our arrival, nothing else. I have seen people of many colors, religions and political beliefs caring for and being cared for by each other, and little else makes me more proud to live in a day and age where predjudices are set aside, and healing is allowed to happen. The patients, the medics, we all have one thing in common, we are human beings.

"All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence." Martin Luther King, Jr.
 

I'm working at Rescue 6 in Olneyville tonight, a little stressed out-10 calls in ten hours so far, twenty-four hours to go. Lunch was hours ago, a cold bowl of soup and a stale grilled ham and cheese. What posesses guys to buy boiled, canned ham? And yellow cheese "food?"

Every firefighter should have one meal that he or she can cook, and cook well. It doesn't have to be complicated, simple ingredients and simple methods work best, burgers on the grill with fries in the oven, stir- frys, Italian tuna on a fresh Portuguese hard roll-I'm not looking for miracles here, just a little effort!

Cold canned  soup and yellow cheese, unbelievable!

The station is empty when I arrive, no trucks on the apparatus floor, no firefighters anywhere. A still box went out at 1745, just as I was leaving the Allens Avenue fire station, must be a code red. There's grocery bags on the kitchen counter. I've got a few minutes before the rescue returns,  nothing wrong with a little preview of tonite's culinary delight.

Boneless Pork Chops

Some cans of gravy

Ten Pound Bag of Red Potatoes

A few Bunches of Broccoli

That's it folks. What's a starving, lonely Rescue Lieutenant to do?

Get cooking!

First, a little recon. The Dinky closet is open, not sure which group left theirs unlocked, but what the heck, I don't know any better, I'm just a dumb rescue guy. There's a box of Stove Top instant stuffing hiding behind some salad dressings, a giant can of olive oil and a bag on onions. I take two onions and the stuffing. Just a cup of water and one package will be enough, I put the box back with the remaining one. There's a bag of shredded cheddar in the fridge, hiding in the vegetable drawer. It's not marked so it's fair game. A simple firehouse rule concerning leftovers that ensures harmony between working groups and should be strictly adhered to at all times is, if it isn't labeled, it's up for grabs, if it is marked and clearly identified as the property of a certain group, just take a little.

The common cupboard has the rest of what I need, bread crumbs, onion and garlic salt, some herbs, I like thyme, sage and basil on my pork, and I hope everybody else does too. There's some unlabeled eggs in the fridge near the milk so I grab a few of those and add them to the pile.

My foraging trip has given me the necessary ingredients for the feast:

some bread crumbs

a couple of eggs

a stick of butter

a nearly full bag of shredded cheddar

a package stove top stuffing

salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion salt, basil, sage and thyme.

First, boil the water and preheat the oven to 400. I don't have all day so every second counts. Then, wash and cut up the potatoes in quarters. Then, slice the onion. Mix the stuffing when the water boils and stick the pan in the freezer, stuffing and all. Get a sheet pan, splash a little oil or butter on it and spread it around, better yet, use cooking spray if you can find it,  put it next to a cutting board, place the chops on the board and beat them with the palm of your hand (washed of course, before and after!) or a meat mallet until they are a little thinner than they started. Sprinkle some salt and pepper on both sides. Take the stuffing out of the freezer, put a blob onto half of the pork chops, and cover with the other half, making one big stuffed pork chop. Beat the eggs in a cereal bowl, spread out some bread crumbs on a dinner plate, and carefully pick up each chop, dip in egg, then drop into bread crumbs, then do the other side and put it back on the sheet pan. Find a baking dish, put the potatoes into it, add the onions, pour a ton of the pilfered olive oil on top, liberally season with the collected seasonings, toss them around then put them into the oven. Get a big pot, put an inch or two of water into it, put it on the stove and turn it on high. Cut up the broccoli, nothing fancy, just little pieces. By the time that's done, the water should be boiling so drop the broccoli in, cover, and put the pan of pork chops into the over, while doing so toss the potatoes around a little more. Find another pan and put the gravy into it, heat on low. The broccoli should be soft by now, and even if it isn't who cares, there's eight hungry firefighter returning from a building fire, they will eat anything at that point so there is no need to get crazy.

Put the butter in a soup bowl and melt it in the microwave. Don't be a jerk, put a paper towel over it so it doesn't splash all over the place! When that is done, pour the bread crumbs in and mix it around till you have buttered bread crumbs, and everybody knows what those are, so just do it. One more pan, this time a baking dish. Put the broccoli in, top with the bread crumbs, mix it up a little, top with the cheese and stick it in the oven.

Time for a review:

Potatoes have been in for forty minutes.

Pork chops thirty

Broccoli five

Gravy is warm

Kitchen is a disaster, but we still have ten of fifteen minutes oven time left so get to work!

At 1915 Hrs. the overhead doors open, and the firefighters are back. They are expecting bags of groceries and an hour at least before they eat dry, grilled pork chops, boring mashed potatoes and overcooked broccoli. Instead, they get a feast.

Your reward?

"What, no applesauce!"

Somebody you love tells you they took "all the pills." They say they are tired of living, tired of struggling, tired of being tired. You look around the house and find empty pill bottles where full ones used to be. The person you love is getting sleepy, fading away right before your eyes. You're alone, it's impossible to lift her, she refuses to cooperate. Time is ticking, you need help and call 911.

Five minutes pass, the sirens can be heard approaching, closer now, finally in front of your house. The person you love is suddenly alert. Some firefighters and EMT's are at your door, a police car arrives.

"What's all this?" asks your friend.

"I called 911," you answer.

"What for?"

"You said you took all the pills."

"No I didn't."

Now what. She's not acting right, but not unright enough. She's charming the responders, telling them she never took the pills, and that YOU are the one who needs help.

I've been the responder often. It's never easy. I'm an EMT, not a doctor, not a psychiatrist, nor a social worker or psych nurse. I have no power over a citizen, other than my power of persuasion. It is difficult to explain to the average person exactly why EMT's, Paramedics, cops and firefighters need to go through such a rigorous application process, psychological exams, background checks, agility and written exams. Many people will tell me that I'm not deserving of the good salary, better than average health care benefits and pension because I'm "not educated." They go on to say that a thousand people are waiting in line to take my place.

I may not have a formal education backed by an advanced degree, but the guy who called us because somebody he loves needed to get to the hospital quickly was pretty happy that the group of people that responded to his home, and treated him and his girlfriend with professionalism, courtesy and competence came from a group of applicants large enough to find the ones that could handle his situation. And thousands more. All without an advanced degree, or in my case, no degree at all.

The current trend of cutting, cutting and cutting some more needs to be stopped. The repercussions won't be felt by the people doing the cutting, they have the benefit of a good public safety workforce. It's the next generation, the ones that will be protected by  people who filled out an application because they needed a job-any job and heard the city was hiring.

Public safety is a vocation, a calling if you will. I am fortunate to be able to do what I do at a time that society valued its public safety workers. I'm not too sure about the future. When  people apply for the job because the pay is average, the benefits stink and the work is dangerous, but they have no other option, society will get exactly what they payed for.

We stayed for fifteen minutes, eventually getting the girl to come with us. Turns out she flushed the pills down the toilet. The guy who called us was grateful anyway, and his friend is getting counseling. There is a lot of things that happen to people over the course of their lives. Good things, bad things, embarrasing things, things they would rather forget. Having people who are dedicated, caring, discreet and professional respond to their home, and know what to do and how to do it is one of those things they pay taxes for, and makes doing so a little less painful.

He had a headache. A bad headache, he said, been hurting all morning.

"I have headaches too," I said, not impressed.

"Not like this," he replied.

"Have you had headaches like this in the past?" I asked, half paying attention to his answer.

"Not like this," he replied.

Something about him wasn't right. He was my age, maybe a little younger. His one room apartment was full of computers. The screens were dark, but I could hear them working, clicking and clacking, little blips here and there. The patient noticed my curiosity and started to move toward the door.

"What's up with all the computers?" I asked, visualizing my most recent batch of SPAM as I asked, wondering if this is where the notification that I won the lottery, my cousin was in prison in Bangladesh and needed bail money, my penis could triple in size in one day and I could live happily ever after in a vicodin fueled haze.

"You never mind," he said and started walking toward the door, quickly. We followed him outside, he locked the door and before I knew it we were in the rescue, and he had commandeered the stretcher.

All in a days work, I figured, took some vitals, his blood pressure was high, 170/100, heart rate normal and respirations where they should be. We ran a 12-lead, and that was unremarkable. The usual questions followed, he was on hypertension medication, but was non-compliant, said he couldn't afford to continue taking them.

Bad day phishing, I figured.

We took him to the ER, and I pretty much forgot about him soon thereafter. Monday mornings are relentless, the calls add up, the people making them make an appearance in my life then dissolve nearly as quickly as they appeared.

The phisherman re-appeared a few hours later, being wheeled past me by a private ambulance company as I was busy triaging a different patient. He was unconscious, and intubated.

"I just brought him to the other hospital," I sad to the guys wheeling the stretcher past me.

"He had a massive head bleed, we're taking him to the OR."

I have got to start taking these headaches more seriously.

"I thought you said you weren't doing the blog anymore."

"That was in 2008."

"Then you said it again."

"2009."

"Then again last year."

"Yup."

"And just before Christmas you said it was changing direction, going to be more creative."

"I said that?"

"You wrote it."

"Mule kicks me in the head I quit the blog, I fall down a well I start it again. I don't know."