Notes from Mosquito Hill

You tell me you lost your job and can’t afford to refill your rescue inhaler. Then you tell my partner that you smoke 3 packs a day.

I know it’s hard to quit. I sympathize and don’t want to be judgemental. But maybe, just maybe, instead of buying 90 packs of Marlboros this month you could buy 89 packs and one inhaler.

I’m just sayin’. But I’m a non-smoker, what do I know?

A busy main street. The tiny house is sandwiched between larger neighbors; almost lost in a sea of red and blue flashing lights. I count two fire engines and what appears to be the entire on-duty police shift scattered around the block.

I thought this was a simple diabetic. . .

Preceptor/Partner laughs at me. “Haven’t you met him yet?”

A tiny old woman clatters about the kitchen as we enter. She turns to us, waves her hands, and utters one word: “Upstairs.”

Two companies of firemen and a heck of a lot of police officers crowd into the small bedroom. All are staring at a man; a large, muscular man sprawled on the floor in a classic crucifixtion pose. He lies unconscious with his arms straight out from the shoulders, palms up. We each take an arm and begin to look for an IV site.

And I have nothing. Brand new medic, first big diabetic, and I’ve got NOTHING. I’m mortified. P/P chuckles. “He never has anything in that arm. It’s OK, I’ve got one over here.”

I sit on his arm as P/P cannulates the other one. Suddenly I begin to rise off the floor. I top 200 lbs in full medic battle dress, yet this patient is curling me off the floor with no more effort than if he was lifting a beer can!

“Hey guys. . .?!” The blue crowd descends, and now I know why they have come. Lots of wrestling and shouting ensues as P/P calmly pushes Dextrose into the patient’s vein.

As suddenly as it began, the struggling stops. He relaxes, takes a deep breath, and utters one sentence.

“Sorry guys. You can let me up now.”

He opens his eyes and sits up.

Behind us the small old woman arrives with a large platter of sandwiches.