Monthly Archives: May 2010

Balance in the Universe

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Wow. I’m almost speechless.

So of course I’ll blog about it.

At the firehouse, we have a photo wall above the kitchen.  Framed poster-sized prints of Engine 4′s 1987 Hahn, Ladder 1′s 1967 ALF, and Engine 3′s 1963 Howe have pride of place. (Only the Hahn is still with us.) The Howe was a department legend in its day, remembered fondly even now.

Just this past Saturday, one of the other members asked if I knew anything about her fate. She was sold to a small town in VT in 1993. They in turn sold her to another local department, and we lost touch. Their roster lists her as retired.

I replied that I didn’t know, and I didn’t really want to know. If I knew her whereabouts, I’d feel the need to save her. I cannot afford the time or money involved in another project, and I couldn’t bear to leave her rotting in some farmer’s field.

Today I logged into Facebook and found this.

Woohoo! She’s safe, still alive, and looks to be in decent condition. I think I’ve found a new friend. Thank you, sir, you have no idea how much this means to me.

Holiday Weekend

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I’ve discovered that my self-image is skewed.  All joking aside, I first noticed it years ago.  If I put a hat on my head so that it feels right, it’s turned about 10-15 degrees to the right.  If I straighten it in a mirror, it just doesn’t feel right.  Since I’ve been doing Project 365, I’ve noticed that most of my photos lean slightly to the right.  No matter which camera I use or how hard I try to level it, the images tilt.  Thank goodness iPhoto can fix them quickly.

Anyway, on to the photos.  I hurt myself on Friday and I’m off work on doctor’s orders until Wednesday, so you will be spared interpretive photography of the ambulances.  Of course, this means lots of family.

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Thursday, 5/27.  Mrs. Mack505 and I drove the NH coast in the evening.  We couldn’t pass up some great sunset lighting, and I don’t have many good photos of her ride.

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Friday, 5/28.  Early morning on the Parker River in Newbury.  Taken from the new Route 1A bridge looking east.

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Saturday, 5/29.  Beth has new Betta fish.  They all have names, of course.

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Sunday, 5/30.  Sebastian.  I can’t believe he just turned 10.  I remember when he fit in the palm of my hand.

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Monday, 5/31.  Beth overlooking the Merrimac River at Moseley Woods in Newburyport.  We scored the Bresnahan Ducks and Minister’s Woodlot letterboxes today, and left one hitchhiker.

Grumpy sky

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A hot July day. The problem is it’s only May. The weather people call it unseasonably warm; I call it wonderful. This is New England, so it won’t last anyway.

We leave the air-conditioned coolness of the crew quarters for the heat of the garage as the overhead door rumbles upward for what feels like the tenth time today. I zip the windows up for protection from both the heat and the siren, and RP flips the remote AC switch for the patient compartment.

Then we are off into the evening.

As we approach Fire Headquarters, I realize everything is wet and steaming. This is not a simple carwash or lawn sprinkler; the last two blocks have seen recent rain. We round the corner and hiss through puddles for another two blocks, then the roads dry up again.

On scene, as we wait for the firemen to force open a door, I notice the sky. It’s not an angry sky, not in the Auntie-Em-Auntie-Em- get-Toto-and-head-for-the-root-cellar sense. It’s more of a grumpy sky, an it’s-been-a-long-hot-day-please-leave-me-alone sky.

As we emerge from the house with our patient, I can hear the first rumblings. They are barely audible over the screaming diesels but not unexpected. I turn around to look over the sea behind us. One cloud is thicker than the others, darker, seemingly reaching all the way to the surface of the sea. As I watch it drops a lightning bolt into the ocean directly between me and the Big City skyline.

The full moon attempts to make an appearance, struggling through the blackness. The result is a glowing ember of cloud, a strange candlewick apparition in the sky.

As we pull away, the rain begins.

Memories

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An elderly gentleman.

He sits in his bent car, with no recollection of where he came from or where he was going. Or at least he won’t tell us. The collision was minor, but he has no idea why he suddenly made a left turn into a parked car. He can’t or won’t answer most of our questions.

The collision was too minor to account for this. We can rule out hypoglycemia, but we have no way of knowing if his symptoms are from a stroke, pharmacology, senility, or sheer cussed stubbornness.

A pretty young woman.

She stands outside her bent car, watching with concern as we treat the other driver. She is uninjured and doesn’t want to go to the hospital. It’s a simple matter of paperwork.

Her birthdate triggers my own memory: she was born the week I graduated from high school.

An elderly cancer patient.

He sits on the bed in his rooming house. The room is tiny, not much bigger than the interior of my ambulance. A twin bed takes up one corner, with two dressers, an old television, and a hot plate on the other walls. It’s all clean and neatly arranged.

And next week it could all be someone else’s.

We carry him down three flights to the ambulance and embark on what may be his last ride. Who will remember him?

A middle-aged paramedic.

He sits in a folding chair outside the garage, enjoying the warm night air and wondering where the last eleven years have gone. Over his right shoulder the Medic 9 ticks softly, cooling after a busy evening.

I could never be a police officer

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The mid-afternoon traffic crawls slowly across town. I’m not paying much attention from the passenger seat, but suddenly something doesn’t look quite right up ahead. “Hey, isn’t that. . .?”

BEEP BEEP BEEP: “Fire Alarm has dispatched Engine 681, Truck 68, and Medic 9 to Local Thoroughfare at Right Here Street for a motor vehicle crash.”

Why yes it is. “Medic 9 to Fire Alarm. We’re right on top of that; show us on scene.”

A sixteen year-old has managed to splatter Mom’s Toyota across a tree and much of the sidewalk. She stands outside the car, looking unharmed and trying not to cry.  Seat belts work.  We don’t see any apparent injuries, and she doesn’t want to go to the hospital. We call Mom on her cell phone, and then we wait.

The engine and truck secure the wreckage; the tow truck arrives. Finally Mom arrives to take custody of her daughter and sign the paperwork.

As we are securing our equipment, a car pulls up next to us. I’m not sure how he got past the police barricades. “Excuse me, can I get through?” he asks. “I just live up there.” The driver points past the accident scene.

“Nope, sorry,” I reply.

“But I just live two blocks up there!”

“I’m sorry sir, but it’s blocked.” Can’t you see the ambulance, two fire engines and the tow truck? Heck, the ramp truck is PERPENDICULAR to the roadway!

“So how am I supposed to get home?”

“Sir, you’ll have to go around.”

“How do I do that?”

Are you serious?! I only work in this town. I have a map book, a street guide, and a GPS, and I know how to use them. I know the major streets and landmarks, but if you want to know obscure side streets you should ask a local expert. Like maybe someone who *JUST* *LIVES* *TWO* *BLOCKS* *UP* *THERE*!

“Sir, why don’t you go back down the street and ask the nice police officer at the road block?” I’m paid to handle medical emergencies, not navigational ones.  If I had to guess, though, I’d say you could probably follow the rest of the traffic. As he turns around, another woman pulls up in a car.

“Excuse me, can I get through? I just live right up there. . .”

I could never be a police officer.

(Inspired by a recent post by Motorcop. It’s true, though.)