Notes from Mosquito Hill » CMTSU

Duet

mack505 — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:05:57 +0000

Friends since high school, their lives have orbited and intertwined for decades. War, marriages, children, careers; all have come and gone yet friendship remains.

Upstairs we dance the ballet. Compressions, airway, breathing, electricity. Three paramedics, four firefighters, and an EMT all choreographed around one person on the floor.

Downstairs a lone EMT does the real work as the curtain closes on a duet.

Dropping names

mack505 — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 21:58:40 +0000

He sits on our stretcher inside the Medic 9 looking slightly dazed. The firefighters and police officers have retreated to their respective vehicles, their part in our little drama now complete.

As I peel back the layers of sweatshirts to check his blood pressure, he fixes me with an alcoholic gaze. His eyes struggle to focus, and I’m reminded of my trusty Nikon trying to decipher a complicated scene. In, out, in. Bzzzt. Finally the image resolves itself into something coherent.

“I know Mike Smith,” he tells me.

Good for you, sir. ”And who might he be?”

“You know, the Smiths. They own this ambulance company.”

Oh, the SMITHS. Why didn’t you say so sooner? Of course, I know the Smiths too. One of them signs my check every week. I may never be invited to their home for dinner, but I’ve met them all and had conversations with them.

I’ve never heard of one named Mike. If there is a Mike in the family tree, he must be way out among the leaves.

“So do you drink with Mike Smith often?”

“Yup, every day.”

Uh-huh. Let’s go see the nice nurses at Local Suburban Hospital, shall we? I think they know Mike Smith too.

Tightrope

mack505 — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 04:26:36 +0000

Our city is one of a number of places which can lay claim to being the “Birthplace of the American Navy.” Local fishermen and sailors figured prominently in George Washington’s narrow escape from New York and in his famous crossing of the Delaware.

Tonight there are no foreign troops in our harbor, yet the marina is protected by a large wrought iron gate. If the Redcoats do come by sea, they won’t get in. A firefighter holds the gate for me as I muscle the stretcher across the brick walkway. NRP has gone ahead with the bags.

The stretcher and I rumble down the gangway. The metal grating seems ephemeral; a literal ocean of blackness yawns beneath my feet. At the bottom, the narrow wooden dock suddenly becomes a tightrope. An ocean of cold black space looms above; an ocean of reflected stars lurks below. We pick our way among the ropes and cleats, guided by tiny lights along the edges. The winter’s night air seeps under my jacket, and the thought of that frigid water creeps into my soul.

Somehow our high wire act makes it to the end without incident, where a large white blob rocks in the darkness. It’s completely shrouded in plastic and ready for the worst weather a New England port can muster. A zipper is cracked, and light and sound come from inside. I step in to find my partner, the patient, and an entire apartment’s worth of furnishings crammed into a space only slightly larger than my ambulance.

It’s light and warm in here, but I know we will have to walk the tightrope again soon.

Poppies

mack505 — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 02:41:31 +0000

It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance; but when he did open his eyes. . .he was very glad to find himself still alive.

–L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

After our second dead patient of the day, NRP looks at me and says, “I haven’t had a good overdose in a while.” As if scripted, the tones drop.

Medic 9, the overdose. . .

I hate it when she does that.

It’s on the third floor, of course. The stairs fork near the top without benefit of a landing. I’ve never seen a Y-shaped stairway before. We trudge up the left fork with our jump bag, oxygen, cardiac monitor, drug box and stair chair.

Leo lies in bed in his single room apartment. He’s still awake but loopy and getting worse. He tells us he has a terminal illness, and that he can’t live with it anymore. He’s taken a large overdose of his painkillers, but he doesn’t really want to end things tonight.

We walk a fine line with our naloxone, trying to give just enough to keep him breathing without bringing his pain crashing back.

We load him into the stair chair and start to make our way downward. He nods off, but a quick shout wakes him again. “Leo, how are you doing?”

He opens his eyes and smiles. “High as a (bleeping) kite,” he mutters with a grin and nods off again.

Imperial Recreation

mack505 — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 00:52:08 +0000

“Medic 9, respond for the overdose. Caller reports the patient is in the garage.”

We arrive first at a commercial occupancy late at night. From the looks of it, there shouldn’t be anyone here. The windowless steel building is dark and desolate, sitting on the edge of a scrapyard. We circle the building once, looking for signs of life and finding none. On our second pass a man emerges from a side door and waves to us. “He’s in here,” he shouts and then disappears back inside. We follow him through the door into another world.

A giant RV sits in a slightly-too-small garage. Dark and hulking, backlit by security lights and twinkling with tiny ornamental LEDs, it’s easily worth more than my house. If Darth Vader decided to go camping, this is what he would use. Our escort stands in the open doorway, beckoning us up the steps. “He’s in here!”

Inside we are greeted not by a Sith Lord but a Jedi. Old Ben Kenobi paces about in the center of the bus, in a space somehow larger than it should be. More ornamental LEDs twinkle in the ceiling, shining their star-glow down on the four of us. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ben fires off at us. “She threw me out. I’m living here. She’s going to get it all.”

He completes another circuit, then pauses to look at us. “I died on a race track once. You guys revived me. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” and he resumes pacing.

Sometimes trouble finds us

mack505 — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 21:22:49 +0000

Late lunch. Football game. Loud bang shatters afternoon. Duty calls, lunch cools.

Fun times in the city

mack505 — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 02:43:10 +0000

Overheard on the radio tonight:

“Ambulance 683, respond to the police station, in the lockup, for the party who can’t open her eyes.”

“Ambulance 684, to the carwash for the motor vehicle crash with injuries. Inside.”

It’s hot, sticky, almost a full moon and it’s baaaaaaack. The night is still young.

Phantoms

mack505 — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 03:08:23 +0000

“Medic 9 with Ambulance 9, respond for the reported shooting.”

It’s 0730 on a Sunday morning. What the heck are people thinking? Go to church!

We roll into one of the sketchier areas of our small city, asking for a status on the police units. The last thing I want is to stumble into a hot scene. Fire Alarm tells us, “They’re still looking for the patient.”

Hmm. No mention of the shooter. . .

We wander into the neighborhood and pull up beside the first cruiser we see. The radio crackles, “Units on the shooting, PD is requesting you stage clear of the scene.” That would be great if A) we knew where the scene was, and B) you’d mentioned it 6 minutes ago. The officer tells us they’re not sure where the patient might be and asks us to stage in the next block. We happily comply as numerous units descend on the area.

It looks like the whole duty shift of our small city has converged on these four square blocks. One of the officers tells us that they had a single phone call, but the caller is not at that location anymore. They scour the neighborhood with no luck. We wait patiently.

After an exhaustive search the neighborhood remains quiet and patient-free, and we move on with our day.

“Medic 9, respond in front of St. Vacant’s for the unresponsive party.”

St. Vacant’s may be right downtown, but it’s been abandoned for years. It’s located on the edge of an interesting neighborhood, and its steps often play host to an assortment of sinners.

We arrive to find three police units and a fire engine but no obvious patients. The flashlights come out and we all go to work. The steps are clear; the bushes are empty; the alleys are vacant; and everyone in the park across the street is verified to be vertical. No one has seen anything. The giant carved crucifix on the front of St Vacant’s towers fifty feet above us, but there is no one to save here.

We move on. The night is still young in our city of ghosts.

Garage

mack505 — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 21:54:39 +0000

The curtains are closed against the summer heat, and an air conditioner chugs away in the window. Our patient sits in an overstuffed chair to one side of a dimly lit room, loudly protesting that he’s fine.

In fact he probably is, but we have to assess him anyway. To one side sit a couch and a love seat, with a fireplace behind him. The coffee table is littered with framed photographs and trophies. A large television glows mutely in one corner. The room is cluttered but clean, not like some places we see.

In the other corner of the room stands a fully-decorated Christmas tree with a tire leaning against it. Through the kitchen doorway I can see a cooler and 3/4 of a sleigh bed, disassembled on the floor. The fourth piece leans on the stairs behind me. A golf bag and a tree pruning saw stand in the corner along with two snow shovels. Two infant car seats hide in the lee of the coffee table.

Our patient insists on staying home. He signs our paperwork and points us out the door. As we drive away, I notice the garage door standing open and empty.

Midsummer’s Night Part II

mack505 — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 06:16:20 +0000

Beer. Bicycle. Pain. Red light ride to trauma docs Helmet would’ve helped

/—/

uneducated about home BP machine not dying tonight

/—/

Medical. Trauma. slow day turns to fast evening more calls than medics

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