“Medic 9, umm, check your CAD notes.”
I flip the Toughbook screen open as my partner scowls from the driver’s seat.
Response to the clinic. Non emergency, but bring up your equipment as the staff is having trouble.
Uhhhh. . .
After a quick consultation with the dispatcher we decide this sounds like an emergency. No one can define what ‘having trouble’ means. Off we go with a cacophony of sirens and diesel clatter.
We find a stable patient. The only trouble consists of the clinic’s inability to procure a medication from their pharmacy. It’s a med we carry handily but also one the patient doesn’t need.
We extricate her from the clutches of the clinic and take her to the real hospital who can fix her problem.
—-
“Medic 9, the overdose. . .”
The city is blowing up this afternoon. We’re coming from an absurd distance, but BLS and the engine are ahead of us. They will do what needs doing and keep the patient alive until we can get there.
The radio sounds ominous. Confirmed overdose, CPR instruction over the phone, the engine asking how far away we are.
We arrive to find the crew loading her in the other ambulance, awake and talking. She hasn’t needed any medications; she’s just a bit sleepy.
I ride in with her just in case. We talk, and that is enough to keep her awake.
—-
“Medic 9, the ALS transfer, no equipment requested.“
A first grader, going from the local children’s hospital to the big city one. She doesn’t really need paramedics; we are there to make a nervous mother and a nervous doctor feel better. If Bad Things happen, we can deal with them. She smiles and cracks jokes as we roll into the warm evening, the perfect antidote to the day.
Notes from Mosquito Hill 