Tae 15 - Another day ...

Tae wrote:

My alarm clock has a feature that I specifically bought it for:

One alarm setting will turn on the radio; the volume gradually increases until it's so loud that the speaker distorts the 60's music station that it's set to. I hate 60's music - so does my downstairs neighbor, who has a penchant for rapping his ceiling (my floor) with a broom-stick, as a sign of his displeasure.

Why I am telling you this?

Seven-thirty in the morning. That's thirty minutes past the time I was supposed to be at work. That's about an _hour_ past the time I set my alarm to go off. That's about ten minutes past the time my downstairs neighbor decided he'd had enough, and began to tappity-tap his morse-code of hate to me. Only it wasn't really morse-code; it was more like:

*WHAM* *WHAM* *WHAM* "You fucking asshole!" *WHAM* *WHAM* *WHAM*

It was about that time that I decided to wake up. My head throbbing from last night's drinking binge, I stumbled towards the alarm, shut it off. After a few more taps to the ceiling, my neighbor finished with a loud -"FUCKING ASSHOLE!" There was silence. Then the phone rang. I stumbled to this new source of noise - and pain, and answered:

"Uhh, hullo?"

"Tae, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

It was the dispatcher.

That's how my day began.

I got into work half an hour later. All the ambulances were out doing calls. I walked into the dispatch office. Shift change had taken place long before I woke up; the only person to talk to was Kevin, the dispatcher.

ObAside: Kevin has the dubious honor of making me puke once. Several years ago, he noticed a large lump in the middle of his chest. Convinced that it was nothing more than a large cyst, he asked me to drain it for him, as he was too cheap to go to a doctor. After assembling the appropriate equipment, I made a small incision at the base of the cyst. A thin stream of green pus mixed with blood shot out of the wound, a smell reminiscent of sour milk and rancid seafood rose to my face. The smell was so overpowering that I retched and eventually puked. In my defense, I will say that I recovered enough to finish the procedure; squeezing the cyst to make sure that all of the pus was evacuated from the cyst.

After exchanging a few pleasantries with the dispatcher:

"How's the wife?"

"Hate the lying bitch."

"How're the kids?"

"Goddamn rug-rats - can't stand'em."

"How's that urinary tract infection - still hurt to pee?"

"Fuck you."

My unit - Medic 11, backed into the garage. The guy that'd stayed over for me looked haggard. I quickly walked over to relieve him of his keys and radio.

"What did you go out for?"

"Diff breather - two-hundred and fifty pounds - third-floor carry-down."

"Um, well - thanks for staying for me."

"Fuck you."

Seeing as this would be the tone for the day, I quickly checked the truck out, hoping to leave the base as soon as possible. We went in search of coffee - the fluid-replacement of choice. Just as we were pulling in to the nearest "Dunkin' Donuts," we received our first call of the day:

"Medic 11 - respond priority one for a man 'in pain.'"

"That man better be 'in pain,' or he will be," roared my partner as he backed out of the parking lot. The entire company knew that my partner was on Prozac. It didn't seem to be working. As he ranted during the response, all I could think about was the day-glo orange and pink sign that rapidly shrank from my sight - and with it my only hope for salvation on what was turning out to be a real stinker of a day.

We arrived at the address. Engine 2 was several blocks away, it's air-horn doing double-time, trying to clear the morning traffic. I grabbed the 'medical bag' and oxygen tank, while my partner slung the cardiac monitor over his shoulder. His rants had become subdued - now an occasional mumble. Little snippets of "... just wait..." and "...they'll be sorry..." under his breath added to general misery. We walked up a few steps leading to the front porch, and took positions just left and right of the door. I rapped on the door with my flashlight:

"Hello - anyone call for an ambulance?"

No response.

I turned the door-knob; the front door swung-in smoothly, revealing a set of stairs and a long narrow hallway, which lead to what appeared to a kitchen. Giving my partner, a "what the hell" look, I entered the hallway.

"Hey - anybody call an ambulance?" I shouted, as I tried to decide whether to go down the hall, or proceed up the stairs. My partner was still outside, trying to decide whether to enter at all. Just then, we both heard a muffled voice coming from the end of the hall. We followed the voice to a closed door. Taking our positions on either side of the door again, I knocked:

"Hello - did you call an ambulance?"

"Who's out there? do you want?"

I opened the door, and saw an elderly man, wearing nothing but briefs, standing next to a bed. He was facing away from me.

"Did you call for an ambulance?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you turn this way and look at me?"

"I can't move, it hurts."

By this time, Engine 2 had arrived, and I could hear the roar of the diesel engine through the open door. Feeling a little more safe, I entered the room, and approached the man. I saw why he couldn't move:

He had been impaled on one of the bedposts. Somehow, this man had a bed post rammed up between his anus and scrotum - while in a standing position. I kneeled in front of this older man, in what could have been misconstrued as a private exchange between priest and penitent, in order to get a better look an the injury. The man was wearing briefs, it's fabric had also been pushed through the skin along with the bedpost. There was a little spotting of blood on the briefs - and the largest 'skid mark' I'd seen in recent times. The underwear were a uniform gray, with spots of dark dried urine. He was wearing them with the maker's label out - a faded "Tuesday" written in permanent marker on the elastic. I asked him what had happened.

"I don't know. I got up, and ... I don't remember."

The tops of the other three bed posts were conical in shape, with a smooth blunt tip at the top. I shudder to think how much force it took to have such a blunt object pierce the skin. My best guess was that the man, in an attempt to get out of bed, actually got _on_ his bed, then slipped off the side of it, impaling himself in a standing position.

That deep question answered, we now had to figure out how to get him off the bedpost. The standard procedure in dealing with impaled objects is to leave it in place, stabilize the object to minimize further injury to the patient, and transport. Obviously there are exceptions to the procedure. I couldn't see myself loading the bed and patient in the back - though in retrospect, it may have been a spectacular way to end my career in EMS.

The fire department offered to cut part of the bedpost off, to minimize the amount of bedpost I'd have to take with me. Another ... interesting option, one that involved a chainsaw. Again, a vision of a spectacular end to my career. No, that wouldn't do.

The man, after standing stock-still for the better part of twenty minutes, was beginning to tire; his legs now visibly shaking. It was quickly decided that we'd place a 'scoop' board behind him, and strap him to the board while he was standing. After securing him to the board, we would lift him off the post.

As we were strapping him to the 'scoop,' the man suddenly said - "You'd better hurry."

"I know you're tired, sir - we'll have you out very soon."

"No, it's not that - I gotta use the bathroom."

I didn't even ask him whether it was a 'number 1 or 2,' I didn't want to know. We silently picked up the pace, working feverishly to strap him to the board. Then we lifted him up and off the bedpost, which he acknowledged with a sudden intake of breath, and a loud moan. We then carried him out of the house and into the waiting ambulance.

There was a slight pause as my partner and I decided who would ride in back with him. My bloodshot eyes met his angry, Prozac-enhanced ones in a silent battle of wills. I hesitated - and lost. I climbed in back, saying a little prayer.

Every bump on the road caused the patient to groan, and me to pray a little harder. A particularly violent bump caused me to look towards the front of the ambulance. I could see sheer, malicious delight in my partner's eyes in the rear-view mirror, as he glanced back every so often to enjoy my misery. The sudden realization - a 'Zen' moment, if you will, that he was _deliberately_ aiming for bumps on the road, filled me with hate even as my newfound respect for him grew. Cunning bastard.

We arrived at the hospital, and backed into the ambulance bay. We tried to carry him into the emergency department as quickly as possible, but as we crossed the threshold of the ER doors, the patient let out a long, wet-sounding flatus, followed by a stream of runny, dark diarrhea. We didn't stop, merely shifting our positions to avoid the spatters of shit that hit the linoleum floor. We're nothing,if not professionals.

The rest of the day sucked. Too.

- Tae

(Originally posted on 11 Sep 1994)