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If anyone has some fantastically difficult EMT-B final tests they could share with me…
I would be FOREVER IN YOUR DEBT!
Imagine the implications.
In all seriousness, I have to take what is essentially the EMT-B National Registry test to get into medic school, and I have to do it in the next week. While I’ve been doing this for a few years, my theory is that it can’t hurt to brush up a little… Ya know?
Help a sister out?
Recently on a run…
The scene: The med/surg floor of a local hospital. The patient’s room is decorated with flowers, bags labeled Patient’s Belongings, and “Get Well Soon” balloons, complete with obligatory smiley faces. A cross hangs on the wall behind the patients bed. A rosary is on her side table
The cast: Myself, my partner for the day, the patient, her son, and her sister. A Sister, literally and Cathically. Is that a word? My spell check says no. Let me spell this out. She’s a Nun.
We follow the patients Nurse into her room, I take the opportunity to introduce my Partner and myself to our patient. “Hi Ma’am, I’m Epi, I’ll be in the back of the ambulance with you, this is my Partner For the Day, J, we’ll be taking you to *generic NH of the day*. He’ll be driving…feel free to throw things at him…”
Our patient smiles.
Fairly typical beginning to a fairly typical transfer. There’s just one thing nagging at me.
I may or may not know the Nun.
She may or may not have been the principal of the grade school I attended. She may or may not have scared my eight-year-old heart into significant periods of tachycardia. I may or may not have sat in detention with her several times. She may or may not have bounced a chalkboard eraser off of my head once or twice for sleeping in class.
Okay, so I deserved having an eraser thrown at me. Once or twice at least.
Maybe she won’t recognize me. It has been 19 years since I’ve seen her. I busy myself with assembling the patient’s paperwork and gathering belongings.
“Epi? Could you grab her bear? It plays God Bless America. She likes to sing with it.”
“Yes, Sister.” My answer came without thought. It wasn’t until I was handing our patient her small stuffed animal that I realized that my patient’s sister, Sister Marie, remembered me. Even after nineteen years. My hardened memories of her, formed by the mind of a trouble making kid instantly softened.
When my eyes met hers, they were greeted with a kind smile.
“How have you been, Epi?” Her tone was considerably softer than the strict authoritative voice that I remembered.
“I’ve been very well, Sister. I heard that they closed the school… Very sad.”
My partner elbows me in the ribs. “Who is that?” he mouths. I shake my head.
“Yes, it certainly was sad,” Sister Marie says, her voice trailing off. She seems to collect her thoughts and reintroduces me to her biological sister, our patient. “This is Epi, she’s a former student of mine. She’s going to take excellent care of you.”
In my head I hear her whisper under her breath, “Or I’ll stick her in detention and throw erasers at her!”
One of my best friends, Trauma Junkie, is no longer a virgin.
No, it’s not like that, you dirty bastards.
Just check out the post.
Trauma Junkie is an Respiratory Therapy student with a heart of gold. He’s also one of the few people I know who I’d let near one of my children if they needed an RT… or anything related to medicine.
That’s saying a lot considering some of the people I know.
Go check out his blog… He’s truly one of those people who you are grateful to know.
A good person at his core, and an excellent medical provider.
I just wish he was in EMS!
Partners.
To the public, the word conjures up thoughts of spouses and business associates. In EMS we think of our partner as the person who always has your back. That person you work with, day in day out. The one you learn from, and who learns from you.
One does not normally think of EMS and hospice as partners, working together in the community. I know I didn’t, especially at first. That all changed when I took a position with a new employer.
Recently I’ve been privileged to become a part of a private ambulance service that holds a contract with two of the larger local hospice facilities. At first I was conflicted. I came into this profession wanting to fix people, to help them get better. To serve the community. While thankfully my sparkier days are behind me, it still seemed wrong. What could I do to help these folks? I would be taking them somewhere so that they could die.
I didn’t think there was anything I could do for them … until I went on my first hospice run.
Just three months before, he had been working 40 hours a week. Gardening, playing with his grandchildren, even bowling on a league a few nights a week. Now his body was betraying him. He was riddled with cancer. After exhausting all of the treatments available to him, his oncologist told him that he had maybe another month or two to live. In excruciating pain, and not wanting to burden his family any more, he alone made the decision to enter the inpatient hospice facility.
The family was not dealing with his decision well. His adult children fought over whether or not this was the right thing to do. His wife sat shell shocked, unable to come to terms with losing her best friend. Their Father, her husband, our patient, remained resolute.
We were called to transport him. The family would follow us in their cars. When I was finally alone with him in the back of the truck, all he wanted to talk about was the New York Yankees. Not about cancer. Not about alternative treatments. Not about his life expectancy. He just wanted to talk about his beloved Yankees.
That’s what he needed the most from me. I wasn’t going to cure him. I wasn’t going to be able to help him with pain control. I wasn’t going to solve the tension between his children. But for 15 minutes, in the back of a bumpy ambulance, I was able to distract him from reality. Even if it was at my expense; he teased me mercilessly about my obsession with Derek Jeter. As we were preparing to leave him in his new room, he grabbed my hand and said, ‘Thank you, young lady. It’s a wonderful thing you are doing.’
All I could reply was, ‘You’re welcome.’ I squeezed his hand back.
I’ve been told that part of being a good EMT is realizing that there is always something to be learned from an experience. From every interaction with a patient or a facility. Working with hospice has proven that to me time and time again. In some ways these experiences have provided me with some of the most useful education I’ve ever received.
I’ve learned more about communicating with patients and their families in the last five months than I’ve learned in four years of working in EMS. It doesn’t matter how many dosages you have memorized or the number of treatments you can provide, if you can’t communicate with people, you will never be effective as an EMT or a Paramedic.
I am proud to be a part of a partnership with hospice. I’m honored that I’m being trusted to take care of these patients in their most fragile state. It’s been both a humbling and rewarding experience, and one that I’ll never forget.
I’m kneeling in broken glass, a puddle of gasoline, and god knows what other automotive fluids. My knees are killing me. The sun is beating down on me like I’m it’s own personal red-headed step child. Sweat runs down my face. My uniform is clinging to me. I’m holding c-spine on my patient… My patient who just had an SUV roll over her.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m working a transfer truck today. I should be hanging out in nursing homes, wound care offices, and dialysis clinics. Not kneeling in the middle of an intersection surrounded by twisted metal and broken glass.
**********
“So how’s your clinical going?” I’m on the phone with a real Trauma Junkie (that fact alone should have screamed foreshadowing), standing out behind one of our stations. TJ’s telling me about neb tx’s and the other assorted joys of being a Respiratory Therapy student when I hear something that just doesn’t sound right.
The sound of kids playing basketball in the street and radios blaring rap music is replaced with the sound of an impact. Grinding metal. Splintering glass. People screaming.
I turn my head to look towards the origin of the noise, and I see a truck rolling down the street. I watch as a figure is ejected from the SUV like a rag doll. The SUV then rolls over the rag doll.
Oh my Jesus. That is NOT good.
I completely forget that TJ is on the phone and start screaming like a little girl a maniac the intrepid saver of lives I am for my partner who is inside the station. “K!!! KAY!!!! KAAAAAAAYYYYY!!!!! ROLLOVER AT THE END OF THE BLOCK!!!!” I realize that I’m still on the phone with TJ and manage to spit out “HeyIGottaGoBye!” as I sprint towards the truck and lunge for the radio.
“Hey Dispatch, it’s Epi on truck one, let the county know that there’s a rollover accident with an ejection at *insert random city intersection here*. We’re going to run down to the end of the block and see what we can do.”
K, my Superstar Partner (and soon to be Medic) comes running out of the station. “What’s going on???”
I point towards the scene. There is an overturned SUV directly in the intersection, a mini van as well. We can already see people rushing towards the SUV.
Dispatch lets us know that they will alert the county (part of our contract with the county stipulates that we have to let them know if we witness an accident and are going to initiate patient contact). Before I know it K is running down the block towards the vehicles and the quickly growing crowd.
I jump in the truck and turn it around. By the time that I’m heading in the right direction K is on the scene running triage. The SUV is now upright, the ejected patient laying on the ground.
I can feel my heart racing. I take a deep breath and move to to join my partner. Five steps outside of the truck I see her running back towards me.
“I’m bleeding,” K blurts out. She holds out her hand, gloved with a gigantic tear in the palm. Blood is running down her outstretched fingers.
Perfect.
As she heads to the truck in an effort to stop the bleeding, she yells, “Femur fracture and possible pelvic/hip fracture on that one. Those two have chest pain, and the one in the truck has a possible leg fracture, she took a huge hit. Can’t tell….” Her voice trails off.
I pause for a second to think. I’ve never been in this type of situation on my own.
Uhm… Epi?
It’s my inner wanna be medic talking. You think you might need additional resources?
I need help and I need it now. “Itty bitty ambulance to County, regarding that MVC we’re on, you might want to send two ALS trucks. We have one, possibly two trauma alerts and two chest pains.” My voice is strong, even if my hands are still shaking.
The county doesn’t think twice about my request. “Okay Itty Bitty Ambulance, we’ll roll another truck your way.”
I throw gloves on and take a second to survey the scene. One patient on the ground. One clutching her chest and sweating on the sidewalk next to a teenager who seems to be having an anxiety attack, one in the SUV that rolled, and another patient in the minivan.
But… but… I’m on a transfer truck today…
I shake that thought from my head literally and figuratively. I’m trying to focus, but there are voices coming at me from every direction. A crowd of close to 25 people are milling about and I need to get control established now. Until K comes back, I’m on my own. I may be out of my element, but that’s just the way it’s going to be right now.
“You NEED to check my Moms out… She has a heart condition and she’s having chest pain!” The teenager is sobbing. “Why wont anyone listen to me???” She grabs my arm as I’m running to the cars involved.
“Have her sit down by the ambulance,” I yell over my shoulder as I yank my arm away. “I’ll be right there.”
“My legs huuuuurt,” the patient on the ground starts to say.
“Did you see that? That was INSANE!!!” A bystander yells to his friend across the street.
“I didn’t see her coming!” One of the drivers is insisting.
“We rolled the car off of her,” a witness boasts.
“Someone needs to check on my Mom!!! Her CHEST hurts!!!” The teenager is shrieking again. Her Mother is pacing the sidewalk, sweating and talking to herself in Spanish.
“HAVE….HER….SIT…DOWN!” I yell again.
I step towards the patient who had the SUV roll over her. I can see that her thighs are grossly swollen under her thin sweatpants. I’m fairly certain that K is correct about the femur fx’s. “Can you move your toes?” I kneel down next to her and attempt to find a pedal pulse. The patient can wiggle her toes and I find a pedal pulse on both feet. “Okay, Ma’am, don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
I move on to the patient still inside the SUV. She had been driving, and is now sitting in the passenger seat. Every window in the vehicle is shattered, and the driver side of the vehicle intrudes into the passenger compartment at least a 18 inches, possibly more. The patient is calm, she’s more worried about her friend laying on the ground. Her complaint is a possible fracture to her lower left leg and her left wrist. Her color is good.
“Ma’am, sit tight, try not to move, more help is on the way, okay?” I use my sleeve to wipe some of the sweat from my face.
When I get to the minivan the driver is up and walking around holding her small child. The passenger looks fine. I ask them both if they’re okay and they both nod in the affirmative.
I know what I’m doing, why am I shaking like a leaf?
Adrenaline. That’s why I’m shaking. It’s just adrenaline.
I return to the original patient who is now sitting up, attempting to collect some of the contents of the car that are now laying around her. I dont think that she realizes she’s moving at about 1/4 speed. CDs, chapstick, and a couple of dollars worth of loose change surround her. I can see her purse sitting near the curb some 15 feet away. I instantly take c-spine. “Ma’am, I need you to stay very still. You were in a serious accident and you could have fractures to your neck or back. I’m Epi, I’m an EMT and I’m here to help. Let me do all of the work for you, okay? Don’t shake your head, just say yes or no if you understand me.”
Of course she tries to nod her head.
“No no no, stay still. What’s your name?”
“Jessica. My legs,” she has to pause to draw in a breath, “My legs really hurt.”
“I know, Jessica. We’re going to take care of that. I’m going to lower you back down. Don’t help me, let me do all the work. How does your back feel,” I ask as I ease her back down to the ground.
“My back doesn’t…hurt… Just my legs.” Her bottom lip starts to quiver as tears begin to roll down her face.
“I know you’re scared, just keep breathing for me, nice and easy, and we’ll get you all taken care of.” I’m doing my best to reassure her while looking around frantically for K. She appears at my side in an instant. A large lump is under her new glove.
“I think I need stitches,” She starts.
“You’re okay though?”
“Yes.”
“You take care of the one in the SUV, I have this one,” I motioned to my patient. “I told the one chest pain to take a seat on the side step of our truck –” I’m cut off by the sound of sirens approaching. Several sirens. All heading towards us.
“Thank God,” I mutter under my breath.
I can see the bag with our collars sitting on the corner, just ten feet away. I ask one of the onlookers to grab a red collar and bring it to me. He fumbles through the bag and produces one.
“Would you mind ripping that open for me? Just tear the plastic and… that’s right, just like that. See that curved part? Bend that forward. Perfect.” Can’t say I’ve ever had such fantastic help from a bystander before. I thank him several times as he slides the collar around my patient’s neck.
A police officer in a blue uniform approaches us, “Did anyone see what happened?” She has a notebook out and is actively writing.
I look up at her, “I did. Just give me a minute.” My patient is starting to look extremely pale and it’s worrying me. I slip my fingers through the hole in the side of the c-collar and can feel her pulse taching along at a rate that I’m guessing is around 140ish. I would love to have her towel rolled, taped down to a backboard, and heading to the level I trauma center about six minutes away. I absolutely hate feeling helpless and there’s really not a lot more I can do until we have more help.
“Keep talking to me Jessica, what day is it?” I start looking around for K while my patient thinks about her answer.
She whispers so quietly that I have to lean down and ask her to repeat herself. “Payday, I think.”
Well it could be payday…
“No, I mean what day of the week is it? Do you know?”
“Thursday,” She whispers.
“Very good! Do you know what happened?”I brush her blond hair out of her eyes and attempt to shield her face from the sunshine beating down on us. I want her eyes open as much as possible.
“I was in an accident.” Her voice is taking on a very sleepy tone.
“Yes, you were.”
The first fire truck shows up, immediately followed by the the squad. Navy blue uniforms were swarming around us. I had more help than I knew what to do with. Finally I was able to exhale. We got Jessica immobilized and the medics loaded her into their truck. A minute later she was being sped away code three to the ER.
K’s patient was extricated and sent BLS to the same ER.
The two chest pains both signed AMA forms.
K and I were left sitting with no patient, and short a collar and a backboard. Kind of an anticlimactic ending, I guess.
**********
So what did I learn from this whole thing?
I still get nervous. I still get shaky. And that’s okay. As long as I continue to do my job.
I was reminded that just because I’m working on a transfer truck some days does not mean that the feces can’t hit the rotary oscillator. I should know that by now.
I learned I shouldn’t have allowed the TFD to take our BLS patient. (That’s another post for another day, however.)
I learned, once again, that seven minutes can feel like seven years when you’re waiting for more help. Or any help.
Or an honest question actually… On behalf of my Superstar Partner, K.
Let’s say you are a Paramedic. Or an EMT on an ALS truck. You show up on the scene, assess the patient, do a 12 lead, determine it’s a BLS run after patient contact. You tell the fire truck to call for a BLS truck and leave the scene. BEFORE the BLS truck shows up.
Is that abandonment?
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, and I’m pretty sure that K knows the answer as well. Feel free to chime in with your thoughts.
“Why is she on contact?” I’m asking the young Nurse at the station just outside of my patients room. She’s standing just to the right of our patient’s room.
The Nurse responds, “I’m not sure, why do you need to know?”
“What do you mean, why do I need to know?
She’s serious, and so am I. I’m very serious.
Mine was an honest question. Maybe hers was too. All I know is that seeing that sign with the familiar stop sign symbol at the top and the words “Contact Precautions” printed across it always stops me before I enter the room. A cart holding various sizes of gloves and an additional cart holding gowns typically accompany it. They’re there for a reason, I suspect.
I ponder several alternate responses:
“Well, because I’d like to know.”
“Because I have small children at home that I’d really prefer to not expose to anything, not to mention the triplets I’m pregnant with…”
“Because I’m going to be sitting in the back of an ambulance for the next hour or so and…”
“How can you NOT know? You’re her Nurse, right?”
“Well, I have to decide if it’s going to be myself or my junior partner taking patient care.”
“Because Acinetobacter is the one square open on my Multiple-Drug Resistant Enterococci bingo card and the pot is HUGE, Yo!!!!”
And my favorite… The blink, followed up by the blank stare. The look that I’ve mastered thanks to working private EMS in my hometown.
**********
If you have any other suggestions, please let me know. I’m quickly running out of responses.
My Mom and her Fiance of 15 years.
They did IT.
No, not that.
They tied the knot. They’re legal now. The man I’ve considered my father since 1992-ish is now officially my “Step-Father”.
He’s much more than that to me. He’s the man who is my Mom’s entire world. And She is the same to him. You know how rare that is, to find that kind of love?
That is my Mom and Step Dad, taken today. Don’t they look fantastic?
Congratulations, to both of you, from your favorite hot mess of a daughter/step daughter.
(More to come tomorrow)
H/T to My Matthew (Medic Matthew) and by extension, Wild Ed’s Texas Outdoors.
I didn’t know Staff Sergeant John Beale.
I’ve never met him. I didn’t know any of his family or friends.
I didn’t know that he was 39, I didn’t know that he was from Georgia, that he was a member of the Georgia National Guard’s 48th Infantry Brigade, or that he married his wife right out of highschool. I didn’t know that he was a Father of an 8 and a 12 year old.
Until tonight.
Until tonight, I didn’t know that he loved being in the military. I didn’t know that he was deployed to Afghanistan a month ago, his second tour there. And I didn’t know that he died a few days ago thanks to an IED, alongside two of his fellow Soldiers, 21-year-old Specialist Jeffrey Jordan, and 37-year-old Major Kevin Jenrette.
Here’s what I do know. And it’s been made abundantly clear through a shaky 12 minute video. This man, and the countless men and women over there… They are respected, and they are loved.
Check out this video, and grab a few tissues, you’ll need them.
*crackle* “Dispatch to Medic 15, one-five?”
The temperature is quickly approaching ninety in the truck we’re in. The truck with no functioning air conditioning in the front. I’m growing more and more cranky as the mercury and humidity numbers climb. I rip the radio from the metal clip on the dashboard.
“Medic fifteen, go ahead.”
*Stifled laughter* “Fifteen… Stand by for a second” *Heard in the background* “She WHAT??? Okay…”
I’m not amused.
“Okay, Fifteen, I have a code three emergency run for you. Head over to 5820 Mission for a head injury. The cross is Nightingale. Have fun with this one.”
Now I’m just confused. Par for the course, I know.
“Uhm, Okay. Put us enroute.” I shouldn’t be surprised, or upset that they gave us a last minute run… Technically I’m on the clock and available for EMS or private transfers until the very minute I’m scheduled to go home, I know this. I’m used to it. Still, I’m sweaty, and tired, and I just want to go home to my babies. It’s been a long day moderately stressful day with a very chatty partner who happens to have a ridiculously obnoxious laugh and believes herself to be God’s gift to EMS.
I’m just ready to go home.
My partner for the day (and most of this month) starts giggling uncontrollably. “Do you know… Do you know where we’re going?”
I know the location, roughly, but I getting the impression that she knows where we’re going, specifically. And she’s excited about it. This worries me. On several levels.
I find myself biting my lip and shaking my head. I clear my throat and grip the steering wheel of the ambulance.
“We’re going to One Eyed Willy’s Blue Ball Room*… You know,” My partner’s eyes narrow and the smile on her face turns wicked, “The strip club?”
No wonder dispatch was laughing.
**********
“She fell from where???” I was kneeling in a puddle of god knows what, in a dimly lit room that wreaked of sweat, alcohol and disappointment holding c-spine on our mostly naked patient, staring up at a stripper pole.
There’s a first time for everything, I guess.
The two younger and two older firefighters, and the three strippers lingerie models entertainers simultaneously point up to the ceiling. Giggly Partner just does what she does best. She giggles.
There is a crowd quickly forming around us and our patient. Customers of all economic and social levels. Farmers stand next to businessmen who stand next to the gangster wannabe’s and the just barely legal to be in the club crowds. All of them whispering and motioning towards our patient who is currently wearing a teal sequins thong and a flat sheet over her chest. A sheet the patient insists on hiking towards her belly button every time my partner pulls it up. So much for keeping her modest.
“I…I… Had my heels on the ceiling up there… and I just lost my grip.” The entertainer known as Candy/Mercedes/Lexi/Bambi explains. A drop of at least ten feet. She says she landed on her back, that she didn’t lose consciousness, no n/v, good pms, no neck or back pain even (!). Just a nasty headache. She’s boarded, collared, and duct taped down to the backboard. “Do you think I’ll be able to come back to work tonight?” She’s asking me with pleading eyes.
“Maybe… Depends on what the Doc’s in the ER say. They’re probably going to tell you to stay home for at least tonight, even if you think you feel fine. It’s probably not a bad idea, honestly.” I’m not at the level to clear her C-Spine, but I suspect she’s fine, in spite of her fall. I’m watching while she struggles to apply lip gloss while in total C-spine precautions. She looks better than I do, even with a wide strip of red backboard tape adhered directly to her forehead. God knows her vitals are better than mine.
We head out to the local ER. She’s off the backboard before I have a billing sheet. She’ll be back on the pole by the end of the night if she has her way.
AHA CPR card: Renewed. Copy made.
Check.
Proof that I’ve passed Anatomy and Physiology for the Paramedic: Received. Copy made.
Check.
Ohio EMT-Basic card: Found. Copy made.
Check.
Application: Completed.
Check.
Confidence Level: Uhm…. Yeah.
**********
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.
I’m submitting my application for Medic school this afternoon. This time instead of driving an hour each way, anywhere from 3-7 days a week (Clinicals… AAAAHHHHH!!!!) I’ll be driving to a school ten minutes away.
Instead of traveling to clinical sites at huge hospitals I’ve never set foot in (and having to navigate a few of them with a map in hand (University of Michigan, anyone?), my clinical sites will be at hospitals that I’m very familiar with. Facilities that I’m in and out of every day at work.
I’ll even know a few of my classmates. One of my former partners will be in the class, along with a coworker.
The only thing standing in the way? A written test and an interview. I’ll know if I’ve earned a seat somewhere around July 1st.
Wish me luck?
It is absolutely amazing how one partner can make a short shift feel like it was over with before it started.
And another can make that same short shift feel like like it will NEVER end.
Gawd help me.
Dear Truck 007,
You were the first truck I worked out of when I started with Itty Bitty Private Service. You weren’t the prettiest truck, or the newest. But you were mine.
I mean hell, half of your dashboard was completely useless and most of the time it was covered in a fine layer of dust.
Your speedometer didn’t work. I had no idea how many miles were on your engine. The trip meter didn’t work half the time. I didn’t fault you for any of that.
Parts of you were held together by backboard tape. The back doors took some practice to open from the outside and were all but impossible to open from the inside. I didn’t fault you for that either. I fault the EMT’s who drove you wrecklessly and slammed your doors carelessly.
The stretcher you carried so carefully in the back had three different kinds of straps. Still, I didn’t blame you. I took care of you. I washed you when no one else would. I made sure you were stocked with everything you needed. I checked your fluids regularly and made sure that you were as “okay” as you could be. Because you had taken such good care of me.
And you had.
As much as I have complained about trucks with my current employer, this particular truck had never let me down. She (yes, SHE!) has always moved when I’ve punched the gas pedal. When I’ve hit the brakes She’s stopped. The a/c has kept me cool, and the heat on the truck has always kept me warm, in the front and the back. This truck has never broken down on me. It’s never leaked a mystery fluid. It’s never stranded me anywhere with a patient in the back.
And then… There’s the stripper pole in back. Some of you may have heard of it. It’s the source of constant amusement and jokes from coworkers.
That would be the stripper pole. Pay no attention to the wires hanging from the wall. Seriously. It’s a part of her charm.
It’s been a wild ride, Truck 007, and I’m grateful for the protection you’ve offered my patients and myself. You’ve been a witness to everything it is that we do, from the pucker moments to the hand holding. You’ve winced as some of us hit potholes big enough to blow your tires out and put the crew in the back on the floor. You’ve shielded us from prying eyes when we’ve had weak moments, giving us a quiet place to talk and let our emotions out. You’ve stood by and watched as we smeared surgilube on your handles in a juvenile effort to irritate the crew working out of you that day. You’ve never let me down.
You’ve taken better care of us than we have of you. I’m sorry for that.
In a few hours you are being replaced by a newer, sexier truck with a brand new paint job. That truck will be stocked with your inventory. Soon you’ll be heading off to parts unknown to take care of another crew. I only hope that they treat you better than we did.
Godspeed 007. You’ll be missed.
A special thank you to David at Authorblog for giving me a Post of the Day nod for this. I never thought that a post containing a picture of my dirty sunburned feet would merit such an acknowledgment!
The pale Irish chick managed to burn herself into a shade of crispy that has yet to be named. Even the tops of my feet are fried.
For the record, Never EVER wear sandals to a tractor pull when you’re going to be running up and down the track. God my feet are nasty.
And if you have any advice on what I can do to dull the fire that has taken over most of my body (starting to blister on my chest and arms), feel free to leave it in comments.
So yes, I’m fried. Charbroiled. Not unlike a lobster…. With that being said, I had a wonderful day with the family. More on that tomorrow. here’s a pic of me and the kiddies embracing our inner redneck :)
Myself, She Who’s Ridiculously Cute, and The Future Cardiologist who squints in the sunshine, at the parade of tractors and firetrucks and Snap-On tools semi’s who throw candy. They also throw Snap-On baseball caps, as evidenced by the newly acquired cap on my head.
A huge thank you to the dudes in the Snap-On Semi, btw, for taking pity on my pale self and tossing me a hat. The guy in the passenger seat was kinda hawt.
How YOU doin’, sexy pink Blackberry Curve?
Yes, I’ve finally gone and gotten a real phone with a real cell phone provider. Goodbye Boost Mobile! I won’t miss your dropped calls. I won’t miss your delay in delivering my texts. I won’t miss not being able to check my voice mails for days on end. Boost Mobile is just about the biggest joke of a wireless provider that I’ve ever come across. I’ve moved on to Verizon.
But Epi!!! You had to sign a contract!
Yes, I did. But ya know what? I don’t care.
The reception is crystal clear, even in my office… Basement… The evil dungeon where I work on my plans for world domination.
The tech support is top notch. You can understand them when they speak, I’ve never had to wait more than a minute to talk to someone, and they’ve taken care of every issue I’ve had with no problem at all. They did all the work and have always been extremely pleasant.
And the phone. God I love it.
The screen is large, and clear. The trackball is extremely accurate (at least on mine, I realize i haven’t had it long). I’ve even used it with wet hands and had no problems. Probably not a good idea to do that often. Others have told me that doing this causes their trackball to not work for a period of time. I haven’t run into that.
The buttons are small, but not difficult to get used to. I was texting like a mad woman within minutes.
And the apps that are available… Oh how I love them. A serious hat tip to Medic(THREE) for pointing me in the right direction. There’s a ton of great apps that are free out there. God knows I’m all about the free stuff.
Viigo. I can check my Google reader list, the weather in my craptastic city, and the score of the latest Mudhens game, all in one app.
Facebook for Blackberry. It’s new and improved!!! A significant improvement in the app was released in the last week or so. Everything is streamlined. Poke your favorite friend, reply to messages, follow the status updates of your friends without having to view them individually. Of course none of this means anything if you aren’t on facebook… Yes, I am *that* dork.
Google Sync. Sync your contacts (an extremely easy way to create or update your phonebook), and your calendar. I couldn’t live without it!
I could go on and on about the apps, but the photographer in me wants to discuss the backside of the phone.
The camera produces decent pictures considering it’s a cell phone camera. 2.0 mp, capable of taking video and it has a digital zoom. The shutter lag isn’t horrible, and the built in flash helps, even if it’s just a simple LED.
Taken from my phone. (Those are the new trucks btw. Due to be inspected this week!)
All in all, I’m thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. And not just because I love shiny pink things. I’m in love with this phone like it’s my job. My job on a good day anyway. I give it two thumbs up. And for the record, I scored it for $8.88 at Walmart with a two year Verizon contract.
This should be interesting as I’ve been drinking :)
Oh, and btw, I stole this from AdCy. Thanks :))
1. Cigarettes: Thank you!
2. Sex: *sigh*
3. Relationships: Drama.
4. Your Last Ex: Oh Jesus. There’s a story.
5. Power Rangers: Random? Wasn’t there a pink one?
6. Crack: Is whack.
7.. Food: Not really hungry, thanks.
8. The president: Hope for the best, expect the worst.
9. Cars: Road trips SUCK.
10. Gas Prices: Grateful they’re not higher.
11. Halloween: Michael Myers is creepy as hell.
12. Bon Jovi: He has GREAT hair.
13. Religion: Catholic, turned non-practicing Catholic, turned practicing Catholic.
14. Myspace: Great way to kill your career.
15. worst fear: Something horrible happening to my kids.
16. Marriage: I’m without words.
17. Paris Hilton: Stretchmarks around her mouth. That’s all I’m saying.
18. Brunettes: I may or may not have been one at some point….
19. Redheads: Have a temper.
20: Politics: I need to learn to shut my mouth.
21: Pass the time: What time?
22. One night stands: I’m not 21 anymore…
23: Cell phone: I love my new pink blackberry.
24: Pixie Stix: If my kids had a million of them at their disposal I’d still limit them to one a day.
25: Vanilla Ice cream: Boring. Peanut butter and chocolate from Baskin Robins please?
26: High school: Ghetto.
27. Pajamas: could live in them — (me too AdCy!!!)
28. Wood: Fireplaces and campfires. I’m a fan of both.
29. Wet Socks: Are a quick way to tear your feet up.
30. Alcohol: Might be my friend tonight.
31. The word HATE: Should be reserved for extreme cases.
32. Your best friend: is my baby brother.
33. Money: Money? Who has that? Any why am I looking at shelling out 6K to repeat the medic program?
34. Heartache: Can shake you to your very core. I’m living there, right now.
35. Love: My family. Love the career that I’ve chosen.
36. Time: Wish I had more of it.
0745: Alarm goes off. Promptly slap snooze button. Roll over and fall back asleep.
Hey, I didn’t sleep well… At least I didn’t dream about zombies invading the station and Medic Matthew coming to the rescue… Like last night.
0754: Alarm goes off again. I groan, roll over, and eventually get to my feet.
0757: Coffee Maker is on. I hop in the shower.
DOF Fail. I blame my Blackberry.
0830: Wearing my pressed uniform. Jump in my truck with my bag and head out for the station. It’s only a few minutes away, and I don’t have to be there until 0900. I consider myself on time if I show up 15 minutes early. Anything later than that and I’m late.
0831: Realize my truck is out of gas. Drive to gas station and wait in line.
0846: Coffee in hand and with a fueled vehicle, I head to the station. In the rain and slightly irritated that I’m already late.
0859: Arrive at station, the smell of burned rubber from my tires hanging in the air. Apparently half of the streets between me and the station I was scheduled to work at are closed for road work.
Combination three lead and DOF fail. Can I blame my phone again? Thank you, RS Partner for modeling for me.
0925: Truck check is complete. We find a set of 3 lead wires with some odd green gummy substance on them. We’re both amused. We head to the main station to pick Rockstar Partner’s paycheck.
0926: Realize that we’re not in our normal truck. All of Whiskey Tango Foxtrot lights are on. Engine, brakes, and oil. We let dispatch know and continue towards the station.
0930: Dispatched for an EMS run. We’re still en route to the main station, btw.
0935: Passenger door pops open on the expressway. I become a practicing Catholic again.
0936: Passenger door pops open again. It takes me eight times to get it to latch this time.
0939: Passenger side door opens one more time. We call dispatch and they take us off the EMS run. This time it takes us two minutes to get the door to latch.
1005: A semi slams on his brakes in front of us. The passenger side door opens again. I throw my first official temper tantrum of the day.
1030: We arrive at the main station.
1210 ish: A coworker fills the oil, coolant and brake fluid. I watch with amusement and wonder why I wasn’t included on this particular in-service.
1330 ish: We determine that every time my partner hits the brakes, a mystery fluid starts pouring from the the driver’s side of the engine. Rockstar Partner and I start making nervous phone calls.
Rockstar Partner under the truck. She’s hardcore.
1400ish: The mystery liquid is suspected to be brake fluid. My Father, one of the most wreckless people on the planet tells me that I’m going to either “Get killed or kill someone” should I drive the truck any distance. I let dispatch know. They are not impressed.
1407: Dispatch calls with a run. Rockstar Partner and I ponder walking off the job for the third time in one day.
1433: We arrive at the patient’s home. It takes Rockstar Partner and I three minutes and at least 40 attempts with half the neighborhood watching to get the passenger door to latch. We decide no one will be using that door again today. The brakes are fine. We let Dispatch know that we’re out of service as soon as this run is over.
1440: The patient’s home is 105 degrees and smells of body funk. I’ve now soaked through my uniform. My patient is a 50 yo woman with cerebral palsy and moderate MRDD. She’s scheduled for a mammogram. I ponder how this is going to happen as our patient is unable to stand or sit upright. We head towards the local hospital, my partner driving extremely slow and babying the brakes.
1455ish: After the smoothest ride EVER, we arrive at the hospital (Thank YOU Rockstar Partner!) We unload the patient and head towards radiology wondering (now out loud) how they plan on doing this mammogram.
1500: Mammogram is cancelled due the the patient being unable to stand or sit upright on her own. We return back to the patient’s home, the sixth level of hell.
1525: The patient is safe and sound, back in her bed. My back hurts, as does my partners. We have been ordered back to the main station to have our truck looked at yet again.
1700: I stare longingly at the three beautiful new trucks sitting in the main station’s parking lot. The trucks that we can’t drive yet because they haven’t been inspected or painted. The trucks that have doors that stay latched and that don’t drip mystery liquids. I find a happy place and go there while a coworker uses a seatbelt strap to secure the passenger door of our ambulance.
One of the new trucks. It even smells new. God I love these trucks, even if they are sprinters.
1702: We’re told to “Get back in the truck,” by Dispatch (I dont blame you, Awesome Dispatcher (I’ll try to think of a better name for you!). I ponder quitting for the 4th time that day. At one point I may have sat on the ground in the parking lot at the main station and thrown my umpteenth hissy fit of the day. Given the current job market in NW Ohio, I decide to suck it up. Rockstar Partner bites the bullet and climbs through the drivers side and sits awkwardly in the passenger’s seat. I decide that I officially adore her.
Rockstar Partner. I’m going to be in her wedding, btw.
1705: We’re enroute to another transfer, this time from Big City Hospital. We’re taking someone to an ECF for rehab. While waiting for our patient to finish his dinner we take in the view… And all of a sudden, the day doesn’t seem so crappy.
Sorry about the resolution, this pic, again, was taken with my phone from the top of the Big City Hospital.
We didn’t really have much to do after that.
And I realize that my version of stress probably varies significantly from your version. You are more than welcome to draw your own conclusions there. Maybe I was PMS’ing, who knows. I didn’t have to scrape anyone off of the railroad tracks, I didn’t do CPR, and no one died. At least while they were in our direct care. No one hit me over the head with a clipboard, figuratively or literally (that was last week), hell, no one as much as screamed at me.
I was even hit on by an older gentleman at Hospice. He made me smile. I guess that’s how I roll.
Still, it’s hard.
It’s hard on you when you believe that your employer doesn’t believe that you are worth anything. It’s hard to believe that your employer cares more about the dollar than the overall situation. It’s hard to believe that they don’t care if you’re driving around in a truck with a door held closed by a seatbelt strap that is leaking brake fluid, or coolant, or oil. I know that they are good people, at their core. I truly believe that. I really do like them.
Sometimes we all get overwhelmed. Owners and employees alike.
Today was one of those days, I think.
Yesterday my employer asked myself and the EMT who I’ve been partnered with for most of this month because I’m the only one willing to work with her (Run on sentence? Yeah, but I’m ready to strangle her, literally, that’s another post for another day) to run a “State Inspection” on the truck.
A state inspection, at least in the great state of Ohio, is performed on all of the ambulances owned by private services. It is something that we prepare for for months in some cases, and days in others.
The first service I worked for prepared for these inspections by having us check the truck out from top to bottom, checking EVERY expiration date (something that, in theory, should be done every shift or at least once a week as opposed to once a year,) and scrubbing the diamond plate with a toothbrush.
I shit you not.
The second service I worked for prepared in the same way. The exception being the whole “scrub the diamond plate with a toothbrush” thing.
The third service I’ve worked for, the one I’m currently employed by… They’re a fantastic service. They are as home grown as they come, family run to the point that the owner of the company, who happens to be the main dispatcher will hop on a truck to take a run if need be. He does, actually, almost daily.
Their truck inspections… Well… Yikes is all I can say.
That right there, folks, is a very expired tube. And it wasn’t the only one.
Mister Tube had friends. Several of them. Not a tremendous amount of intubations performed at this service, I guess.
The rest of the truck check was surprisingly boring.
THIS was my little bit of excitement for that shift. Expired tubes.
God help me.
You may have come here this afternoon to read a post only to be greated by my screaming daughter.
Yeeaaaah.
Epi got hacked. Sometime last week some kind soul sent me an email letting me know that I had a virus on the site. I did some research, and couldn’t find anything. I installed another antivirus program yesterday, thinking that it was odd that none of my AV programs were catching anything… Fired the program up, nothing. Nada.
This morning Avast lit up like the 4th of July. Within a few minutes The Happy Medic let me know that it got him too. Before I knew it I couldn’t even get into my site admin without setting off the antivirus.
After much drama and cursing on my part, everything was taken down, scrubbed until it was squeaky clean, and put back up.
My sincerest apologies to you, if you were affected by this malicious script… I feel horrible about it. I don’t know how I acquired it, but I’m taking precautions to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Apparently my blog has a trojan horse.
Run… Go ahead.
Avast is lighting up like a christmas tree every time I try to do anything associated with the blog. Apparently, there’s a weakness in WordPress that allows this to happen from time to time.
I have no idea what to do.
Any advice?
… Divorced my Father when I was five… She had her reasons, I wont share them here, and I dont fault her for them, not for a second.
… Searched for ten years for someone who would treat her and her kids as we deserved to be treated. Some treated her like a princess while all but ignoring us. Most of them did, in fact.
She dismissed them. Even if it broke her for a little bit. She put her needs aside for us. And she continued to do so even as we turned in to mini adults.
Then she met him.
Someone with two children of his own. Someone who respected her. Someone who treated her like the Queen she is. (Just in case you didn’t figure it out, my Mother is kind of beyond reproach as far as I’m concerned…)
We all loved him. And more importantly, SHE loved him…. A few years later…
He did it. He asked her to marry him.
And I was there for it. With my camera. Big shock right? Well, to her it was a pretty big shock, as evidenced from the above photograph. For the record, I took that in 1994. Like… YEARS ago. Several years ago.
I’ve loved him like a Father for as long as I’ve known him. I’ve been so grateful to him for being in my Mom’s life. For loving her as she deserved to be loved…
They lived together, but not married… Not technically. They had their reasons… Those reasons are no more.
**********
“RIIIIIING”
Me: “Hey Mom, what’s up?”
Mom: “I’ve been calling you for hours” (Clearly pissed at me.)
Me: “”I’m sorry… You know I’m working…” (Pissed that she’s pissed.)
Mom: “So me and ***** went to the courthouse and got the marriage license.”
At this point my jaw drops and my heart starts taching along at 150 or so. I can’t form a sentence, so I babble. Like I do. “Wait… huh… WHAT???”
Mom: “Are you okay? Are you sitting down?”
I nod, but she can’t see that over a cell phone connection… “Mom? I’m here. I’m okay… You’re really going to do it?”
Mom: “It’s about time, isn’t it?”
Me: “Yes, it is. I’m so happy for you!!!!”
**********
The smile on my face is like nothing you can imagine. They’re getting married…. After all this time. 18 years, in fact. I’m so excited that I can hardly contain myself.
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