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First of all, I’m apologizing for being so absent lately. There is a tremendous amount going on right now, and I promise that I’ll be back soon.
Secondly, I passed the dreaded entrance exam that all but assures me a spot in an excellent medic program in less than a month.
Lastly, I’m doing okay. I have a ridiculous amount of drama going on right now, but my people are getting me through it. I’m so grateful for them.
Expect an EMS post or two tomorrow or Saturday.
What I wrote:
ATF 48 yo male supine in bed. Pt is CAO X 3 in NAD.
My reality:
We’re going on a transfer, when we arrive the patient was in bed and complaining loudly about everything from the size of the television in his room to the fact that we were late. (We’re not, btw. He canceled us TWICE earlier because he wasn’t ready, then complained because we were on an EMS run when he was done with dinner.) His overworked and clearly stressed out nurse was extremely happy to see us.
What I wrote:
Pt is non-ambulatory due to general weakness and inability to transfer, Pt. was treated in hospital for anemia/hypothyroidism/abnormal labs, and is being transported back to his ECF for further care and rehab.
My reality:
Our weighs 400+ lbs. He is able to stand and pivot according to his nurse, but refuses to do so on our arrival. Our Patient then demands that we move him. When he determines that our stretcher isn’t an acceptable distance from the bed he is laying on, he demands we lower it (the stretcher) to the floor so that he can get out of bed and pivot to the stretcher. He’s been in the hospital for the last week due to the fact that his nursing home was understaffed and he hasn’t taken his vitamins.
My partner and I simultaneously rub our temples. I go look for someone who will help us with a lift assist.
What I wrote:
Pt is moved to stretcher and secured with s/r and straps X2. Cot loaded and secured in truck. VS and obtainable hx taken and noted above.
My reality:
My Patient complained about the size of the stretcher from the time he sat down to the time we unloaded him. We could only get the top and the bottom strap to connect (and those were both with extenders), and the side rails were for nothing but show. When I tried to take his vitals, he allowed me to obtain his pulse and RR, but he refused to allow me to take his BP insisting that the cuff wouldn’t fit him. When I looked through his paperwork and found little to zero on his history and dared to question him on it he shot me down, yet again. I quickly retreated to the seat directly behind him.
What I wrote:
Patient rested comfortably and was conversational for duration of transport.
My reality:
Patient questioned the route we took (the most direct route), the potholes, and my Partner’s ability to add two plus two. I sat behind him, a smile glued on my face. I monitored his RR and color. Given the amount he was complaining, I figured it was safe to assume that he had a patent airway and was breathing adequately.
What I wrote:
Upon arrival at ECF, we moved pt to his bed, securing him with s/r and leaving the bed lowered and the call light with him. Report given and care transferred to ECF nurse with pt. in stable condition.
My reality:
When we finally got to the nursing home we were practically sprinting down the hallway towards our patients room. Imagine his dismay when he discovered that his new room had NO television. I managed to get his signature while he was on his cellphone ordering a family member to pick a TV up before they dared to come visit him.
I love my job.
Within minutes of reading about Gertrude’s loss, I received a text from a former classmate.
“Steve’s gone. A truck got him, I’ll let you know more when I know it,” was all it said. Sent by another former classmate.
A Paramedic for a little over a year, Steve was one of my closest friends in school. He was the guy who let me drop a nasal airway the first day of basic school. He was the guy who let me pace his leg during medic school. He was the guy who invited me to ride along with him, even when it meant I had to wear a vest. He was a hero in my eyes.
Gawd I adored him.
36-years-young. Godspeed, Darlin’. We’re gonna miss you.
I’ll post more as the info becomes available.
You know… The word that shall not be used while at work. It ranks right up there with the “Q” word, the “S” word, and the other “B” word.
You know the word.
Bored.
I guess I can say it since I’m not at work right now.
Today was one of those days where you actually hope the phone rings at the station. It was that bad. I typically have enough packed into my laptop bag to keep me preoccupied, but due to a last minute clean out of said bag I left a few things behind.
So, how boring was it, Epi?
Here’s how I spent my day.
1040: Arrive at the station. Start the truck inspection. Realize that we have no towel rolls. Consider that a win since we do have fuel, oxygen, backboards, run reports, linen, and n/c’s.
1100: Clock in with dispatch, no runs are on the board. Start washing the truck.
1102: Get called to the main station. Knock the bubbles off the truck and with the hose and jump in the truck.
1115: Go to main station, have a delightful talk with the Supervisor, get dispatched for a private run.
1122: Head to the address with Tall Irish Partner driving. We talk about the weather and the lack of radio in the truck.
1145 – 1230ish: The patients house is not set up with the dimensions of a stryker stretcher in mind. One long narrow hallway that leads to the patients bedroom means that we’re going to have to hammock carry her from her bed to the stretcher. In 100 degree heat. I’ve soaked through my uniform by the time we’re back in the truck. She’s cold, so I turn the a/c off. By the time we get to our destination I’ve melted into a pile of goo that sticks to the vinyl seat I’ve been planted in for half an hour. I briefly consider running through the sprinklers at the nursing home.
1240ish: We put ourselves back in service and are ordered to return to the station. The station with no books, or TV. At least it has central air.
1432: We’re already b-b-b-bored. I stare at my netbook and ponder what job I should do on Mafia Wars. I run a biker gang out of town and snuff out two snitches.
1455: I give up on Mafia Wars and head outside. I consider washing my car.
1501: The clouds open up and dump some of the wet stuff on us. I shake my fist at Mother Nature, pull the car back into it’s spot, and put away the bucket, brush and hose.
1640: Are you SERIOUS? I still have 2.5 more hours? What can I do to keep myself busy? I look to my right and see a stack of towels.
Oh, yeah, we need towel rolls. I forgot about that.
1643: BAM. Towel rolls. And they are quite lovely I must say.
1646: Watch my partner pick up stones that he plans to throw into the pond.
1650: File my nails.
1700: Thank God that there are only two hours. Head back to the couch and play Mafia Wars again.
1705: I think I might be addicted to Mafia Wars. Decide to do something productive and read up on Huntington’s disease.
1720ish: Partner discovers a bamboo stick. We are infinitely amused by it. I wish to Gawd I had a picture of this.
1739: We’re sitting outside of the station making fun of the drunks coming out of the bar across the street.
1742: Is it 1900 yet?
1745: Seriously? Is it?
1749: While Partner retreats to his couch, I go to check on my happy place. I’m on the phone with Trauma Junkie, who keeps telling me that he can’t hear me with all the wind. I abandon my “happy place” and to talk to him instead. Here’s a view of the “happy place”.
1800: One more hour!!!
1801: We pick up the trash.
Okay, I didn’t, but Tall Irish Partner did. He put gloves on to do it. Can’t blame him.
1830: I construct my version of a pugil stick. I entertain myself for a good ten minutes this time.
1845: Dare Tall Irish Partner to say that he’s bored. He refuses based on the fact that he believes a plane will crash across the street exactly one minute before we’re due to get off work.
1900: We clock out, sprinting towards our cars.
If you have any ideas on how to pass the time during a slow day, let me know. The more creative the better.
I’ve been training a brand spanking new EMT lately, the ink on his card isn’t even dry yet. The first shift he ever worked as an EMT was with me. As was his second, third, fourth and fifth.
When I tell most of my friends that they all seem to have the same reaction… Their head drops, their eyes roll, they sigh heavily. “I’m sorry, Epi,” they say.
But I’m not. I’m not sorry.
Sure, he’s sparky. And he’s green. But so am I. I’ve only been doing this four years. Most of the good Basics and Medics I know have forgotten more than what I know. I know that. It reared it’s ugly head today as I furiously texted all of my friends asking a question I should have known the answer to.
Here’s how I know he’s going to make a fantastic EMT.
He knows how to talk to a patient. He knows how to put family members at ease. And that is one of the hardest things to master, as far as I’m concerned. If you can keep a patient preoccupied and distracted enough to forget about the pain they are in, just by talking to them… Wow, you’re golden.
Just work on your handwriting, Probie. And remember to get that billing sheet.
**********
The Bonus? The first thing he said when he walked in to one of our stations was, “Wow, this place smells like ass and disappointment.”
And I thought that was my line.
I think he’s going to do just fine.
…I really am just an ambulance driver.
It sure feels that way, anyway.
Take this CHF patient to Hospice.
Take this MVA patient to the ER.
Take this ERSD patient home from dialysis.
Take this hip fx patient to the ortho clinic.
Take this patient (for the fourth time this week) back to the ER for the headache that they’ve had for an hour and a half.
**********
Then there are the patients who make you realize that you are doing more than just driving them somewhere… You are bearing witness to their lives.
A few days ago I had a hospice patient in the back of the truck. My partner and I picked him up at the family homestead and we were in the process of taking him back to the inpatient hospice facility where he had been residing for the last few months. It was his first trip outside of Hospice, and the ride in the back of the truck was bumpy – I knew he was in pain. His family had begged him to take his “breakthrough dose” of morphine, but he turned them down, repeatedly. It was the first birthday party of his first Great-Grandchild, and everyone had turned out for the event.
In an attempt to distract him from pain that the cancer that had riddled his body was causing, I asked him how many Grandchildren he had. “Seventeen,” he answered, wincing every time we hit a bump in the pot hole ridden road. Still, with every grimace that crossed his face, his face relaxed, just as quickly. His smile returned, every time.
“Dad,” His daughter begged. “Please, take your roxanol.”
“No, it makes me loopy, and I want to remember every detail from today.” He was reclining on the stretcher, his eyes closed. His smile huge.
“I can understand that,” I said, taking his pulse. I scribbled down 72 on the run report before slipping the pulse ox on him.
“Besides,” He mumbled with the sun shining on his face through the side window, “I did three shots of tequila. Probably shouldn’t take any morphine.”
Some of you may know that my dear Aunt is a two time breast cancer survivor. My mother in law is a breast cancer survivor. Two very good friends of mine are breast cancer survivors. More friends and family members than I care to count have had “scares”.
And now one of the most amazing people I know, someone I’m proud to call a friend, has been affected by this horrible disease. Her Mother has been diagnosed. Emily, being the fierce chick she is, is going to participate in the “Save the Ta Ta’s breast cancer Fundraiser” Sky Dive. Yep. Homegirl is gonna jump out of a plane. That’s how she rolls. She’s put a request out:
“While I am working through just how to do that, I am participating in the 3rd annual “Save the Tatas” breast cancer fund raiser at Premier Skydiving this weekend. It is not only giving me a way to do something productive, it has opened my eyes to the thousands of people breast cancer affects.
Although I am looking for donations, (SHOW ME THE MONEY!!!–please go read the page on the event) I am just as interested in seeing how many comments in support of my mom and or the cause you all can generate.
For everyone who leaves a comment by Saturday night at midnight, I will add your name or Twitter name on a flag I am sponsoring in honor of my mom’s fight. Please retweet this and help it go viral!”
**********
So, I’m begging here. Please go leave a comment for Emily/Crzegrl and her Mom on this post. Show your support. We’re all family here, ya know! If you have some spare change, click on the link on right side of her page. All of the donations go directly to Susan G. Komen, which is just such a wonderful organization. Even if you can’t donate cash (Gawd knows I know how that goes!), leave a supportive comment… Please?
It would mean a lot.
I was seven-years-old when Thriller was released on MTV. I remember it in vivid detail, going to my Aunt’s house with my Mom, sitting on the green shag carpeting in the living room eating popcorn, waiting… So excited. And finally watching in absolute awe with my Mom and her sister at the 14-minute long musical spectacle. It was something I’ll never forget.
And…somehow, I’m not sure when that was, either when his nose started to truly freak me out, or when he started getting hammered with pedophile charges… my fascination turned into absolute repugnance. I realize that he’s never been convicted… But comeonnow. The dude was, at the very least, seriously off. (Keep your hate mail to yourself. Or hell, bring it, I don’t care at this point.)
Then he died. The details are sketchy, but it appears as if he had a serious addiction to prescription drugs. And Propofol? Seriously? Propofol? Do a little reading on that drug. It’s used to knock your ass out. Not just put you to sleep when you’re having a hard time catching some zzz’s (something I know ALL about). It’s used in general anesthesia, folks. You know, when you’re having surgery? It’s not a pill you can get by faking claiming that you have fibromyalgia. It’s hardcore stuff. The fact that he managed to find someone to administer this to him, through an IV, IN HIS HOUSE… Wow. I’m beyond words. I’m just curious. How many people said “no” to this man before he found someone who would say “yes”? That in itself scares the hell out of me.
Yes, he died. And he had kids. And they’ve been through so much already, and now they are without their Dad. It’s very sad. He had tremendous talent and had a huge impact on popular culture. And he was just fifty years old. And that is also sad. I’m not heartless, ya’ll, you know that. I’m a lover, not a fighter… To quote a song.
But people flipped the hell out. I mean seriously. The second the word was let out that Michael Jackson died, his records started flying off the shelves again. Folks were sobbing in the streets. Every frickin’ radio station started playing his songs non-stop. MTV started playing actual videos again.
And then there was the funeral. I was working, by the way.
While celebrities were fighting to get on stage to sing “We Are The World”, I was checking out the paperwork and code status for a 50-year-old mother of six who was close to dying due to bad genes. Myself and my partner were gently moving her to our stretcher from her hospital bed while 16 family members overcrowded the small living room. We promised her spouse, her children, her grandchildren, that we’d take excellent care of her. The Mother. The Grandmother. The woman who taught for 30+ years. The woman who painted with oil paints (displayed proudly throughout the home) in her spare time. The woman who made fleece blankets for the local children’s hospital. The woman who was struggling to draw air into her lungs.
And you know what? I was pissed. This woman was REAL. She was what I aspire to be. This woman did nothing other than do right by her family and her community. She lived her life the way it was supposed to be lived. She was the same age as the Gloved One, and the only reason she was struggling for breath was because she had failing kidneys. Because she had bad genes. Not because she drank to excess. Not because she was a drug seeker. Just because of… bad effing genes.
Yes, I was pissed off. He did it to himself. She didn’t.
In the back of an overheated ambulance, I watched, sweating because my brand new partner didn’t know how to turn the mod power on and I didn’t have time or patience to explain it to him, holding my breath, as she took her last. I watched her lips, her face, her chest turn blue. And there was nothing I could do for her. Nothing. And it broke my fucking heart.
For those of you who were sobbing in the streets, THAT is a reason to cry. She didn’t even make it to Hospice.
I just hope her family had the chance to say goodbye. For myself, I’m not crying. Not for him.
Just downloaded the new WordPress Blackberry app… This is my first attempt to play with it.
The note in the picture was handed to me by a Unit Clerk on the floor in one of the area hospitals recently. I loved it!
New EMS post should be up shortly. Be safe out there!
Hanging out with the cool kids of course! My friends Annie and Burl will have Captain Phil Harris from The Discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch on their Blog Talk Radio show tonight at 10 pm EST. It’s sure to be an interview Captain Harris will never forget :)
Most of you know that my Mom has been engaged to the same wonderful man for the last 15 or so years, and that she recently married him. I’m blissfully happy for them. Here are some pictures from the wedding for those of you who are interested.
For some reason the image of my baby brother’s hand on his wife’s shoulder was absolutely beautiful to me. They are so completely, ridiculously, absolutely in love.
Kind of like these two kids.
Celebrating 15 plus years of being engaged, and putting an end to the question “When are you two just going to get married?”.
SHR, not completely digging the spaghetti at the “reception”.
My Brother and his Wife “posing” like my little girl. I believe they were creating their own interpretation of the picture below.
Mmm. Sangria. Good stuff.
Myself and SWR. Pay no attention to the girl with the pasty white legs.
The little girl.
Proof that my Son, FC exists. This is one of the very few pictures he was in where he was looking at the camera and smiling.
Congrats, Mom and Step Dad… Wishing you all the very best!
Because a four-year-old, when she decides that she’s sick of having bangs in her eyes (I pin them back, she takes the pin out), WILL CUT HER OWN HAIR.
Here’s the before pic, taken two weeks ago:
And the after:
Pay no attention to my messy kitchen, please…
In less than five minutes my little girl cut off 4 years worth of curls.
I’m recovering. A little slower than she is, but I’m recovering. Just grateful she didn’t cut herself.
SHR and my Cousin, The Cute One.
For those of you who have played this, what do you call this game? Just curious. If you choose to answer, could you tell me what part of the country you’re in? Thanks :)
I bring you a few conversations…
First, this brief IM conversation between my Matty and I.
[23:25] Me: I have eight mosquito bites. And nothing to blog about. Can I blog about my mosquito bites?
[23:25] MedicMatthew: sure!
[23:25] Me: Yay!
[23:25] MedicMatthew: oooh, you could photograph and catalog each one of them and tell us all about how you rate the itching as 15/10 and you’re contemplating going to the ER
[23:25] MedicMatthew: or ED if you’re Whitecoat
[23:27] Me: Oh that’s AWESOME!
No worries, I have zero plans to photograph and catalog my mosquito bites.
*********
Next up, this conversation with my nine-year-old.
Me: *reading out loud to myself* “You are administering oxygen at 15L by NRB to a patient with respiratory distress. If you are using a D cylinder (cylinder constant, 0.16), which reads 1500 psi, how long will it take before you have to replace the cylinder?”
*I pause to think*
“What the EFF?”
FC: “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Me: “Oh, sorry honey… I’m taking this practice test and… ”
FC: “Okay, so it depends on how much air the person is breathing, right?”
Me: “Well, the oxygen is going to come out of the tank at the same rate regardless of how fast or slow the patient is breathing…”
FC: “How big is the tank?”
Me: “About this big” *Showing him with my hands*
FC: *Reading the acceptable answers on my monitor* “I’m guessing eleven minutes.”
Me: *I guesstimate/Google my answer* “That’s a good guess, honey. It’s time for bed. Go brush your teeth.”
For the record, the answer is 13.8666 minutes. Don’t forget to switch the patient to the main once you’re in the truck or that tank is gonna be dry pretty quick.
**********
Finally, a little talk between a frequent flier patient and myself.
Me: “So why did you call us today, Daisy?”
Patient: “I have a headache.”
Me: “You have a headache. Okay, how long have you had it? Have you taken anything for it?”
Patient: “I’ve had it for an hour or so. I haven’t taken anything yet.
Me: *blank stare*
Patient: “Hey, I called ya’ll half an hour ago, what took you so long?”
Me: “Get on the truck, Daisy.”
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