I love learning.  Always have.  Once I become interested in something more often than not I have to read everything that’s available to me on the subject before moving on to the next subject.  Put me into an environment like Paramedic school and watch out.  I am constantly seeking advice and information from those who know more than I do.

Whether it be through my I/C, additional books, CE’s, or other bloggers.

A handful of bloggers in particular.

One of my favorite people (and in many ways my “Blogfather”), Ambulance Driver.  He’s my go-to guy for everything from a tough run at work to “How do you spell diarrhea?”  He’s recently put up an excellent post, “What Every Paramedic Student Should Know“.  It’s excellent reading.  Hell, I printed it out and put it in my school binder.  An excerpt:

“Experience ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Hardly a week goes by where I’m not asked a variation on the question, “So, I’m trying to figure out where I go from here. Do I work as an EMT for a while, or do I go straight into paramedic school? How much experience do I need before I’m ready for paramedic school?” ”

**********

JB from JB On The Rocks… A tall drink of water with years of experience that I was fortunate enough to meet.  JB offers this advice (among other priceless information) for new Medics:

“The Good Lord gave you two ears and one mouth in that ratio for a reason. Spend more time listening than talking.”

Check out his post, “Advice For New Medics.”

**********

And finally TOTWTYTR.

“Every ALS patient starts out as a BLS patient. Before you put on the $22,000 cardiac monitor, before you start thinking about what size IV you’re going to use, before you start calculating drug dosages, you need to assess the patient.”

It’s true, ya know.

Read his post, “Advice For New Paramedics“.

**********

I know that a lot of us are going through school this year (I can name half a dozen or more off the top of my head that I know of…)  Even if you’re not, this is excellent information for the BLS provider, the Medic student, the new Paramedic, even for that person who is curious about EMS and wants to know what it takes to succeed.  That being said, I challenge you to take advantage of the opportunity to learn from others.

I’m so sorry.

Today was supposed to be a good day for you.  You had been stuck in the house for the last month courtesy of a DVT, newly diagnosed afib AND a very recent surgery.  You could only watch so much Rachael Ray and The View without going insane, right?  God knows I could understand why you would be so eager to get out, even if it was raining.

So after you ate your lunch of bacon lettuce and tomato with avocado goodness (Don’t forget to incorporate the E-V-O-O, it’s required), you set out with your Granddaughter to get your nails done. It’s raining, but that’s okay.

You sat down and had a wonderful conversation with your favorite manicurist.  She made you feel like a queen as she massaged your hands with warm oil and painted your fingernails a lovely shade of sensible pink.  You emerged from the salon renewed… Ready to take on the world.   Unfortunately you slipped and fell on the wet steps. On the way down you hit your head on the metal railing, placing a lovely three inch lac on the back of your head. Oh, and you’re were on some hardcore blood thinners.

Your Granddaughter applied pressure to the cut, held it together mentally, and called 911. A firetruck arrived within a few minutes with four wonderful men in turnout gear. They were very sweet to you and your granddaughter as they pressed abd pads and wrapped kling wrap around your head… Still, the blood continued to soak through the dressings. You started to get nervous when you noticed your Granddaughter’s bloodstained tshirt.  When she started crying, you followed suit.

Then you started to get dizzy. Unfortunately the city had no available ambulances to take you to an ER. They called a private service.  My service.  Our truck was enroute from a station 15 minutes away on a good day.  Unfortunately it wasn’t a good day. The rain was coming down in torrents and it was rush hour. Your BP was already elevated, your pulse was through the roof, your Granddaughter was quickly falling apart, and the truth be told, you just wanted to to get to the hospital.

You were not having a good day.

I’m sorry it took us so long to get to you. Truly.  The rain was just coming down so hard, the wipers couldn’t keep up, no one wanted to pull over… We were heading your way as quickly as we could, I promise you that.

When we arrived, three of the four wonderful men who were so sweet to you escorted you to our truck while the fourth held pressure on your cut. You kept apologizing “for the trouble,” and we all kept telling you not to apologize.  “No apologies necessary,” we said.  We meant it.

Once you were in my truck I did a lot of the same things that they did, and I know it annoyed you.  I promise that there was a good reason for it, even if I didn’t explain it to you at the time.  My partner checked your blood sugar and took your VS while I asked some of the same questions those handsome firefighters did.  I applied pressure like they did.  I added more abd’s and more kling.  And then I did it again.  And again.  And again.  The blood just kept coming.  I wiped the constant flow of the red stuff from your face so that you could see clearly.  And I apologized.

You started to get pale.  I raised your feet up.  I pressed more abd pads to the cut.  For the record, I’m sorry that you felt “like a bobblehead” as you said.  And yes, I giggled when you said it.  But you smiled when I laughed, so that’s okay I guess.  I tend to laugh when I get a little nervous.  And the way you looked combined with your vitals and the amount of blood on the stretcher was making me a little nervous.  You, Me, the stretcher and linens were soaked in your blood.

You wouldnt stop bleeding.  There was nothing I could do to you other than have my partner haul ass to the hospital.

But we did get you there.  And they had you IV’d to the hilt and were stitching you up before I was able to get a face sheet.

You’re going to be fine, and I’m grateful for that.  The thumbs up you gave me while they were sticking you prior to the stitches was priceless.

I’m sorry that you had such a horrible day.  I hope your next steps out of your house are into the sun.

This video was the talk of the class this morning. Kudo’s to whoever filmed it for making it so real.

Not that I text while driving, but if I had before I saw this I certainly wouldn’t after watching it.

And this is important… It’s damn near fighting words up in my part of the woods….

Is it “Mursa” or “M-R-S-A”?

Honestly, we run into it enough.. Tell me how you pronounce it. And TJ, for the record, I know your answer.

Lately I find myself feeling like I’m living a real life cartoon strip at work.  Anyone remember Goofus and Gallant from Highlights magazine?

You do?  Excellent.  Read on.

You don’t?  Here’s an example:

(For the record, this particular strip is from way before my time ;)  I swear.  Really.)

Here’s what I’ve dealt with lately:

Gallant:  Is at the station before you, washing and stocking the truck.
Goofus:  Shows up to work hungover, or even worse, still drunk.

Gallant:  Can find the ring cutter buried deep in the action area with his or her eyes closed while flying down the highway in a truck with no shocks at 80mph.
Goofus:  Doesn’t know where the main O2 tank or anything else is located on the truck.

Gallant:  Addresses their patients as Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. until instructed by the patient to address them by their first name.
Goofus:  Calls all of their patients “Honey”, “Sweetheart”, or *gasp* “Bubba”.

Gallant:  Makes a point to remember the locations and the entry codes to the various facilities we frequent every day.
Goofus:  Can’t find his way back to the station he works out of from the closest ER.

Gallant: Removes his gloves after each patient interaction.
Goofus: Drives the ambulance to the ER/Doctor’s Office/Hospice/Podiatrist’s office with the contaminated gloves STILL ON.

Eww.  That one just bugs the hell out of me.

Gallant:  Will admit when he or she doesn’t know how to do something.
Goofus: Fakes it because they’re too embarrassed.

Gallant: Will occasionally greet you with coffee. Hey, you do it for them, right?
Goofus: Greets you by grabbing your ass and yelling “Who’s your Daddy???”

Gallant: Arrives at work in a clean and pressed uniform.
Goofus: Arrives at work in a uniform with at least three meals smeared across his/her shirt and pants.

Feel free to chime in with your own :)

(I’ve been working on this post for over a week now and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I’m never, ever going to be able to convey what I’m really feeling…  Keeping that in mind, here’s what I’ve got. As someone who is too stubborn to allow her partner to buy her a soda, this has been more than a little overwhelming.)

To everyone who has been so gracious with their positive thoughts, prayers, money, etc…

I’m in.

I’m enrolled.  My books and the first 1.5 months of tuition are bought and paid for thanks to all of you.

Consider yourselves permanently added to my Christmas card list.  I’m still not sure what to say, honestly.  Just thank you, thank you, thank you.  I’m without words. If there is ever anything I can do for any of you, don’t hesitate to find me.  The shirt off my back is yours.

Thank you.

From the bottom of my sparky little heart.

All of my love,
Epijunky

Studying for the first quiz of the year.

Just… Thank you.

While in Basic school, many things are drilled into your head.

BSI/Scene Safety.

ABC’s.

What you don’t document didn’t happen.

Pack a lunch.

You know, the important things.

I’d like to add something to the list.  Don’t ever become complacent while doing transfers.

Now before you start jumping to conclusions, I’m not talking about the dialysis transfer that codes on you.  I’m not talking about the ECF patient being abused by staff, or the elderly patient being neglected by their family.  (Also something that I’ve encountered.)

Those types of runs apply, certainly.  But that’s not what I’m going for here.  I’m talking about those honest to goodness regular everyday transfer runs.  The hospice runs where nothing goes awry.  The dialysis transfers where the only intervention needed is a couple of blankets.  The ECF to Podiatrist appointments where the patient gets their toenails clipped.  Those runs that many of us do every single day.  The ones where we sometimes get annoyed because we’re carrying fifteen bags in addition to the patient on the stretcher.  The ones that piss us off because we’re just sick and tired of being verbally attacked by the patient, or their family, or even the nursing staff.  The ones where you find yourself groaning, “Oh Lord, please, not another transfer.”

**********

“Unit 33, I have a run for you, let me know when you’re ready for the info.”

The sun was out in full force beating down on us in the little ambulance with no air conditioning.  I would be lying if I said that my partner J and I were both more than a little cranky after having sweated our backsides off for the last six hours.  As bad as we felt after stewing in our own juices for so long (six hours is a long time for us Yankee’s to be boiling in 100 degree heat!), we felt worse for our patients.  We had both made promises that we would be talking to management about the pitiful attempt at a/c that our truck for the day was making.

J was driving.  He picked up the radio.  “Go ahead, Dispatch.”

“Go to Big City Hospital, room 4118 bed one and take them to Midwest Hospice.”

“We’re clear, put us enroute,” J responded.  He turned to me instantly.  “ANOTHER transfer?  Can’t they give us five minutes to get a drink?”

“We’re busy… It’s good for them.”  I swallowed the last sip of my water bottle.  The truth was that I was just as tired and sweaty as he was.  I didn’t want this next run any more than he did.  That being said, knowing the owners and where they were coming from, knowing that this would be a run where they would actually get *paid*…  Well, when you keep that all in mind and remember that the owners sign your checks.  It does make things a little easier.  Even when it’s 100 degrees outside and you swear it’s at least twice that in the back of the truck.

**********

We found him laying in a hospital bed, and not so happy about it.  He had already emptied the contents of his lunch tray on the floor of his room.

“I’m not going ANYWHERE, you HEAR ME???” Words and saliva were flying faster than I could react.  Mr. Johnson was mad as hell, and everyone on the ninth floor of this hospital knew it from those who clean the patients rooms to the charge nurse. We had heard him from the very second we exited the elevators.  Twelve rooms down from where he had spent the last three weeks.  Apparently Mr. Johnson was feeling feisty today.

“Mr. Johnson, Mr. Johnson,” I rested my hands on the side rail of his bed. “My name is Epi, I know you’re a little apprehensive about –”

“You son of a bitch, I’m not going anywhere!” He screamed, spraying me in spit.  All of a sudden I was extremely happy to be BSI’d to the hilt, courtesy of a Nurse who knew why he was on contact precautions.

I wasn’t sure what to say.  “I’m sorry medicare wont pay for you to stay in a hospital any longer… We’re taking you to Hospice to die,” surely wasn’t appropriate, as frustrated as I was getting.

“Please, Mr. Johnson, stop spitting on me.  We’re here to take you to another hospital.  There are amazing people there and they’ll take VERY good care of you,” I started.  I paused, searching for the right words.  I prayed they’d come to me quickly.

“Wh-wh-ere are you taking me?” His voice was shaking, the first time he had actually spoken to me as opposed to screaming.

I searched the room for something to talk about other than where he was going.  Pictures of grandchildren, a sports team he followed, “Get Well Soon” cards… Anything.  I couldn’t find anything.  Despite the fact that he had been there for so long there was no proof of it.  No family members present, no flowers or balloons, nothing remarkable to speak of.

Except a navy blue Vietnam Veteran baseball cap with some pins on it sitting comfortably on his bald head.

“Sir,” I started, “I see you’re an Army man.  I was in the Army myself.  Thank you for your service.”

“You were in the Army?  Did you see any action?” Mr. Johnson perked up.

“No Sir, wish I had the opportunity.” I wasn’t lying either.

“I was in ‘Nam from 1968 ’till 1972.  I tried to go back after that but this god damned knee wouldn’t let me.” He motioned towards his right knee, he even pulled up his hospital gown to show me the scar.  “Sonofabitch is fulla shrapnel.”

I groaned, while nodding.  “I gotcha Sir.  That must have been disappointing for you.” I would have talked to him about anything at this point if it kept him calm.  Telling someone who has not been prepared for the fact that you are taking them to a facility for the terminally ill so that they can end their life at peace and (hopefully) pain free isn’t the easiest conversation.  It seems as if myself and my partner has been thrust into this position more and more lately.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t make enough for the job I do.  None of us do.  Private, Muni, Vollie, or other.

“Sir,” I started slowly making direct eye contact with him, “We’re going to take you to another hospital.  The staff there, the nurses and the doctors, they’ll be able to better manage your pain.  You’ll have your own room, good food, a TV and DVD player to watch some movies…”

“Well hell, that sounds purty good,” Mr. Johnson responded, straightening his hat.

I exhaled.

**********

I was driving while J was in back with Mr. Johnson.  In hindsight, I should have taken patient care.  I had established that bond.  J had been a little put off, and as a result he ended verbally berated by our patient for an entire hour and a half long transport time.  When we pulled up to Midwest Hospice J sprung out of the back of the truck with renewed energy. “Well, we’re here, Mr. Johnson, let’s get you off of this uncomfortable stretcher and into your cozy bed!”

“Fuck you, you dirty bastard!” Mr. Johnson yelled back.

Here we go again.

For my part, I lowered the stretcher legs while J pulled it out of the back of the truck.  We barely paused at the front desk when the secretary mumbled “Room Three-Seventy-Two.  Follow the long hallway up to the right and catch the elevator to the–”

“We know the way,” J returned flatly, sprinting towards the elevator.

One of my favorite Hospice Nurses at this facility met us halfway down the hallway.  “Any family coming,” he asked under his breath.  He was doubletiming it just to keep up with us while simultaneously flipping through a copy of Mr. Johnson’s chart.

“No.” J and I said in unison.  It was unusual that there wouldn’t be someone to go with the patient to Hospice.  Considering this patient’s mental state, I was to the point where I couldn’t blame them.  He was an older gentleman, very set in his ways.  He was hardcore. He was also confused and afraid.  Probably two emotions he wasn’t terribly comfortable with.

I thought I knew him.  Or at least the type of patient he was.  Turns out I didn’t know him at all, and at the same time, I knew him very well.

**********

We had managed to “unload” Mr. Johnson as quickly and as comfortably as possible.  We were done, he was comfortably resting in his new bed.  His care and paperwork had been transferred to my favorite hospice Nurse.

As much as I had hoped to bond with him, and I felt like I had, he was off of our stretcher now and we were quickly approaching being “back in service”.  We were making the cot in the parking lot with a flat sheet I stole from a random closet in the facility when the unexpected happened.  A vehicle pulled up alongside our ambulance, a simple dark green Toyota Corolla.  I recognized the driver as a close elementary and high school friend immediately.    She eyed me suspiciously before she smiled, lowering her oversized sunglasses.  “Epi!  Hey girlfriend!”

“Tammy, Oh my GOODNESS, how have you been?”  I couldn’t believe it, I hadn’t seen her in at least ten years.  Her cousin, my junior prom date, was sitting shotgun.  He waved, smiling with the same goofy grin I remember from all those years ago.

“I think you just brought my Dad in,” Tammy said, her smile slowly fading into the look that most of my Hospice family members wear.  I knew the look well.  It was the look of a caregiver.  A caregiver who has spent the last year plus holding their breath while their loved one skipped amongst the border between life and death.

Oh Gawd No.  Not Tammy’s Dad.  Not Cary.

I always assumed that Cary was Tammy’s biological father.  I hadn’t known that he was actually her Stepfather. I felt my stomach turn as I walked towards the drivers side of the car.  “Tammy, I… I had no idea.”

She nodded, “He’s lost a tremendous amount of weight,” she tried to explain. “He doesn’t look anything like he did before he got the cancer.”

“Tam, I’m so sorry.  How’s your Momma holding up?”

“She passed away last year.  In here, actually,” Tammy motioned towards the building we had just come out of.  “They were so amazing with her, and they took such great care of us too.  When Pop got sick in January, when they told us that his cancer was terminal… We knew we had to get him in here.”  Tammy’s face wore a sad, tired, smile.  “I know they’ll do a better job with him than Kevin and I could.”

“It’s exhausting, Tam.  I know you beat yourself into the ground every day for him.  I know you.  You deserve the break, and you know they’ll treat him like a king.” I squeezed her hand.  “If you need anything, anything at all, call me.”  I scribbled down my cell phone number and handed it to her.

“Did he do okay on the ride over?  We tried to prepare him the best we could, we even cleaned out his hospital room and brought everything here so he would have some familiar things, pictures and such, around.  I dont think he was understanding everything that was going on…”

I flashed back to his empty hospital room and how angry Cary, Mr. Johnson, was.  “Tam, he was a little confused, but he did fine.  I made sure the staff knew to talk to him about the Army.  That seems to calm him down a little.”

Tammy laughed, “It sure does.  We’re gonna go in, thank you for taking care of him, Epi.”

“No problem.  Give me a call, I’m serious.  It’s been too long.” I headed back towards the ambulance and climbed into the driver’s seat and fell apart.

**********

Tammy’s phone call finally came two weeks later.  She was crying.  I knew Cary had died before she even spoke.  As much as I had wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to visit him while he was at Hospice.  It was too hard to see him that way.  I felt like a coward for it.

“The funeral is on Monday, Epi… Do you think you could come?”

“Tam, I’ll do my best.  I’m supposed to work but–”

Tammy cut me off, “Then you go to work.  You do so much good there, Epi.  Dad would want it that way.”

I choked back more tears.

And on that Monday, in an anonymous cemetery somewhere in the mid-west, another Soldier was buried.  Someone’s Hero.  Someone’s Daddy.  Someone’s Uncle.  Someone’s Husband.  Our Patient.

Godspeed, Mr. Johnson.

I am no longer allowed to use the PA on the truck while driving code three.  Apparently a complaint came in today.

Who knew that yelling “PLEASE move your vehicle to the RIGHT…. NO, your OTHER RIGHT!” Would irritate someone to the point of calling Itty Bitty EMS to complain.

He should have moved his Cavalier to the right.  Just saying.  It’s not like the gigantic white ambulance with the screaming siren and the bright LED light bar wasn’t enough warning that we were coming…

There were three minutes left until the shift from hell was over with.  Just three minutes.  Three… Minutes. We were sitting at the door watching the seconds tick away when, of course, the phone rang.

Neither one of us dove for it.  Instead, J and I stared each other down.

J spoke first. “They’re not really going to stick us with a run at the end of the shift, are they?”

He’s serious, the poor, poor boy.  Bless his heart.

I picked up the phone.  Typically I answer with West Station… Today, not so much.

“Seriously?  This better be good!”  In ten hours we had done 12 runs, five of them 911 runs that were everything but emergencies.  Headaches, sore throats, and three episodes of diarrhea.  I waited for our dispatchers response.  The poor woman behind the radio mic was afraid of her own shadow, not at all what I was used to dealing with.  I’ve had dispatchers from the seventh level of Hell itself.  This one was more likely to take up residence in a field filled with daisies.  Surrounded by puppy dogs.  Cute puppies.  Or lolcatz or something.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you guys, I know the day you’ve had,” she started.

I instantly felt like shit for silently cursing her. “It’s okay,” I exhaled.  I grabbed the lucky Viagara pen from my squad pants and a slip of scratch paper from the desk.  “Please tell me that you’re not sending us out of town…”

“No no no, nothing like that, I have a direct for you… You know her…” I could practically hear her shaking, still. I could only think of a few patients we have who are considered “Frequent flyers” who would inspire this kind of fear in a dispatcher… The pronoun she threw in narrowed it down to one.  Just one person.

“Oh no.  Comeonnow…Really?”  I’m leaning against the metal wall of the garage with my day pack and my computer bag hanging on my shoulder.  My keys are in my hand.  I set them down on the floor. “Put us enroute to Seventh and D street.”

**********

The ride over to Seventh and D was riddled with potholes.  Don’t get me wrong, the entire city is riddled with potholes, but this particular neighborhood is somewhat more neglected as far as street repairs go.  I felt like I’d been thrown down a very rocky mountain by the time we pulled up to our patient’s address.  I made a mental note to schedule an appointment with the quack chiropractor.

(Remind me to do a post on how much I hate chiropractors.)

J and I climbed off the truck and met our patient, Emme, on the steps that led to her front porch.  Her bag was packed and hanging over her shoulder.  Kind of like mine was not so long ago.  Even though she was on dialysis three times a week for 4.5 hours at a time she was sucking down a 44 ounce soda from the local corner store.

I felt my heart shrink three sizes.

“Hey, Emme!  How are you feeling today?”  My voice comes out sounding significantly more cheerful than how I felt.  Possibly a little forced.  Possibly.

“Hey Miss Epi!  I’m so glad it’s you…  My stomach hurts, I want to go to *Rural ER, the only one who will still treat me within 12 hours*”

I looked her over.  Her color was good.  Her respiratory rate was good. She didn’t look any worse than my partner and I did after working a crazy 95-degree day on an ambulance with almost no a/c to speak of.   Except she outweighed us each by at least 250 pounds and she skipped dialysis yet again.

And as insane as it made me, she needed to be treated.  Not transported by ambulance, particularly when there was a car perfectly capable of taking her to the hospital sitting in front of the house.  But she needed to be treated.  Even if it was her own fault.  I fought back the urge to lecture her (what good would it do) and waited for her to climb aboard our lowered stretcher. My back screamed at me as we lifted her one click at a time, until we we’re high enough to clear the back of the ambulance.

Emme whined about everything from the amount of time it took us to get to her to the amount of time it took us to get her into the ambulance to the fact that she had to go to that ER because no one else would take her.

By the time that I had her settled in the back of the truck all I could do was sit on the bench seat and rub my temples. I was sweating like a whore in church praying at the alter of flexerils.  More importantly I was in a position that I’ve found myself in more and more lately.  I was hating my job.

I was hating my job.  And it pissed me off to no end that I was at this point.

As much as I wanted to strangle Emme for calling us for the fourth time in seven days, I treated her as I’d treat a family member.  I got over the way I felt and I pretended that she wasn’t abusing the hell out of medicaid.  I pretended that my employer would get paid for this run.  I pretended that J was more than just an “Ambulance Driver”, and that I was more than the person who happened to be riding in back.

Then I attempted to call in a radio report.  It’s never good when the charge nurse at the other end of the radio knows who you are bringing in before you are finished giving your report. “Triage,” the nurse responded after hearing me out. Impressive considering we were taking her to the slowest ER within 50 miles.  I don’t think that I’ve ever taken someone to triage at this particular ER since I’ve been working as an EMT.  I’ve only been doing this for a handful of years, but I have worked for some high volume agencies.

“Triage?!?!!” Emme shrieked, “They can’t put me in triage!  I’m hurting here…”

I sat back and closed my eyes.  “Emme, they’re busy.  They’re treating folks who are seriously ill.  Heart attacks, nasty car accidents…”  I was counting the minutes down until we pulled into the ER.  I knew the second I said it that I should have selected my words more carefully.

“LIKE HELL!  I’m HURTING!  My KIDNEYS DON’T WORK!  That’s an emergency!  I ain’t going to TRIAGE!!!”  Beads of sweat were accumulating on her forehead.  I’m not proud to say that I had already soaked through my polo shirt and squad pants.

I resumed rubbing my temples.  “Emme, I know that you are having an emergency.  I know you don’t want to sit in the waiting room.”

**********

“Itty Bitty EMS,” I announced as I hit the big green button on the wall just outside of the ER entrance.

“Triage,” The same tired female voice responded flatly.

J was unfamiliar with this hospital, so we swapped ends of the stretcher so I could lead him to the Promised Land.  The land of milk and honey for those of us working private EMS, those of us who were getting a little crispy around the edges from having to take someone to the ER at four in the morning for a stubbed toe or popped pimple…  The only proof that we have as EMT’s have that an ambulance ride does not guarantee you a direct admit to a comfy bed in the ER.

Triage. *The clouds part and the sun comes out… Angels sing*

Emme was not pleased.  She grabbed at J’s shirt and started screaming at the top of her lungs.  J’s eyes grew to the size of silver dollars.  I threw my hip into the front of the stretcher and bite my tongue hard.

“Let…go…of…my…partner.  NOW,” I growled.  Both Emme and J jumped a little.  Emme’s eyes were now the size of J’s.  The hallway was silent… empty except for the three of us.  I couldn’t help but imagine that this particular hallway had been the scene for the conversation that was about to take place in the past.  Probably several times. “Look,” I started, “First of all, you will not manhandle my partner or myself.  You will not scream or curse at us.”  I could feel my heart racing, but I was at my limit.

Surprisingly, Emme nodded.

“EXCELLENT.  This ER is busy tonight.  The Nurses and Doctors here are treating folks with more emergent problems than yours.  Are you understanding me so far?”

Emme nodded, again.

“An ambulance shows up three times a week to take you to dialysis at no charge to you.  There’s no reason you can’t go to dialysis.  There’s also no reason you should be sucking down a bucket of soda.  You keep putting yourself here.  Don’t put yourself in this position and continuously expect us to show up with smiles on our faces while you do it.  We’re going to show up every single time, because we have to.  But the more you call for your tired BS reasons, the less likely you are to be taken seriously should you have a real hand-to-God emergency.  Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Epi.  I was thirsty.”  Emme’s voice was shaky.  J looked like he was going to have a stroke.  No one had dared question Emme, at least outside of the confines of the back of an ambulance.

“Emme, I can’t fault you for taking a sip when you’re thirsty, but I’m not going to be happy and kissing your ass while you’re sucking down three times your daily limit of fluids right in front of me, particularly when you skipped your treatment.  Again.  And why in the hell are we taking you by ambulance when you go everywhere else by car?  I know full well that your uncle is going to show up in a few hours to drive you home…”  I could feel my jaw clenching.  I was crossing a line.   I was saying the very thing that I’ve wanted to scream at the top of my lungs hundreds of times.  And I was saying it with witnesses present.  I imagined the phone call my supervisor would be getting in an hour or two.  (Or twelve if the wait in the ER was as bad as it promised to be.)

Emme just stared at me.  “I’m sorry,” was all she could say.

I didn’t know what Emme was thinking at that point, there was no way to be sure.  I’m not so green and sparky to believe that she was hearing me… That would be asking too much, but there was a spark in her eye  that hinted that maybe she got it.  Or at least part of it.

“So I shouldn’t be drinking a big gulp when you show up next time?”  Emme was smiling now.

Baby steps, I guess.

I have a post done.  Close to ten of them, in fact.  Another twenty plus in draft.  Countless more in my head.

Unfortunately I’m fried to the point where I need to step back and remember why I do the job I do.  What do I get from it?  Why did I start?  What do I hope to move on to?

I know that the number of my posts have dropped significantly over the last several months.  I can’t blame that completely on being fried, but that has been part of it.  I’ve put so much of myself into my job and my kids and my writing that I’m losing it now that I finally realize that that being an EMT isn’t all that I thought it would be.  It’s not all that I studied so hard for.  It’s not all about saving lives.  Sometimes it’s about being woken up from a sound sleep after running for 17 hours straight.  Sometimes it’s about getting hit over the head by your own clipboard by a savvy ER nurse because you dared to bring in a frequent flier. (Yet again).  Sometimes it’s because you’ve figured out that that even the Medics aren’t completely ready at four in the morning.  None of us are always on our game.  I’m finally figuring this out.

And quickly.

I’m sure that several good nights of sleep will help considerably… Please just hang with me another couple of days.  Let me get my head straight and I’ll be back in full force.

Better than ever, in fact :)

I’m that good.  That’s how I roll.  Really, I swear!  (Okay, lemme check my itty bitty ego.) I’m just trying to make sure that I can accurately convey what I feel while I’m on these particular runs while simultaneously NOT getting sued.

It’s getting increasingly more difficult as the days pass by.  For those of you still reading, thank you.  For those of you I lost months ago… I’m sorry.