6/2007

“Are you okay?  You look a little pale.”

My preceptor was talking directly to me, and I heard him, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer.  The truth was that I was most definitely NOT okay.  I was not okay.  But that wasn’t something that I wanted to put on display.  I wanted to be the portrait of strength, not the sobbing wreck who wanted to toss her cookies right there next to her preceptor’s partner in the ambulance bay.

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“This, folks,  is what I love about this job.”  Scott, aka “The Preceptor” was sitting on the step on the side of the truck that led into the patient compartment.    His partner, Danny Boy, was snoring loudly in the back of the truck.  I sat in the front passenger’s seat, window open, just watching.  He was physically beat, hell, we all were. 12 runs in ten hours.  12 runs that took twice as long as they should have because he had me with him.  I was slow.  I’ll admit it. I was being ridiculously thorough.  Paperwork took longer, assessments took longer, everything took longer.

It had been a long day, but it was ending in spectacular fashion.  We were on standby at a house fire.  For a girl who has had zero fire experience, it was fantastic to watch.  Every color in the spectrum was lighting up the summer sky.  It was the first time in my life that I thought that I might want to learn more about this “fire stuff”.  I was watching the flames when I heard a frantic voice.  A screaming voice.

“WE HAVE A KID!”

No.  No no no.  No kid.  No people.  The house was supposed to be empty. Scott jumped from his seat and was in the back of the truck before our information had a chance to make it’s way from my brain to my body.  He was screaming at Danny Boy to “Wakethefuckup” while he furiously grabbed at whatever equipment we could possibly need.

“Epi, getyourassbackhere!” Whatever calm Scott had in him had gone out the window.  I was out the door before he had a chance to finish yelling.

Almost as quickly a large man with a mixture of steam and smoke coming off of his shoulders deposited a tiny limp blackened body into Scott’s arms.

I can’t repeat the string of expletives that escaped my lips.

I found myself ill equipped.  I worked on a transfer truck for crying out loud.  I didn’t see burned babies… I saw dialysis patients.  I saw wound care patients.  On occasion I took a stable MVC patient to the ER or got the chance to dodge vomit. Once in a great while I was on a truck for a chest pain patient or a CVA. Certainly not a charred baby the age of my littlest one.

I jumped into the empty captain’s chair and reached for the airway bag while Danny Boy tore the boys clothes from his little body and The Preceptor checked the little one’s vitals.

As we suspected.  Pulseless.  Apneic.

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Continued tomorrow night.