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Just Another Run (Originally posted 8/14/09)

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From the archives…

There was some discussion on Twitter tonight about service to ones Country… I don’t care what branch you are currently with or were in.  To all of you out there who served… 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.

Posted by on February 19, 2011 • Filed under: EMS

Rally The Troops.

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Family defined:

fam·i·ly

noun \ˈfam-lē, ˈfa-mə-\

A group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head : household

A group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation : fellowship

**********

A group of people, united.  A family.

That is how we tend to think of our EMS brothers and sisters.  They’re family.  Doesn’t matter if we’ve worked along side you for years, if we’ve met a few times or if we’ve never spoken.  This is just how it works.  We take care of each other.

Justin Schorr aka The Happy Medic is one of our people.  Some of you have met him, some of you haven’t.  But for anyone out there who reads EMS blogs or who has watched Chronicles / Beyond the Lights and Sirens you know who The Happy Medic is. He’s a good friend with a wonderful wife and two of the cutest little girls I’ve ever seen.  He’s out there working the equivalent of three full time jobs between his career, the blog and the Chronicles project.  He’s out there working so that we can move EMS forward. Plain and simple.

A few days ago it came out that one of his little ones was had something pretty scary going on medically and had been taken to the ER.  She had been admitted to the ICU and they weren’t sure when she’d be discharged.

Within minutes I received a DM on twitter from @JustMyBlog, the lovely author of the blog by the same name.  (And a quick little bit about JMB as I’m going to refer to her.  She is one amazing woman and I adore her like she’s my sister.  I think she may be my sister, actually.) She had quickly come up with a plan.

Let’s shower this little girl and her family with some kindness.  It’s what we’d do for our local EMS families if they were in the same position.

My response?  ABSOLUTELY.

Justin is family.  He’d do it for any of us. We may not be able to visit or bring over dinner, but we can certainly bring them some happiness!

From JMB’s post with a few additions from me:

The rules are as follows:

- The girls are young, keep that in mind.  I’m estimating, but I believe the one in the hospital is around two and her sister is 5 or 6.
- What to send? I know the economy is awful. So if you can’t afford much, how about making a card and mailing it?
- Whatever it is you decide to send, and whether it be for Happy, Mrs Happy, or the kids, please make sure it’s something they will want to keep. For example, no used teddy bears. (I added the emphasis – Epi)
- If you’re sending internationally, please make sure you’re sending something that will be allowed to pass through customs.
- Please include your name, Twitter handle, or the name of your blog in your package/envelope so that they know who they’re getting all of this stuff from.

Where to send it:

The address we’ve received is for a drop site.  If you’re interested in sending something, contact myself at Epijunky@pinkwarmdry.com or JustMyBlog at @JustMyBlog on twitter or through email at justmyblog@hotmail.ca.  We’ll get you the information.

Thank you for reading…  Be safe out there,

Epijunky

Posted by on February 17, 2011 • Filed under: #CoEMS, Blogroll, EMS, Family

Good GOD, I’m getting old.

5 comments

So… Tonight…

My youngest… She Who Rules.  The one who looked… Oh… Like this when I started blogging:

She Who Rules is now pushing six.  She lost her 4th tooth tonight.  The tooth fairy even left her a note!  The tooth fairy also realized that she didn’t have anything under a five on her.  That being said… It was a front tooth.  Everyone knows those are worth more money.

This is my girl.  Today.  In all her glory, complete with marker on her face.

Hey, it adds to her charm.  As if that wasn’t enough to make me feel somewhere younger than Old Man River but older than Old Yeller, my Son, The Future Cardiologist, turned eleven.  ELEVEN!!!!

This was him when I started my EMS journey. Younger than his baby sister is now.

This is him today.

That’s my boy.  My nose.  My bad eyesight.  My complexion (Sorry, kiddo, you’re going to suffer from the pimples well into your thirties if I’m any indication), and my height.  The only thing he didn’t get from me is “paleness”.

I couldn’t be prouder to have such a tenderhearted, generous, handsome, gracious young man as a Son.  And for God’s sake, I pray he never sees this post.  For the *checking sitemeter* six… count them SIX readers that I have… Please don’t tell FC about this.

All joking aside.  I have two beautiful children who make the really bad days bearable and the good days that much sweeter, and all of the stretch marks and wrinkles and gray hairs a non issue.

Am I getting old?  Hell YES I AM.  But we all are. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  I have everything I need and then some.

Be safe out there,

Epijunky

Posted by on February 11, 2011 • Filed under: Me Stuff

Becoming the Patient II

27 comments

When I left ya’ll I was hobbling out of a certain hospital in a certain city in NW Ohio.

I felt better than I had in… quite a long time.  I think that the fact that I had been so severely anemic for so long had me believing that how I felt on a day to day basis was normal.  And normal for me really wasn’t that bad.  That being said I felt like I could run a marathon now, I was practically bionic.  Well, minus the bad back, but certainly that would be resolved easily enough.  A little ice, a little heat, some muscle relaxers and a few days off.

I followed the directions I was given, determined to behave and stop being such a damn pain in the ass to all of my caregivers and limped into my Doctors office the next day.

He walked into the exam room holding my folder.  My Doc normally has a permanent “worry wrinkle” on his forehead, it’s part of his charm, and today was no different.  He dropped the folder down on the counter top and looked me over.  ”You’ve had a rough few days, eh?”

“Yeah.  You could say.”

“Epi, I’m not going to sugar coat this.  You need to find another job.”

Blink. Blink. Blink. I had no response.  Internally, I was screaming.  He did NOT just tell me that I can’t work as a Paramedic.  Not after everything that I’ve been through to get to this point, what the HELL? My heart dropped.

Doc pulled my MRI results out of the manila folder.

I was screwed.

L4-L5, and L5-S1.  Both herniated.  I broke down and cried in the office.  Right in front of the doctor.  I cried as I checked out, I cried all the way to the car, and the entire drive home.  I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.  He had written me off work for an entire month, which I knew wasn’t going to sit well with management.  Hell, it was probably going to get me fired.

The next day, I was let go from the best service I had ever worked for.  And after only getting to work for 6 weeks.  To say that I was devastated would have been the understatement of the freaking century.  That was January 11th.  Three weeks later and I’m still absolutely heartbroken.

As time went on the pain in my back wasn’t getting any better.  It moved from severe muscular lower back pain to severe muscular lower back pain with continuous spasms and sciatica.  If you haven’t ever had issues with your sciatic nerve, consider yourself very fortunate.  If you have, then you know what I’m talking about.  It’s brutal.  The fire-like pain that was shooting down my left leg (and eventually my right leg as well) was more than I could mentally deal with.  I started to think that I was really losing it.  I was absolutely inconsolable.  I lost my job, I was in constant debilitating pain, I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone my children or any potential patients…

Good God, I was a train wreck.  I started pulling away from my friends and family locally, and finally my online family.  My family doctor had been keeping a close eye on my blood count, which thank God was stable (albeit a tad on the low side still at 10), but was ultimately worried about my level of pain.  I was reluctant to take any narcotics, and dead set against surgical interventions.  After two straight weeks of agony, I relented.  He wrote me a script for some high dose percocet and referred me to a pain clinic and a surgeon.

A pain clinic?  He wants me to go to a pain clinic?  I take PATIENTS to a pain clinic.

I began to become paranoid that I’d be perceived as a drug seeker.  Vicodin wasn’t helping with my pain at all.  Percocet was just knocking me out.  Two days before my pain clinic appointment I found myself in my doctors office yet again.  Again in tears.  Humiliated.  Defeated.  Begging for some relief.  Pleading for some way to get just a few minutes of time where I wasn’t so consumed by the constant searing pain in my back and legs.  I remember sitting in that office truly believing that I was losing my mind.  My life was no longer my own.  I was no longer in the position of being a caregiver, I was practically an invalid.  Incapable of doing something as simple as rolling over in bed without crying out in pain.

Breaking point, meet Epijunky.

My family Doc was out of town that day and I was seeing the office Nurse Practitioner.  He had worked as an RN, a Paramedic, and an EMT.  He was my people.  He was my people when I really… truly needed people to talk me down off the cliff that I was teetering on.  ”Epi… I’m not going to tell you that you should continue to work as a Medic.  But I’m not going to tell you that you can’t.  Let’s get you through some of this pain.  Let’s get your head clear, and we can explore the rest of it after that.  Go to your pain clinic appointment.  Get that epidural done with the steroids, and see where you are after that.  One step at a time, ya know?”

I nodded.  I wanted to have some hope.  That was all.

“Epi… I have friends who have worse back injuries than yours.  They’re still working.  Keep your chin up.”  He patted me on the back as I walked out of the exam room.

I could have tackled him, had I been physically able.  It just took a simple statement from a caregiver to pull me out of a state of mind that was so low I couldn’t even wrap my head around it.  Just two minutes.  No drugs, no interventions at all.   Just a little dialog between two people.  I hobbled out of the office yet again.  The difference was, this time I wasn’t in tears.  I had a little bit of hope.

That was four days ago.  Yesterday was my pain clinic appointment.  I wont bore you with the details of a caudal epidural, all I’ll say is that it’s not the most pleasant experience.  It’s one that I hope to never repeat, actually.  But if that’s what it takes to get me back on a truck, I’ll do it.  I’ll do anything.  I’ll even have the surgery done.  I just want to be back.

And sadly, I really don’t know when I’ll be able to get back.

Right now I’m praying that continued steroid treatments and building up my core muscles will keep me from repeating this injury.  I’m praying that I can get back, very soon, in any capacity, and resume my role as a fixer.

No longer a patient.

I guess what I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t just a patient through this battle.  I was a fixer still.  I just had to fix myself.

**********

Thanks to those of you who stuck around to read my story… I realize that it wasn’t a guts and glory EMS post, but it was important to me.  Never ever forget that just the simplest of statements can help your patient more than you can imagine.  Sometimes words can work miracles.

Be safe out there,

Epijunky


Posted by on February 4, 2011 • Filed under: EMS, Me Stuff, New Paramedic

Becoming the Patient

8 comments

Why did you get involved in EMS?

Chances are that your answer may have something to do with wanting to help others.

I know that was my reason.  I’ve always thought of myself as one of the “fixers”.  And it didn’t matter what type of run I was on at that point in time, private transfers or 911 runs, it all comes down to a person with a need out there, and us being able to take care of that need.  Maybe I wasn’t fixing the patient, per se, but I was fixing what could potentially turn into a life threatening issue.

When I became a Paramedic and was set loose to practice on the street my thinking of myself as a fixer was reinforced.  Some of the patients I was now interacting with were of a higher acuity than I had been able to treat before, and now I was in charge of the ambulance and everything on it.  I was responsible for any care or interventions given by myself or my EMT partner, as well as any care or interventions not performed.  It’s quite a responsibility, and while it’s only been six short months, it’s something I hope I never take lightly.

It’s a great feeling, having that name tag that says Epijunky NREMT-P on it.  I fought like hell to get to this point, going through two very tough Paramedic programs with fantastic instructors.  And am I proud of myself?  Absolutely I am.  Not too proud, nothing close to walking around with my chest puffed out with a Paragod attitude… Just… Proud that I finally made it.

In late December, the day after a particularly grueling 24-hr shift, I drove home feeling a little under the weather.  It wasn’t anything specific, and honestly, I chalked it up to just being exhausted from running a ton of calls the majority of the previous day.  I’m 34-years-old and a Mother of two.  My body isn’t used to being up for 24 straight hours.  I remember pulling into my driveway, putting my car into park and grabbing my gear before getting out.  When I stood up, the world spun.  I remember blinking a few times in an attempt to focus on my neighbors house thinking that if I could just stare at one point, this nasty case of vertigo would stop.  And within a few seconds it did.  But not before I took a step, slipped on ice, and landed flat on my backside.  Ouch.  After muttering a few four letter words, I collected my bags, stood back up and went into the house.  I felt fine, and the vertigo never did return.  I didn’t even mention it to my family. I figured it was just another less than graceful move by yours truly.

The following day was Christmas morning, and my gift from Santa was some pretty intense back pain.  My response was to pop some ibuprofen and find a way to make it through Christmas morning without my kids knowing that anything was wrong.  And I did manage to do this, quite successfully.  The next morning however, was another story.  This was worse than just back pain, this was excruciating pain. It was I-cant-stand-up-and-walk-without-help kinda pain.  Knowing that I was due to be on an ambulance for 24 hours the next day, I swallowed my pride and headed into the ER where I was possibly the worst patient ever.

Let me explain.  I didn’t want to be there.  I’m a fixer.  I’m not a patient.  To the ER staff’s credit, they were amazingly patient with a very very stubborn girl.  I thought it was odd that they wanted to run my blood for a CBC, but I didn’t complain.  All I wanted was some relief for my back and possibly a work note if they weren’t going to be able to calm my spasming muscles down before tomorrow.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.  What happened next would be the beginning of my own personal hell.

Dr. Mc Hottie (well, he is rather handsome) came into my room with a very concerned look on his chiseled face.  He was followed by a PA, a scribe and my nurse.  ”Epi, I don’t know how you’re able to walk, let alone function right now…”

Er, ‘Scuse me?

“Epi, are you aware that you’re anemic?”

“Yes, I have been for years.  I’m a gastric bypass patient,” I mumbled, getting a little nervous.

“Okay, I understand that, have you been having problems with your iron and B-12?” He was sitting next to my bed now.  My anxiety climbed by a factor of 10.  I knew I had problems with anemia, and if you ask anyone who knows me, I’m not just pale, I practically glow I’m so white.  That being said, I came in for my back, and they weren’t even concerned about that.

I just nodded.

“Your hemoglobin is 6.1.  Normal is 12-14.  6.1, Epi.”

Hemoglobin is the component of your blood that carries oxygen from your lungs to the tissues in your body where it picks up carbon dioxide to take back to your lungs.  Basically, the handsome Doctor was telling me that my body was severely oxygen starved.  He started naming a myriad of problems that I was probably suffering from, possibly without realizing:

Pale skin. CHECK.

Shortness of breath.

Tachycardia.  CHECK.

Impaired memory.

Chest Pain.

Dizziness. A big CHECK.

Cognitive issues.

That last one really struck me along with the threat of impaired memory.  While I hadn’t had issues with either so far, the thought of not being able to think clearly while with my children or a patient in the back of the ambulance… That scared the hell out of me.  I was in trouble.  And even worse, I was putting others in danger as well.

All of a sudden my back was hurting a little less.

I was no longer a fixer.  I was a patient.

I had the entire rainbow collection of wrist bands.  Allergy, Fall Risk (!), my hospital ID and finally the green blood band.  My reality was rapidly changing.  I was stuck in a gown, felt like a pin cushion thanks to multiple iv failed attempts, and I was absolutely terrified.  They were talking about blood transfusions, not just one, but multiple.  My quick visit to the ER was looking like it was going to turn into a couple of day affair.  The icing on the cake was passing three different crews and a supervisor from my service while in the ER.

My saving graces were a friend and former preceptor who stopped by and refused to leave me until I was tucked in and he was positive I wouldn’t sign myself out AMA.  Kozi, I can’t thank you enough.  And yes, Turkey is still a funny word.  (I say very weird things while being given IV narcotics, folks.) My sister from another mister JustMyBlog who sent a beautiful flower arrangement, and a certain friend out there who listened (and watched) me whine via skype while they were simultaneously drugging me and giving me blood.

Four units of blood (and one very sleepless night) later, I was set loose.  My HGB was still on the low end, but acceptable by the hospitals standards, and my back pain was being taken care of with narcotics.  I had been given orders to see my family doc the next day, and I was fairly certain that I was going to be in the clear in a few short days. I’d be back on the truck soon.  Management told me to take care of myself and to let them know when I was released by my doctor.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy, yeah?  Of course not.  I don’t do anything the quick and easy way.  My nightmare was far from over.

**********

The conclusion later on tonight or tomorrow.  Thanks for reading, and be safe out there ;)

–Epijunky

Posted by on February 4, 2011 • Filed under: Blogroll, Me Stuff, New Paramedic, Uncategorized