Doing what we do, we often see things that make us shake our heads and wonder what is wrong with society. OD's (drug overdoses for the uninitiated), shootings, attempted suicides, assaults, rapes, child abuse...it only seems to get worse. How many times have we run on heroin addicts who have OD'ed and are essentially dead, only to wake up after a Narcan injection and get pissed at us for ruining their high? How many times have we gone on calls to revive children that parents claimed simply died in their cribs, only to find that the young, single sperm donor/incubator who created that life shook them to death in frustration? How many of us who have been doing this for awhile can recount calls we've been on that were so horrifying that you dare not even breathe word of it to your therapist for fear that the nightmare would become real?
In just a few short years, I've experienced all of the above. I get angry at teenage kids who live for the next episode of "Teen Mom" and "16 and Pregnant" because the show never tells the many sad stories out there of teen parents whose kids are neglected, abused, and sometimes killed because their parents were far too young to understand the gravity of bringing a child into this world and not giving them a chance by giving them up for adoption. They're not there at 0200 when we're doing CPR on a seven-month-old who is showing serious signs of prolonged abuse. They're not there at the hospital when a doctor pronounces the child dead and says he/she was shaken to death.
Teenage girls don't understand that what they wear can be dangerous. What parent in their right mind thinks it's okay for their 14-year-old daughter to wear skin-tight jeans with the word "Juicy" embroidered across their ass? What father is unaware of what every hot-blooded male within eyeshot is thinking when a girl walks by wearing that, a tube top, and enough makeup to make Elizabeth Taylor look conservative?
Teenage boys seem to think there are no consequences for their actions. Where are the fathers to teach them that having sex, protected or unprotected, stands a chance of causing a very serious problem that teenagers are ill-equipped to handle? Where is the respect for their mothers? Why are fewer and fewer every year losing interest in an education that could create a better life in the future? Why do gangs, violence, drugs and alcohol appeal to more of them as time goes on?
When I was a kid, my parents used to complain about how irritating kids were and how bad things were getting. I remember thinking they were complaining about nothing. Now, I find myself drawing the same conclusions and I see my parents in me more and more as time goes on. Every generation really does get worse. Of course, my view is tainted by the fact that I have seen the worst of the world, but I don't remember ever seeing the things going on in the news when I was a kid. Satanic panic was the worst thing happening, it seemed.
I'll never forget a shooting that I went on. It turned out that the victim had actually shot himself in a botched suicide attempt. The home was absolute squalor. The carpets hadn't been vacuumed and the hard floors not swept likely since the family had moved in a year prior. There was filth on the walls, grime on door handles, and gunk caked onto the countertops and tables. A 24-year-old woman was the mother of four children, the oldest eight, the youngest two years old. Her boyfriend had only fathered one of the children; he was a convicted felon and gang member covered head-to-toe in jail ink, not allowed to possess a firearm but he had one anyway. The 23-year-old mafioso had gotten drunk and, during a fight, he got his gun out and threatened to kill himself. Whether on purpose or under the influence of an entire fifth of tequila, he only badly wounded himself.
The home was so disgusting I was afraid to touch anything, lest I carry a hundred diseases out with me.
The kids probably hadn't bathed in days. All four of them reeked. They were streaked with dirt, their hands sticky, and they were convinced that we had toys to give them. Because the police had to interview the mother, they had to keep her separate from the kids for a while, but when they were led away from her the four-year-old boy demanded something to eat; she said he didn't need anything, that he needed to go with the officers. He actually slapped her across the face and said, "shut up, fatass!"
I had never heard that kind of language come out of the mouth of a four-year-old before. I was positively astounded. All four of the kids were unbelievably disrespectful to every adult in their midst. I was glad that I didn't have to stay, but could think of nothing else for days. I knew that those kids would never be taken out of the home. Some bleeding heart family judge with no understanding of the damage being done would insist on keeping that dangerously unhealthy family together. I knew those kids would end up just like their mother's boyfriend, in gangs, committing crimes, selling narcotics, drinking heavily, and squirting out more babies in the future to multiply all of the ills our society is slowly suffocating on.
The one depressing thing about my job is that I feel helpless to stop our downward momentum. I have to compartmentalize the things I'm seeing so that I won't take it home and keep it there. I have to remind myself when I see a child behave that way that it isn't my place to discipline them, and if the parent chooses not to, I don't have the right to say anything. How bad does it have to get before people begin to wake up to the reality that we have a serious problem? I'm required to report it when I witness conditions that are abusive or neglectful, but when I catch a parent in the act, I am not allowed to speak up. Otherwise they might complain to my captain or one of the chiefs that I was mean to them, or might even sue for "pain and suffering".
The truth is that we've created our own society, exactly as it is, either through our actions or inactions. By giving time and money to companies that push dangerous entertainment on kids or sitting back and saying nothing when we see injustice we have helped our society shape itself. We are exactly what's wrong with us.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Things You Miss When You're Gone
When emergency surgery suddenly sidelined me a few months ago, I didn't want to stay at home for very long. I'm not the kind of person who convalesces well; I don't like to sit on my duff. Unfortunately it was more than just a local, so like it or not, sidelined I was for a few months.
Grrr.
So, now I'm back, and my first night in I spent hours laughing my ass off with the guys about some of the things I'd missed. My favorites:
-The engineer on the engine company at my station fell face-first out of the truck after coming back from a late call. Apparently he didn't wake up until sometime halfway through the drive home.
-A call involving a man who swore he saw green monkeys climbing through his windows, despite the guys all standing there telling him that his windows were tightly shut. Green monkeys are obviously worth calling 911 for.
-A drunk at a Denny's restaurant who had alcohol poisoning and wanted to show the staff all the pretty colors in his emesis. He found this quite amusing because he also wanted to show my friends once they arrived to take him to the hospital. I could have done without the play-by-play (besides, I've probably worn that particular drunk's innards before).
-An elderly couple called for an ambulance for the tenth time in a month - because they just received the bill for the last nine times they called. They had to call a police unit out to confirm that, no, ambulance rides are NOT free and we're not here to shuttle people to doctor's offices.
-The captain at my station performing his best impression of a homeless man who so loved the firefighters at our station that he stopped to serenade them as they did their gear check with a hearty rendition of "Sexual Healing" (which, oddly enough, sounded an awful lot like Bill Cosby's impression of a drunk person).
As for my first night back? Oh, if only I could give exact details...Bonnie and Clyde held a standoff with police, Clyde pretended to hold Bonnie hostage and fired through the door at everything that moved, the couple switched clothing, did an inordinate amount of methamphetamines, and in the end the purported VICTIM got shot in the face by a police sniper.
Damn, I missed my job!
Grrr.
So, now I'm back, and my first night in I spent hours laughing my ass off with the guys about some of the things I'd missed. My favorites:
-The engineer on the engine company at my station fell face-first out of the truck after coming back from a late call. Apparently he didn't wake up until sometime halfway through the drive home.
-A call involving a man who swore he saw green monkeys climbing through his windows, despite the guys all standing there telling him that his windows were tightly shut. Green monkeys are obviously worth calling 911 for.
-A drunk at a Denny's restaurant who had alcohol poisoning and wanted to show the staff all the pretty colors in his emesis. He found this quite amusing because he also wanted to show my friends once they arrived to take him to the hospital. I could have done without the play-by-play (besides, I've probably worn that particular drunk's innards before).
-An elderly couple called for an ambulance for the tenth time in a month - because they just received the bill for the last nine times they called. They had to call a police unit out to confirm that, no, ambulance rides are NOT free and we're not here to shuttle people to doctor's offices.
-The captain at my station performing his best impression of a homeless man who so loved the firefighters at our station that he stopped to serenade them as they did their gear check with a hearty rendition of "Sexual Healing" (which, oddly enough, sounded an awful lot like Bill Cosby's impression of a drunk person).
As for my first night back? Oh, if only I could give exact details...Bonnie and Clyde held a standoff with police, Clyde pretended to hold Bonnie hostage and fired through the door at everything that moved, the couple switched clothing, did an inordinate amount of methamphetamines, and in the end the purported VICTIM got shot in the face by a police sniper.
Damn, I missed my job!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Justice and Mercy
I'll never forget a story my EMT instructor told me years ago about a call he'd gone on involving a 12-year-old girl. They'd been called because she was unconscious and completely unresponsive. They arrived to find her beaten half out of her wits and struggling to breathe. Police arrived and managed to wrangle an explanation out of her stepfather.
She had come home with a report card that her stepfather found unacceptable, so he put a book in each hand and made her stand with both arms straight out. Every time an arm drooped he'd take the book from her, hit her in the head with it, then give it back and make her take up her position again. He did this until she collapsed with severe head trauma. Each and every one of the men on that crew wanted to pick up those books and give that animal a taste of what his daughter had endured, but they quietly took her to the hospital, working feverishly to care for her. It was all for naught. She died in the hospital.
Fast forward to the present day. We've all seen those stories on the news of parents too young to be patient with a child losing their temper and shaking them or hitting them, causing often fatal injuries. We all know that the parents will clam up after they call 911; what little they do say never adds up. We all know that babies don't usually just die, particularly not with nosebleeds and bruises all over their bodies.
We all know that it's not a question of if, but WHEN we go on a call like that - a call where a parent, through either negligence or outright malice, has caused life-threatening injury to their child. When I saw that baby that morning, I knew full well what had happened even with his father standing there, looking me in the face, telling me that he had no idea what had happened. He said he'd gotten out of bed to check on the infant and found him completely unresponsive, laying on his back, his nose bleeding. Something must have registered in my expression as he said this to me because he didn't look at me again after that first explanation. He asked a couple of questions but he didn't look at me.
The thing that sucks the most about those calls is that we usually hear on the news that the child has died. I found that out not a few days after going on that call. I found out a lot of things about that young man afterward that I won't talk about here. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks about what it would feel like to be able to beat those people unconscious, to both help them understand exactly what they did to that defenseless child and set an example for those in the future who might lose their temper and do something that they can never undo.
Not I nor any of my brothers and sisters in this profession would ever break the law, no matter how badly we would like to take justice into our own hands. I believe, however, that we all feel when we do nothing in such moments we are showing mercy to a waste of space who refused to show it to a helpless, defenseless child who deserved far better.
I think we all know what's going to happen, too. This guy will get ten years in prison, be free by the age of 30, and will immediately go knock up another hapless girl who either really thinks this animal loves her or simply doesn't have any respect for herself. He won't learn anything behind bars except how to be a better crook and liar. I just hope that the next time he calls 911, I'm not on the crew that responds.
She had come home with a report card that her stepfather found unacceptable, so he put a book in each hand and made her stand with both arms straight out. Every time an arm drooped he'd take the book from her, hit her in the head with it, then give it back and make her take up her position again. He did this until she collapsed with severe head trauma. Each and every one of the men on that crew wanted to pick up those books and give that animal a taste of what his daughter had endured, but they quietly took her to the hospital, working feverishly to care for her. It was all for naught. She died in the hospital.
Fast forward to the present day. We've all seen those stories on the news of parents too young to be patient with a child losing their temper and shaking them or hitting them, causing often fatal injuries. We all know that the parents will clam up after they call 911; what little they do say never adds up. We all know that babies don't usually just die, particularly not with nosebleeds and bruises all over their bodies.
We all know that it's not a question of if, but WHEN we go on a call like that - a call where a parent, through either negligence or outright malice, has caused life-threatening injury to their child. When I saw that baby that morning, I knew full well what had happened even with his father standing there, looking me in the face, telling me that he had no idea what had happened. He said he'd gotten out of bed to check on the infant and found him completely unresponsive, laying on his back, his nose bleeding. Something must have registered in my expression as he said this to me because he didn't look at me again after that first explanation. He asked a couple of questions but he didn't look at me.
The thing that sucks the most about those calls is that we usually hear on the news that the child has died. I found that out not a few days after going on that call. I found out a lot of things about that young man afterward that I won't talk about here. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks about what it would feel like to be able to beat those people unconscious, to both help them understand exactly what they did to that defenseless child and set an example for those in the future who might lose their temper and do something that they can never undo.
Not I nor any of my brothers and sisters in this profession would ever break the law, no matter how badly we would like to take justice into our own hands. I believe, however, that we all feel when we do nothing in such moments we are showing mercy to a waste of space who refused to show it to a helpless, defenseless child who deserved far better.
I think we all know what's going to happen, too. This guy will get ten years in prison, be free by the age of 30, and will immediately go knock up another hapless girl who either really thinks this animal loves her or simply doesn't have any respect for herself. He won't learn anything behind bars except how to be a better crook and liar. I just hope that the next time he calls 911, I'm not on the crew that responds.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The Job We Signed Up For
Few things get under my skin as quickly as the assumptions some people have about the job we do. The general public seems to have this idea that firefighters, paramedics and police officers are wearing the uniform solely for the purpose of putting ourselves in harm's way. Yes, we do that. We do it frequently. Our safety does not need to be in jeopardy all the time, however; prudence and a strong set of SOP's (Standard Operating Procedures) can mean the difference between coming home and going to the morgue. Consider these words, spoken by a man who was shot this past June in Aurora, Colorado:
"They signed up for it. They just need to do their job."
Of all the things I've heard a person say about our profession, that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Those words were spoken by Adam Fisher recently as he recalled the June night when a drunken neighbor opened fire and hit him three times. A friend called 911, then as police responded to the scene that friend followed dispatchers' instructions to try to stop the bleeding. Firefighter/paramedics were dispatched to the scene, but because of SOP's - a requirement that police declare the scene safe before entering - fire crews staged about a mile away. They wouldn't enter the scene to treat Fisher until the officers at the scene declared that scene secure.
Recordings of radio transmissions during the incident show what the news report failed to touch on: the lack of communication on the part of police officers. I fail to understand why the firefighters' failure to move from staged to responding is all their fault, because I'm hearing what officers are saying over the radio and I hear quite a few dancing around whether it's safe. Nobody declared it safe. Then, when they got frustrated that firefighters weren't responding, I'd like to know why officers didn't send someone out to physically tell them, "hey, the scene is secure, we need some help."
How hard was it for them to simply declare the scene safe? There were 30 officers there, surely someone could have put two and two together.
Despite what seems to be glaringly obvious, this all gets laid at the feet of the firefighters. The victim and his friend don't have the first clue what the reasons are for not rushing in immediately and nobody has bothered to explain it to them.
Let me tell you about the job we signed up for. We signed up for public safety. We signed up to rescue the injured, treat the sick, and put out fires. We signed up knowing that the nature of the job requires that we accept a certain level of risk to our personal safety. The vast, overwhelming majority of us are adrenaline junkies, so that feeds the need to some degree. What we did NOT sign up for, though, was an expectation that no matter what's going on, no matter what danger, we will throw ourselves at the mercy of God because the public thinks we ought to.
If that were really the case, we'd stop issuing guns, night sticks, OC spray and tasers to police officers. God knows they've been persecuted for their use of every single one of those tools even though they're quite often justified in using them.
I've been burned before and it really isn't that bad. I've had broken bones; those often heal with minimal issues. I've had lacerations that required stitches. Each and every one of those injuries would have been far worse if it hadn't been for my training and PPE (Personal Protective Equipment). Unfortunately, I don't have anything that will really save me from a bullet. I don't wear a tactical vest that will protect my major organs. Since we're not living in the Matrix, I'm not capable of dodging bullets. If someone at a scene gets stupid and starts cracking off shots at me and my partner, we're just as susceptible to serious injury and death as the Joe Schmoe we're being called to help.
I'm not really afraid of dying. If I'm on a call and some unspeakable danger befalls us, I would much rather be the one to die rather than have to tell my partners' kids that I did the best I could. What I am more afraid of is surviving a gunshot wound. Survivors end up with all kinds of health issues; I'm sorry, but ending up with a colostomy bag, a hole in my skull complete with an inability to control my mouth and spending life in a wheelchair - all of which would keep me from ever doing the job I love again - are NOT what I and my brothers and sisters signed up for.
If someone is running around a scene with a gun, then I'm not going in blind. In some situations, I'd absolutely break that rule, and I'm not saying that I would wait until my dispatcher told me the scene was secure; if a cop came out and asked for my help, sure, I'd follow him. But if I'm sitting in my rig, watching scores of officers come sweeping in with guns drawn, you'd best believe I'm going to wait on them to clear it out.
In 1993, Denver firefighter Doug Konecny was shot and killed while extending a ladder to the window of a suicidal man. In 2004, Lexington firefighter Lieutenant Brenda Cowan was shot and killed trying to help a victim of a domestic dispute. In 2008, St. Louis firefighter Ryan Hummert was shot to death while trying to put out a vehicle fire. Others have been wounded and survived.
In this case Adam Fisher and his friend, Leah Lockert, are angry with firefighters. They believe the crews should have ignored the danger and come charging in full-code without regard for the situation. We cannot fall into the trap of believing that our lives are expendable simply to placate an angry public. We all know just how off-base the public often is.
Mr. Fisher, I will not, for one second, attempt to downplay your situation. I would ask you not to downplay ours. Don't think that those firefighters were being lazy. I promise you, they weren't standing outside their rigs with their arms folded, relaxed. They were anxious to help you. If they were anything like me and my boys, they were bouncing on the balls of their feet, muttering under their breath, raring to go. It's not fair that you got shot. It's equally unfair for you to expect us to put ourselves in mortal danger and run the risk of needing even more rescue crews to come help us.
"They signed up for it. They just need to do their job."
Of all the things I've heard a person say about our profession, that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Those words were spoken by Adam Fisher recently as he recalled the June night when a drunken neighbor opened fire and hit him three times. A friend called 911, then as police responded to the scene that friend followed dispatchers' instructions to try to stop the bleeding. Firefighter/paramedics were dispatched to the scene, but because of SOP's - a requirement that police declare the scene safe before entering - fire crews staged about a mile away. They wouldn't enter the scene to treat Fisher until the officers at the scene declared that scene secure.
Recordings of radio transmissions during the incident show what the news report failed to touch on: the lack of communication on the part of police officers. I fail to understand why the firefighters' failure to move from staged to responding is all their fault, because I'm hearing what officers are saying over the radio and I hear quite a few dancing around whether it's safe. Nobody declared it safe. Then, when they got frustrated that firefighters weren't responding, I'd like to know why officers didn't send someone out to physically tell them, "hey, the scene is secure, we need some help."
How hard was it for them to simply declare the scene safe? There were 30 officers there, surely someone could have put two and two together.
Despite what seems to be glaringly obvious, this all gets laid at the feet of the firefighters. The victim and his friend don't have the first clue what the reasons are for not rushing in immediately and nobody has bothered to explain it to them.
Let me tell you about the job we signed up for. We signed up for public safety. We signed up to rescue the injured, treat the sick, and put out fires. We signed up knowing that the nature of the job requires that we accept a certain level of risk to our personal safety. The vast, overwhelming majority of us are adrenaline junkies, so that feeds the need to some degree. What we did NOT sign up for, though, was an expectation that no matter what's going on, no matter what danger, we will throw ourselves at the mercy of God because the public thinks we ought to.
If that were really the case, we'd stop issuing guns, night sticks, OC spray and tasers to police officers. God knows they've been persecuted for their use of every single one of those tools even though they're quite often justified in using them.
I've been burned before and it really isn't that bad. I've had broken bones; those often heal with minimal issues. I've had lacerations that required stitches. Each and every one of those injuries would have been far worse if it hadn't been for my training and PPE (Personal Protective Equipment). Unfortunately, I don't have anything that will really save me from a bullet. I don't wear a tactical vest that will protect my major organs. Since we're not living in the Matrix, I'm not capable of dodging bullets. If someone at a scene gets stupid and starts cracking off shots at me and my partner, we're just as susceptible to serious injury and death as the Joe Schmoe we're being called to help.
I'm not really afraid of dying. If I'm on a call and some unspeakable danger befalls us, I would much rather be the one to die rather than have to tell my partners' kids that I did the best I could. What I am more afraid of is surviving a gunshot wound. Survivors end up with all kinds of health issues; I'm sorry, but ending up with a colostomy bag, a hole in my skull complete with an inability to control my mouth and spending life in a wheelchair - all of which would keep me from ever doing the job I love again - are NOT what I and my brothers and sisters signed up for.
If someone is running around a scene with a gun, then I'm not going in blind. In some situations, I'd absolutely break that rule, and I'm not saying that I would wait until my dispatcher told me the scene was secure; if a cop came out and asked for my help, sure, I'd follow him. But if I'm sitting in my rig, watching scores of officers come sweeping in with guns drawn, you'd best believe I'm going to wait on them to clear it out.
In 1993, Denver firefighter Doug Konecny was shot and killed while extending a ladder to the window of a suicidal man. In 2004, Lexington firefighter Lieutenant Brenda Cowan was shot and killed trying to help a victim of a domestic dispute. In 2008, St. Louis firefighter Ryan Hummert was shot to death while trying to put out a vehicle fire. Others have been wounded and survived.
In this case Adam Fisher and his friend, Leah Lockert, are angry with firefighters. They believe the crews should have ignored the danger and come charging in full-code without regard for the situation. We cannot fall into the trap of believing that our lives are expendable simply to placate an angry public. We all know just how off-base the public often is.
Mr. Fisher, I will not, for one second, attempt to downplay your situation. I would ask you not to downplay ours. Don't think that those firefighters were being lazy. I promise you, they weren't standing outside their rigs with their arms folded, relaxed. They were anxious to help you. If they were anything like me and my boys, they were bouncing on the balls of their feet, muttering under their breath, raring to go. It's not fair that you got shot. It's equally unfair for you to expect us to put ourselves in mortal danger and run the risk of needing even more rescue crews to come help us.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
MOUSE!
Every cop, firefighter and EMT in America plays pranks on their brothers and sisters. I'm pretty sure pranking is in our DNA now; I've not worked a single shift where someone wasn't trying to either play a prank or guffawing about past pranks that have become the stuff of legend. When I was just a baby EMT, one of my new buddies pulled me out to the bay and giggled while he put a wide-mouthed cup of ice water in someone's turnout boot. If I had remembered where everyone's position was, I'd have known it was the captain. It was a good half hour before that crew got a call. Naturally, everyone starts sticking their stocking feet in their boots without looking and, as expected, the captain yowled at the top of his lungs and slung his foot out. He caught his toe on the inside of his boot and his momentum flung him straight back, tipped his boots over and spilled ice-cold water everywhere. He recovered quickly and they went on the call, but when they got back he was openly plotting revenge against everyone in the station.
By the end of the night, even he was laughing about it.
Several months later, I and a good friend were at a Toys R Us looking for a gift for his son's birthday. You wouldn't think that a couple of EMT's could get into much trouble at a store like that...at least you wouldn't if you're not from our profession. Halfway down the aisle housing remote-control cars, we both froze in front of a pack of tiny little remote-control cars. It happened in perfect unison; a light shone down from heaven, and the horns that held up our halos grew a little. "Hey," he said, "didn't we see fake rats back there?"
"We sure did," I replied with a devilish grin. I'm pretty sure my halo slid right off at that point, because I ran - I did not walk, I RAN - back to get a couple. He grabbed this four-pack of miniature remote-controlled cars. By the time we got back to my place (he has to hide his kids' gifts at my place now because they know where he hides them at home) I was practically bouncing with excitement over what we were going to do.
You with me so far? You'll love this.
These fake rats, not very big at all, were pretty realistic. They're always available around Halloween for decoration, and they were perfect. We cut out just enough of their undersides to fit the cars in (it wasn't easy, because if we put them in too far they wouldn't move, and if we didn't put them in far enough it looked cheesy and fake). We waited until the guys on the engine were out on a call and did a few dry runs. Once we had it down, we hid both of them between the refrigerators and waited for the right time.
Late in the evening, we'll all go on a call and when we come back, we check everything on the rigs and clean up if necessary then filter slowly back into the station to go to bed. I swear that night it took forever for us to have the right opportunity, and we were afraid it would never come - but come it did, and it came at the perfect time at night when the lights in common areas are dimmed. We got back from a call before they did and took our positions.
The first guy to come in, as we had prayed, went into the kitchen to get a drink. Right as he turned to walk out of the kitchen we did our thing - led the fake rat right through the kitchen, across the hallway, and around the corner into the extra barracks where we were hiding.
This six-foot-odd, burly, muscle-bound firefighter squealed "MOUSE!" like a little girl and turned and ran right back out to the bay.
You have no idea just how impossible it was to refrain from laughing out loud.
We still had one more, and the first guy came back with the other three in tow, one holding his ax as though this mouse was going to tear his face off. That alone would have been hilarious. My buddy hit the throttle on the second one and it tore off in the same fashion, the light hitting it just perfectly, and all four jumped straight up in the air. The guy with the ax went to throw it but ended up tossing it in a beautiful arc. The ax landed just a few feet in front of them (I half-expected the thrower to finish with a pirouette).
"Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the captain spat. "It's a goddamn mouse!"
"It's TWO of 'em!" the first victim wailed.
"They're MICE!" The captain retorted. "They're not gonna spit venom at you, let's just go find the little bastards!"
Now we were trapped in a barracks with no cover and had four piss-and-vinegar firefighters coming. We simply accepted our fate and stood, ready to face them. When the light was flicked on, we couldn't help it. We erupted in peals of hysterical laughter. My buddy nearly fell over. I was laughing so hard I nearly had a stroke. We carried on for what seemed like forever, four men capable of tearing us both to pieces looking on in fuming silence, before we finally straightened up.
The captain strode up to me, put one hand on my shoulder, and wagged a finger at me as he spoke. "Ranger...you better tell me you thought this through. I hope to all hell...I HOPE...you had a camera out there so we can win some damn money!"
By the end of the night, even he was laughing about it.
Several months later, I and a good friend were at a Toys R Us looking for a gift for his son's birthday. You wouldn't think that a couple of EMT's could get into much trouble at a store like that...at least you wouldn't if you're not from our profession. Halfway down the aisle housing remote-control cars, we both froze in front of a pack of tiny little remote-control cars. It happened in perfect unison; a light shone down from heaven, and the horns that held up our halos grew a little. "Hey," he said, "didn't we see fake rats back there?"
"We sure did," I replied with a devilish grin. I'm pretty sure my halo slid right off at that point, because I ran - I did not walk, I RAN - back to get a couple. He grabbed this four-pack of miniature remote-controlled cars. By the time we got back to my place (he has to hide his kids' gifts at my place now because they know where he hides them at home) I was practically bouncing with excitement over what we were going to do.
You with me so far? You'll love this.
These fake rats, not very big at all, were pretty realistic. They're always available around Halloween for decoration, and they were perfect. We cut out just enough of their undersides to fit the cars in (it wasn't easy, because if we put them in too far they wouldn't move, and if we didn't put them in far enough it looked cheesy and fake). We waited until the guys on the engine were out on a call and did a few dry runs. Once we had it down, we hid both of them between the refrigerators and waited for the right time.
Late in the evening, we'll all go on a call and when we come back, we check everything on the rigs and clean up if necessary then filter slowly back into the station to go to bed. I swear that night it took forever for us to have the right opportunity, and we were afraid it would never come - but come it did, and it came at the perfect time at night when the lights in common areas are dimmed. We got back from a call before they did and took our positions.
The first guy to come in, as we had prayed, went into the kitchen to get a drink. Right as he turned to walk out of the kitchen we did our thing - led the fake rat right through the kitchen, across the hallway, and around the corner into the extra barracks where we were hiding.
This six-foot-odd, burly, muscle-bound firefighter squealed "MOUSE!" like a little girl and turned and ran right back out to the bay.
You have no idea just how impossible it was to refrain from laughing out loud.
We still had one more, and the first guy came back with the other three in tow, one holding his ax as though this mouse was going to tear his face off. That alone would have been hilarious. My buddy hit the throttle on the second one and it tore off in the same fashion, the light hitting it just perfectly, and all four jumped straight up in the air. The guy with the ax went to throw it but ended up tossing it in a beautiful arc. The ax landed just a few feet in front of them (I half-expected the thrower to finish with a pirouette).
"Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the captain spat. "It's a goddamn mouse!"
"It's TWO of 'em!" the first victim wailed.
"They're MICE!" The captain retorted. "They're not gonna spit venom at you, let's just go find the little bastards!"
Now we were trapped in a barracks with no cover and had four piss-and-vinegar firefighters coming. We simply accepted our fate and stood, ready to face them. When the light was flicked on, we couldn't help it. We erupted in peals of hysterical laughter. My buddy nearly fell over. I was laughing so hard I nearly had a stroke. We carried on for what seemed like forever, four men capable of tearing us both to pieces looking on in fuming silence, before we finally straightened up.
The captain strode up to me, put one hand on my shoulder, and wagged a finger at me as he spoke. "Ranger...you better tell me you thought this through. I hope to all hell...I HOPE...you had a camera out there so we can win some damn money!"
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Why?
In EMS and Fire, we deal with things that most people don't understand. We all have those stories that are so disturbing that we will never tell our spouses, parents, siblings or children. We've all seen things that most others would require serious therapy for. I wondered for a very long time if my ability to see those things and not be bothered by them meant something was very wrong with me. What tells me that I'm alright is the fact that I still can't imagine coming onto a scene and seeing someone I love like that.
Last week, I saw the face of a man I worked with on the news. Only two of the five local channels had picked up the story. We all know what to look for when we're trying to figure something out solely from the news, and I very quickly deduced what was likely. It twisted my stomach into massive knots. An off-duty cop assigned to an Air Rescue paramedic unit is found alone in his hotel room, dead, and the word is that no foul play is suspected - and the man is too young and seemingly too healthy for something like a pulmonary embolism. Very little is being said. If a death turns out to be suicide (unless it also involves murder), suddenly the media shuts up, and they did.
Several days later, I got to my station and my fear was confirmed. This man I'd worked with for over a year, whom I had a great deal of respect for and whose advice I'd sought, had committed suicide.
Being that I suspected it, I didn't think it would hit me as hard as it did.
I've lost track of the number of EMS calls I've gone on where someone was talking about suicide or had attempted suicide. Lately, I've been running on a lot of completed suicides. The people left behind when someone takes their own life all start out with that familiar stunned emptiness in their eyes. The longer I remain on scene the more their reactions differ. I've seen people shut down, open up, collapse, cry, scream, and had to restrain a few when a body was being removed. I've viewed bodies to determine whether or not it would be prudent to allow family members to see them before they're taken away (it's almost never a good idea, even when they OD).
None of that can possibly steel a person to withstand the news that a person they cared about ended their own life. I daresay it only makes it worse. I've been on those calls where someone is talking about suicide or has attempted it, and a friend or relative is standing there, irritated, saying, "they're just trying to get attention!" They only took a handful of pills, they say. The cuts were just superficial.
What I wish I could tell those people sometimes is that they need to wake up. Those kind of incidents are often the best indicator that someone needs help. Getting mad at them most times does no good. Offer to go with them to get help, talk to them, call 911 if you have to - but nobody knows how many completed suicides I've gone on where someone was left feeling hollow and alone, trying to figure out if there was some subtle sign dropped, wishing they'd seen something so obvious so they'd still have that person there.
I've been to that edge myself. It's been eight years now, but I looked over that edge and the experience has left me a very different person. Even now I still remember the feeling that things in my life would never get better, nobody could understand or fix things, and talking would not help. I felt deep depression and fear, then - nothing. I actually came to a peace that I had accepted the idea of dying. I won't say exactly what happened, but to this day I do not fear death. What I do fear is having to face God and answer for something like that.
Because of that experience, I feel like an enormous hypocrite for asking the question everyone is asking right now - "WHY?". He had a big heart, a handsome smile, and a concern for his patients that others I know have lost in the same amount of time in our profession. He had three beautiful, respectful kids who adored him. What on Earth could have been so intensely painful that he would remove himself from this world and rob it of the better place it would have been with him in it? What propelled him to give up so soon?
His family and closest friends will ask themselves for a very long time if they missed something that could have served as a warning that he was teetering on the edge. His adorable girls will wonder why daddy didn't love them enough to stick around. Everyone will feel guilt and an empty desperation that is unique to suicide survivors. I have learned that those things are absolutely unavoidable. It's natural for those things to happen. It's brutally unfair, though.
In our line of work, what we do sometimes weighs heavily on us. To all of my fellow Fire/Rescue/EMS addicts and to all of the cops out there, I give you an admonishment that I cannot make more heartfelt: take care of yourselves.
Last week, I saw the face of a man I worked with on the news. Only two of the five local channels had picked up the story. We all know what to look for when we're trying to figure something out solely from the news, and I very quickly deduced what was likely. It twisted my stomach into massive knots. An off-duty cop assigned to an Air Rescue paramedic unit is found alone in his hotel room, dead, and the word is that no foul play is suspected - and the man is too young and seemingly too healthy for something like a pulmonary embolism. Very little is being said. If a death turns out to be suicide (unless it also involves murder), suddenly the media shuts up, and they did.
Several days later, I got to my station and my fear was confirmed. This man I'd worked with for over a year, whom I had a great deal of respect for and whose advice I'd sought, had committed suicide.
Being that I suspected it, I didn't think it would hit me as hard as it did.
I've lost track of the number of EMS calls I've gone on where someone was talking about suicide or had attempted suicide. Lately, I've been running on a lot of completed suicides. The people left behind when someone takes their own life all start out with that familiar stunned emptiness in their eyes. The longer I remain on scene the more their reactions differ. I've seen people shut down, open up, collapse, cry, scream, and had to restrain a few when a body was being removed. I've viewed bodies to determine whether or not it would be prudent to allow family members to see them before they're taken away (it's almost never a good idea, even when they OD).
None of that can possibly steel a person to withstand the news that a person they cared about ended their own life. I daresay it only makes it worse. I've been on those calls where someone is talking about suicide or has attempted it, and a friend or relative is standing there, irritated, saying, "they're just trying to get attention!" They only took a handful of pills, they say. The cuts were just superficial.
What I wish I could tell those people sometimes is that they need to wake up. Those kind of incidents are often the best indicator that someone needs help. Getting mad at them most times does no good. Offer to go with them to get help, talk to them, call 911 if you have to - but nobody knows how many completed suicides I've gone on where someone was left feeling hollow and alone, trying to figure out if there was some subtle sign dropped, wishing they'd seen something so obvious so they'd still have that person there.
I've been to that edge myself. It's been eight years now, but I looked over that edge and the experience has left me a very different person. Even now I still remember the feeling that things in my life would never get better, nobody could understand or fix things, and talking would not help. I felt deep depression and fear, then - nothing. I actually came to a peace that I had accepted the idea of dying. I won't say exactly what happened, but to this day I do not fear death. What I do fear is having to face God and answer for something like that.
Because of that experience, I feel like an enormous hypocrite for asking the question everyone is asking right now - "WHY?". He had a big heart, a handsome smile, and a concern for his patients that others I know have lost in the same amount of time in our profession. He had three beautiful, respectful kids who adored him. What on Earth could have been so intensely painful that he would remove himself from this world and rob it of the better place it would have been with him in it? What propelled him to give up so soon?
His family and closest friends will ask themselves for a very long time if they missed something that could have served as a warning that he was teetering on the edge. His adorable girls will wonder why daddy didn't love them enough to stick around. Everyone will feel guilt and an empty desperation that is unique to suicide survivors. I have learned that those things are absolutely unavoidable. It's natural for those things to happen. It's brutally unfair, though.
In our line of work, what we do sometimes weighs heavily on us. To all of my fellow Fire/Rescue/EMS addicts and to all of the cops out there, I give you an admonishment that I cannot make more heartfelt: take care of yourselves.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Don't Ever Come to My House
Those were the words I heard most often in EMT-B school aside from "BSI, scene safety". Instructors and their aides do not wait until you have certain knowledge; from the second week, they were throwing scenarios at us on a daily basis to test us for knowledge absorption (they only waited until the second week because we spent the first week filling out paperwork and answering questions). At first, it consisted of an instructor pointing to a random student and saying something like, "okay, your buddy there is choking. He's got his hands on his throat and he's making no noise. What are you gonna do?"
That evolved three weeks later into another instructor running and screaming that high-pitched girl scream all the way through the room, up to the front, swept up in front of my partner and howled something unintelligible except for the words "not breathing" - and extended an infant-sized mannequin (yes, "manikin" is INCORRECT) to him. My partner froze, so I grabbed the fake child and started checking breathing and pulse and then began CPR.
(Now that you have that image in your head, imagine the instructor is a 6'9" wall of muscle-bound manliness doing the most amazing and ear-piercing girlie shriek ever attempted. I couldn't hear well for a week.)
By the final three weeks of class we were running fully-orchestrated scenarios, complete with our instructors friends, spouses and kids playing the victims. Throughout all of it, every single time someone would either freeze or do something absolutely idiotic one of the instructors would say, "please, if I call 911, don't ever come to my house."
I told you that story to tell you this one.
Just over a year ago, I got called to a child drowning. Drownings are extremely common in my neck of the sparse woods, 99% of them involving children. Usually they occur in pools, but I've seen kids drown in bathtubs, buckets, latrines and sinks. (NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: this is where I remind you that a child is eight times as likely to drown inside the house than to ever be even injured, let alone killed, by a gun - so it behooves you to watch ALL kids around water. I now return you to your regularly scheduled bloviating.) I've been to a few drownings at this point and they never get easier. I think they're easily the toughest calls we ever run on. Every single time there's a parent, grandparent or babysitter devastated beyond rational thought saying over and over, "I just turned around for a minute..."
This one was a little closer to home. I recognized the address, though I couldn't place where I knew it from at first. When we pulled up I realized it was the home of one of my friends from EMT school. We'd spent some time studying there. At the time, his older sister had just gotten married. I was about to find out she now had two children. It was the youngest, a one-year-old, who'd been pulled from the pool.
He hadn't gotten an EMS job. He'd planned to hold out for one of the local fire departments in Arizona, and that was the last I'd heard of him until this day. When we got to the backyard, he had just stopped performing CPR. As I stood there, the infant started spitting out water and mucus and my friend rolled the little boy over to let it all out. I stood there, shocked, my mouth hanging open, while my partner immediately got to work suctioning the baby's mouth. He had to remind me to start getting the Stryker ready.
We packaged the baby and headed for the nearest hospital, where my friend wrapped me in a bear hug (I'm obviously NOT like my six-foot-tall counterparts) and tearfully thanked me for responding so quickly. He then stepped back, laughing for the first time through his tears, and said, "you totally froze like a deer in headlights! What happened to you?"
Not knowing what else to say, I replied, "I guess I wasn't expecting to see you already doing my job!"
He poked me in the arm and said, "if I ever call 911 again..."
I interrupted, "yeah, yeah, yeah!"
And he finished, "you better have a bottle of Jaeger with you, you jerk!"
That evolved three weeks later into another instructor running and screaming that high-pitched girl scream all the way through the room, up to the front, swept up in front of my partner and howled something unintelligible except for the words "not breathing" - and extended an infant-sized mannequin (yes, "manikin" is INCORRECT) to him. My partner froze, so I grabbed the fake child and started checking breathing and pulse and then began CPR.
(Now that you have that image in your head, imagine the instructor is a 6'9" wall of muscle-bound manliness doing the most amazing and ear-piercing girlie shriek ever attempted. I couldn't hear well for a week.)
By the final three weeks of class we were running fully-orchestrated scenarios, complete with our instructors friends, spouses and kids playing the victims. Throughout all of it, every single time someone would either freeze or do something absolutely idiotic one of the instructors would say, "please, if I call 911, don't ever come to my house."
I told you that story to tell you this one.
Just over a year ago, I got called to a child drowning. Drownings are extremely common in my neck of the sparse woods, 99% of them involving children. Usually they occur in pools, but I've seen kids drown in bathtubs, buckets, latrines and sinks. (NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: this is where I remind you that a child is eight times as likely to drown inside the house than to ever be even injured, let alone killed, by a gun - so it behooves you to watch ALL kids around water. I now return you to your regularly scheduled bloviating.) I've been to a few drownings at this point and they never get easier. I think they're easily the toughest calls we ever run on. Every single time there's a parent, grandparent or babysitter devastated beyond rational thought saying over and over, "I just turned around for a minute..."
This one was a little closer to home. I recognized the address, though I couldn't place where I knew it from at first. When we pulled up I realized it was the home of one of my friends from EMT school. We'd spent some time studying there. At the time, his older sister had just gotten married. I was about to find out she now had two children. It was the youngest, a one-year-old, who'd been pulled from the pool.
He hadn't gotten an EMS job. He'd planned to hold out for one of the local fire departments in Arizona, and that was the last I'd heard of him until this day. When we got to the backyard, he had just stopped performing CPR. As I stood there, the infant started spitting out water and mucus and my friend rolled the little boy over to let it all out. I stood there, shocked, my mouth hanging open, while my partner immediately got to work suctioning the baby's mouth. He had to remind me to start getting the Stryker ready.
We packaged the baby and headed for the nearest hospital, where my friend wrapped me in a bear hug (I'm obviously NOT like my six-foot-tall counterparts) and tearfully thanked me for responding so quickly. He then stepped back, laughing for the first time through his tears, and said, "you totally froze like a deer in headlights! What happened to you?"
Not knowing what else to say, I replied, "I guess I wasn't expecting to see you already doing my job!"
He poked me in the arm and said, "if I ever call 911 again..."
I interrupted, "yeah, yeah, yeah!"
And he finished, "you better have a bottle of Jaeger with you, you jerk!"
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