Same Shit

Different Day.

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It's Kinda Funny, but...

Sometimes I really, truly love my job. I wrote this Tuesday night when I was working (Day 4 of a solid 5 day stretch without a break) and sitting in the living room at the station.

I'm looking across the room right now, and I'm struck by the total uniqueness of the interactions between people who work in public safety. There's no way that you can spend 12-24 hours with a group of people without caring about them, and earning an interest in their lives.

Tonight I'm sitting in a chair, watching the people around me, and it's just making me smile. Puddinhead is catching shit from me and the medic for picking the jalapenos off his nachos, the other truck's crew is laughing at the fact that their truck wouldn't shift out of third gear on the way to their last call, putting them in fear for their lives when they had to get on the highway. The TV is blaring (American Idol, of course.) The strange guy riding along with us today is laughing at the way we were all singing along with the "One Hit Wonders" on VH1, and we're all talking various smack about patients, co-workers, family members, and most of all- one another.

The truth is, we're a family, and we know it. We fight like one, laugh like one, cook like one, watch TV like one... there's nothing else like it. We know about each other's families, their friends, their kids, their spouses. We know about each other's medical problems, and money issues. We know who's living where, and who's sleeping with who. It's a network of people that actually care about one another, in some cases more than the individual's real family does.

Last but not least, and this is a little sappy, but so am I-

This is a little spiel that the volunteer coordinator at Cary EMS tends to give whenever we have someone interested in joining the organization. It's paraphrased of course, but it's close enough, and it's very true.

"You see a little bit of everything here. It's not just running a call. It's not sleeping sometimes, not being able to eat sometimes, not being able to go to the bathroom sometimes. It's going out in public and putting on a smile when you feel like total crap. You might be sicker than the patient, but you can't let them see that. You have to be everything to everyone. You've gotta be a psychiatrist, and a friend, and a hug when somebody needs it, and mean when you have to be. You've got to be smart, and confident, and willing to take charge. You have to know when to call the police when you need help, and the fire dept when you need help, and be able to admit that you do need help. It's very supportive, it's a big family, we look out for each other, we live together, we fight and we play together. It's unlike any other job, and there's nothing else I'd rather do."

And that's about it.

Saturday

So I'd thought there hadn't been anything very interesting lately, but that was before I remembered the detective work that I did on Saturday.

I was supposed to work from 9a-9p this past Saturday, but I got a call from the supervisor at 6 o'clock, asking me what I was doing. When I groggily responded that I was supposed to be working the station 4 truck, he told me to just come in early, and that they'd find coverage for that truck later. Never being one to argue, I agree, and jump in the shower two hours ahead of schedule.

When I arrived at EM, I was greeted with a request to turn my supposed 12 hour shift, into 24 hours of punishment. Since it resulted in some overtime hours though, I agreed.

Within the first two hours of being on duty, my partner gets a call from her fiance, who's a Chapel Hill police officer. He'd been involved in a foot chase that morning with a suspect who'd broken into a woman's house, and attempted to steal her car. Over the course of the chase, he'd managed to rip his pants up, and cut his arms, and needed her to bring him so new pants and clean his "wounds".

We bring him some pants, and meet him at station 2, and he asks for some Neosporin. When my partner tells him we don't have any, he can't understand it. "What do you do when someone's shot? Just let it get infected?"

She replied- "Honey, when someone's shot, we got bigger things to worry about than infection."

To his credit, he shut up pretty quick after that.

He changed his pants and got back to work, and we did the same. Later that afternoon though, he managed to get involved in a chase with the same suspect, and lose the guy again. He called her back to tell her this, and then we decided to slip our gumshoes on.

We started cruising through the 'hood in Carrboro, looking for a subject matching the description my partner's beau had given us... and I quote:

"He's a tall nigerian-lookin' dude, with short hair."

As we cruise through the ghetto (note- bad idea. Ghetto residents have an inherent distrust of anyone riding in a vehicle with flashing lights on it) we see a couple of people that my partner believes might be "the bad guy" but I'm able to convince her of their (relative) innocence based on the description we have.

Eventually though, she finds a guy that she is absolutely convinced is our guy, and won't be persuaded otherwise. Her criteria? He looked at the ambulance "suspiciously".

Now here's my problem with her "suspect". The dude weighed 240+ lbs. Now her fiance might not be super-cop, but he's a pretty fit guy, who runs 5 or more miles everyday. He chased this suspect more than a mile in both of the chases today. If the guy she decided was the bad guy had tried to run that distance there would've been an EMS call when the guy collapsed with a heart attack.

Not one to be distracted though, she insists on calling her fiance, and giving him a full description of the dude. When he laughed at her over the phone, she got a little bit angry, and I had to spend the next 15 minutes next to a lover's quarrel via Nextel. Not my idea of a relaxing afternoon.

Sorry since that came out kinda lame, but it was funny to me, and it's the most ridiculous thing that's happened to me lately.

I'll do better next time.

It's been a while... remember me?

On a whim, I checked the hit counter I'd attached to this thing, and realized that people are still actively checking this stupid thing almost a month after I stopped writing anything for it. That punched my ego enough to get me to write something else. An awful lot has happened in the last three weeks, all of which isn't necessarily worthy of getting on here.

The highlights-

Chris got a girlfriend. TheGirlfriend is incredible, to put it very simply. She's probably to blame for the lack of entertainment posted on here recently. Partially because I'm spending late nights with her rather than thinking deep thoughts in the dark, and partially because some of that creative angst that everyone needs was salved a bit when she came along. More on "how to sound homosexual" later.

Chris got a job, that's keeping him busy. Well, this isn't really a new job, but I finally managed to get regular hours with Orange County, and I'm working some serious hours there. Today is Sunday- I worked 9a-9p Thursday, 9a-9p Friday, and 6a Saturday-8a Sunday. Needless to say, I'm a little bit wiped out now, and I work 9a-9p again tomorrow.

The medic class has continud to be mostly boring, with occasional moments of educational greatness.

I've got a few stories that I've collected in recent weeks that I'll probably end up putting on here. Included- The longest code of all time, Jill's party, Chris is a romantic fool, and anything else I manage to remember.

For now, it's good to be back. Less angst now, and I'm sorry if that's what was entertaining you folks, but there might be some writing of merit on here anyway. If anything interesting happens tomorrow, you'll be the first to hear about it.

For now, it's just good to be back.

Finishing the Weekend, by the Weekend.

So after the TRT call, and watching Carolina barely squeak out a win over Murray State, I finally made it home, and got into bed at about 3. At 8 the next morning, I'm up and going again. Sleep is for the weak. I can work a reverse 24 and then sleep for 5 hours... sure.

I ran some boring errands, and did some work around the house for most of the day Saturday, just catching up on all of those little things that everyone needs to do, and never seems to have time for. That afternoon I went to see V For Vendetta with my little brother.

I enjoyed it, but I thought it could've been better. I know there's already been a big cry over the message of the movie anyway, and the controversy in that message, but I think they actually watered it down a little bit. They didn't do enough to make the government scary to me. *Sort of a spoiler warning* Sure, they put bags over a few people's heads, and carried them away, but I didn't feel like most people's daily lives were affected in a huge way. 1984 seemed to be more of a dystopian future, at least to me.

I did like it though, and it's probably worth the $8 you're gonna pay to see it. Also, Natalie Portman may be my new favorite fantasy.

After I got done with the movie I got a call from a friend who was having a really bad day, so I drove out to Durham to see her. The plan was to watch a movie or something like that, but we always seem to end up in slightly more ridiculous adventures whenever we hang out, and this night was no exception.

I went to her place, (She goes to Duke, but I forgive her) and find out she's hungry. We head over to Hillsborough Rd. in Durham, and she gets some food. The people in the drive-thru fuck up when they tell us to park and wait for our food to be brought out. When I go inside after 10 minutes with no food, the manager is smart enough to give me a free dessert. I think about asking for the chocolate parfait (My friend is allergic to chocolate) but decide to be a good person and go with strawberry instead.

She starts munching on that and gets me up to date on her story between bites. As we're heading back to the campus of all that is unholy, I see a big sign that says "Maxxx Books, Gifts, and Novelties" outside a store that's surrounded by a big fence.

I laugh about the 3 Xs in the name, and mention to my friend that I find very few things as funny as adult stores. She confesses she's never been inside one, and without my even having to suggest it, tells me to stop.

We park, and head inside, and this might just be the seediest adult store I've ever been in. It's well lit, and clean, but just... creepy.

The place obviously specializes in videos, because the walls are absolutely covered in plastic cases. There had to be 10,000 DVDs in this place, and even more amazing to me, there were a lot of guys looking at them.

People still buy/rent DVDs? Have they not heard about the internet?

Anyway, it takes about 5 minutes for this friend of mine to decide that she can't leave without buying something. She begins to look at all things shiny and motorized, and picks out a flexible pink number with multiple speeds. She kept asking for my advice, and I had to remind her that I possess neither a clitoris, nor a vagina, and thus had very little opinion on exactly what was best for stimulating any of the above. Well, I mean I have an opinion on that, but they don't sell that in a store, and... crossing a line.

Anyway, I do sell her on a pair of handcuffs too, because that's just good, wholesome fun, and I'm a better salesman than the creepy guy who works in the store who asked her if she needed to "demo" any of their products. *Shudder*

Sex toyed to the extreme, we head back to her dorm room, and I watch Walk The Line for the second time in a week. It's actually even better the second time, and I pick up on a lot of things I missed the first time around. Reese Witherspoon is also giving Natalie Portman a run for her money in my head. Wait, why make them compete? Let them cooperate! Crossing a line...

I make my excuses after the movie ends, and head home. I crawl into bed at about 2:30.

I wake up at 6.

I'm working at Cary for 24 hours, and am suffering from a severe lack of sleep. The day also starts right at 7am, when our first call comes out before I have time to do much more than grab a radio.

We're dispatched to an unconscious person who lives just down the road from the station. When we get to the house and walk in we find our patient downstairs (Narrow, steep staircase. Great.)

He's this old man, who suffers from dementia, and had some weakness, and trouble breathing, and maybe chest pain when he woke up this morning and started to walk around.

Our problem lies in the fact that he has dementia, and doesn't remember any of this. He's also a macho guy (at 87. Ladies, we don't outgrow it) and refuses to admit to any weakness. His family is also crazy, and unable to give us a clear history.

Our guy is orthostatic, meaning his blood pressure drops when he stands up, and he's still having a little trouble breathing. We move him out to the truck (Up the narrow, steep staircase) and do the IV, 02, heart monitor thing when we get out there.

We kinda figure out that his biggest problem is likely that he's dehydrated, so we give him a quick fluid bolus on the way to the hospital. When I climb up front to drive us to Rex, I discover that we'd left the radio (the music variety) turned up when we went into the house. I reach over to turn it down, but the patient's wife, who's riding with us to the hospital, says "I really like that song. You can leave it up if you want to."

This lady is 78 years old, and white.

The song was "Wait (The Whisper Song)"

I told you this family was crazy.

We take him to Rex, and drop him off, and I take the time to flirt with one of the cute girls who works for another squad. I'm telling you, more people find dates in emergency rooms than anywhere else on Earth. It has to be true.

After we made it back to town we were quickly dispatched to a respiratory distress call that really turned out to be a back pain call. This guy had been having back pain for a week, and had a weird rash on his belly. He also hadn't managed a bowel movement in a week. That could cause a little bit of pain.

He was really pretty boring, except when telling me about his history of asthma, he looked up at me and said, in his spanish accent "I have a the assstma. Can you hear my wheeze? Heeeeeeeeeee." The "Heeeeeeeeee" is his attempt to fake a wheeze. Brilliant.

He walks into the ER, and we clear up.

It's about 10am.

At about 2am, I'm dispatched to my next call that actually involved a patient.

That's right. 16 hours without touching a patient. It was the greatest day ever. We ran standby after standby, and didn't do a single bit of real work. It was glorious.

Anyway, this last guy was taking a shower in his motel room when he slipped, and cracked his back over the side of the tub. He's in excrucitating pain, and has point tenderness right over the middle of his thoracic spine.

He's in too much pain to put on a backboard, so we use a KED (a sort of vest that you can use to stabilize someone's spine while they're sitting up.) to immobilize him as best we can.

He says that this is the worst pain he's ever been in, and I believe him. He's in his mid sixties, and is a very nice guy, but is obviously hurting. As such, the medic I'm with decides to give him some morphine.

She gives him 5mg of morphine, which is a pretty decent dose. About 3 minutes later, she asks if his pain is still a 10.

He replies "Naaaaahhhh. It's like a 5 now. And I don't give a fuuuuuuuuck."

Having expressed a similar sentiment during my one experience with Dilaudid, I tell the guy that it's okay, and we're not offended when he realizes what he's said, and apologizes. God bless opiates.

We have to take him to the trauma center since his feet would go numb if he laid flat, and the potential for a spinal injury was pretty high. After taking him there, and letting the medic write up the paperwork, and making it back to the station, it was already 4:30, so I just dozed on the couch until it was time to go home.

And that's the weekend, finally. Just in time for me to go to work tonight, and get some more stories. Even if we don't run calls, I should end up with some funny stuff, as I'm working with SuperJew, Katie, and Puddinhead.

Thank You

Someone almost single-handedly reversed a bad mood tonight, and I'm too tired and sick to offer anything but a thank you.

So, thanks.

Catching Up

So the little old lady with pneumonia. Right.

She's sitting hunched over in her chair, and the fire department has her on oxygen. She's about 200 years old, and has a spine you could bend totally over without touching her. When your mom yells at you about slouching, listen up.

She's got a really cute old lady voice, and she's telling us that she was in the hospital two weeks ago for pneumonia, and they sent her home on antibiotics, but she hasn't gotten any better. (Seeing a trend here?) I like this old lady, because inside her clear blue eyes there's still a spark of life. She's still in there, and still thinking. She cracks jokes with me all the way to the hospital, and tells me about her 47 (no lie) grandkids.

We drop her off at Rex, and I'm off on another attempt at lunch. I'm backing into the bay when we're dispatched again.

It's a standby for Apex EMS again, so we head back down to Western Wake.

In the ER at Western there's a refridgerator that I like to think of as a little piece of heaven. It contains soda, juice, and emergency pudding.

It's a bunch of Snack Pack pudding that they keep stocked for occassions just like this where no matter what we do we can't seem to get any food. Today, it will save my life. God bless the Kraft corportation.

From the standby we're dispatched to a nursing home in Cary, when we're the only truck left in the western half of the county. It's supposed to be a simple case of LOLFDWB (Little old lady fell down, went boom) Communications tells us that our patient is 80 some years old, and fell in the shower.

We head inside, and the staff has this lady in a chair, with gauze on a 2cm laceration on her head. They tell me she had "signifigant blood loss" through this cut. It's physically impossible, but I don't ask questions. It's just not worth explaining how water might dilute the blood, and make it seem like there's a little more coming out...

Anyway, this lady is fairly out of it. I ask the staff if she's acting normally, and they say she's usually fairly confused, but she has good days and bad. They're a little confused about what I'm asking, and totally inept, so I turn back to my patient.

"Miss so-and-so. Can you squeeze my fingers?"

Nothing but the O-face. (The bad kind, where you just can't control your mouth) The lights are on, but nobody's home. The staff finally decides this is fairly normal though, and we move her to our stretcher to get her outside.

Once we get her in the truck, I start to finally get a good look at the lady, and notice that she's blinking her eyes very slowly. I decide that maybe she isn't always this obtunded, and check her blood sugar along with everything else. Turns out, her blood sugar is sitting right around 21. Normal is 80-120.

This has suddenly become a fairly serious call. I let my partner know what's going on, and we try to start an IV. Unfortunately, this lady has nothing in the way of veins. We poke her once in a futile fishing trip, and get nothing.

The next best option we have is a drug called Glucagon that will release stored sugar from the cells of your muscles and liver. We reconstitute the drug, and give it to the lady through a muscle in her shoulder. By the time we make it to the hospital, she's responding to our questions. True, she answers "What day is it?" with "I need to break wind young man" but it's better than nothing.

I head outside to begin restocking our truck and cleaning up, when I hear a call dispatched to the Doc-in-a-box "urgent care center" that's just down the hill from the ER. Literally, JUST down the hill. Maybe 200 yards. Close enough that Uncle Rico could kill someone with a pigskin at that distance.

They're sent to a lady who's dehydrated and might have a kidney infection. I watch our truck pull up, and the crew get out, and head inside with the stretcher. 5 minutes later, they walk out with the patient, and drive the 200 yards to the hospital. Total cost to the patient? $500. Good thing she saved all that money by going to the Urgent Care instead of the ER in the first place.

Oh wait. Whoops.

The people at this place are fucking morons, and can't handle anything remotely resembling an acute problem. Unless you're almost positive you only need antibiotics, or you're smart enough to know that you can refuse to do what a "doctor" tells you to do, avoid these places at all costs.

We clear from our call, and start to head up the street, so that I might finally get some lunch. It's now 5:30pm.

*deet-deet* "Pre-alert..."

We're dispatched again, and where are we headed? You guessed it, the Doc-in-a-box! These motherfuckers are so inept that they've managed to call an ambulance twice in 15 minutes. DOCTORS!

Turns out they've called us for a 9 year old kid who was playing on a treadmill at his friend's house, and broke his collarbone when he fell. The doctor at the urgent care center has decided he needs to go to the pediatric ER in Raleigh for a head CT because the kid got light headed and pale during their treatment.

What the doctor apparently missed in his 4 years of medical school is that this is a fairly normal response to having broken bone ends manipulated by a dumbass in a lab coat while they try to wrestle your arm into a sling that's 2 sizes too small without giving you any pain meds.

His ineptitude leaves me hungry, and pissed.

Luckily, the kid's mom is cute (pretty blue eyes) and makes the trip at least a little tolerable. On the way to the hospital, she asks me a question.

Mom- "So is there something special about the hospital we're going to?"
Me- "Well, they're staffed with doctors who specialize in pediatrics, yeah."
Mom- "They don't have pediatricians at the hospital up the street from the urgent care?"
Me- "Actually they do."
Mom- "Oh, so they don't have a CT machine?"
Me- "Actually..."
Mom- "So why the hell are we going to Raleigh?"
Me- "Well you see you doctor is a moron, and..."

Actually, I just said something about being careful, and following protocols, but that's what I wanted to say.

We drop junior off, and I say goodbye to the cute mom, and I finally make it back to the station. It's 30 minutes past the time I was supposed to get off, and I haven't eaten anything except a container of emergency pudding for 12 hours. I'm not a happy boy.

I drive home, cursing my grumbling belly most of the way, and cook (read- microwave) myself some dinner, before collapsing into my bed. It's about 7:3o when I pass out.

It's about 9:30 when an unfamiliar and shrill beeping wakes me up.

I look around for the source, and find it when I notice an indiglo sheen coming from my belt that's still attached to the pants I'd worn that day. I'm being paged. On my TRT pager. Shit.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, and see "Vehicle Accident- PI. TRT Activation, 1 SW"

I call Jordan, who's on duty and say "Is this for real?"

He says that he doesn't know, and then asks if I'm going to respond. I tell him I will, and I'm suddenly driving very quickly towards Chapel Hill.

I guess I ought to explain that TRT stands for Technical Rescue Team, and that what it really means is that if you find yourself in a really fucked up circumstance, like being in the middle of a raging river, or hanging from the side of a building, or down a well, we'll be on our way to help you shortly.

On my way in to Chapel Hill, I listen to the radio traffic, and find out that a car has rolled down a 40+ foot embankment, and they called for TRT so that we could rig a safe system to get the patient and rescuers up and down the hill safely.

While I'm still on my way to the station the first 4 people to make it there take one of the trucks and respond to the scene. A little while later, I make it there, and 2 other team members and I put the second truck enroute to the scene.

We never made it... they got the patient up safely before our truck could get there. Our other truck did make it, and they helped set up the haul system, and added some safety features, but mostly served as manpower when it came time to haul.

Not a very exciting rescue call, but they're few and far between anyway, so we'll take what we can get, and it's nice to know that if something does happen, people will actually show up to the station.

Sleep peacefully Orange County.

Anway, that takes us up through Friday night. I'll finish out the weekend tomorrow, and finally catch up to present day.

Highlights ahead:
Chris goes to an adult store in Durham
Chris tells a patient- "No, I can't hear your wheeze. Try harder"
Chris gets to eat, and sleep, while on duty.
Chris' patient says "But I don't give a FUCK!" for a good reason.

Continued

So while I was at the hospital Thursday night I got a call from Cary EMS asking if I could work the next day. Initially I told them that the best I could do would be to get there at noon, as I was already signed up to work the Care Bears show the next day at the Smith Center.

That's right, the Care Bears. They didn't die with the 80s, they didn't even die with the 90s, they're still going strong in the new millenium. Now they're touring the country, singing songs and scaring small children. I wouldn't even care, but they attract a big enough crowd that we end up having to provide EMS coverage, and that's just no fun.

Fortunately for me, there was already someone else signed up for the event. When this lovely fact dawned on me, I decided to call Jordan in the morning, and wiggle my way out of the event. I got the feeling Jordan wasn't happy, but I was saving Christian from working more than 36 hours straight, and saving myself some serious boredom.

After begging off from Care Bears, I swing by my house and pick up a different uniform shirt, and head to the station. Christian is a little excited to see me, to say the least. I don't think I've ever been referred to as "The bomb" 45 times in four minutes before, but he accomplished it.

It's 5 minutes after the start of the shift, and we're dispatched to a patient who's "vomiting blood".

We make it out of the station, and as soon as we try to cut the siren on we realize that we have a problem. Silence.

We continue on to the call without the benefit of lights and sirens, and call for one of the people at the station to bring us a new truck. We're passed on the way there by the fire department since they have the benefit of being able to drive code 3.

When we arrive on scene, I'm glad that we didn't drive emergency traffic. Our guy is 39 years old, and is very clearly not vomiting blood, or in any immediate danger. He's been coughing for 2 weeks, and noticed a little bit of blood in his sputum today.

This is the problem with triaging patients by phone. Our dispatchers have a very specific set of questions that they have to ask of any 911 caller. Based on the caller answers those questions, we have a different level of response. The bad news is those questions don't allow a lot of wiggle room, and we end up driving dangerous emergency traffic for a lot of patients who don't need us to do anything like that.

This guy is obviously not in any danger, but we load him into the truck, and drive him down the road to the hospital. Turns out he's a gospel songwriter, and he promised to sing for us if we ever see him when he's not trying to cough up his lung.

We clear up from the hospital with him, and head back to the station to check out and clean the trucks, and then take care of the station duties. After about an hour, we're dispatched to a structure fire, but we're cancelled before we even get there.

This leads to some interesting questions from the citizens of Cary. Here we are, a big orange ambulance with flashing lights and a loud siren roaring down the road, trying to get people to pull over, and driving through red lights. All of a sudden after we drive through an intersection we're cancelled fromt the call, and turn off the lights and sirens.

Of course, some dumbass yuppies have to call 911 and report the ambulance that's running around town running red lights.

Come on people.

After the fire standby, at about 11am, I make my first attempt to cook some lunch. I get my food out of the refrigerator, and almost immediately we're dispatched to a standby for Apex EMS as all of their units are out on calls.

We drive down the road and go park at Western Wake, and after about 5 minutes we're dispatched to the dialysis center down the road for a difficulty breathing call. We pull out onto US 1 south right behind CFD Engine 3, and haul ass. I love driving behind fire trucks because they do such a good job of clearing traffic. The general public doesn't give a shit about moving over for an ambulance, but they'll kill themselves trying to get out of a firetruck's way.

We arrive onscene, and find a 50ish year old man with one of the more extensive medical histories I've ever seen. Renal disease, heart failure, heart attack, stroke, implanted pacemaker/defibrillator.

Today however, his problem is the fact that he's a big pussy.

He thinks he's having another heart attack, but in reality, it's an anxiety attack. He's breathing too fast, and it's making him freak out. By the time we manage to get him to the truck we've calmed him down, and he's without complaint.

Since he's not actually having a heart attack, we get to take him to the hospital that's just up the road instead of having to battle traffic and everything else on the road to a hospital that has a cath lab.

We move him over to a bed (He complains that the mattress is hard. That should give you some idea of how annoying he was) and I clean up the truck. We head out of the bay, and I'm ready to go make another try at lunch.

The radio goes off.

We're dispatched to an old lady with pneumonia, but the rest of the story will have to wait, as I'm on my way to yet another call.

More to follow.

How Did YOU Celebrate St. Patrick's Day?

I made it to the station at about 5:40 Thursday night, which would usually leave me enough time to wash the truck, and check it off in plenty of time to be really ready to go at 6pm. Unfortunately, I hadn't considered the fact that the last people to use the truck would've left it looking like a decrepit troll's favorite hangout.

The outside was dirty to say the least, but that's not all that rare so I just started to wash it. When Blair arrived a few minutes later and opened the doors and exclaimed "Holy shit!" I knew that it probably wasn't just an external problem.

There was a layer of dried mud over the entire floor of the truck, and some weird greasy stains I couldn't even identify (Potentially icky in an ambulance). We literally used a hose on the floor of the truck, and then had to spend about 10 minutes scrubbing and wiping to get it clean.

Now we proceed to check off the truck, only to find out that it's missing a ridiculous amount of equipment. It's like nobody's replaced anything they've used for 2 weeks. There were missing O2 supplies, IV supplies, ice packs, linens, a backboard, an oxygen tank, just too much stuff.

We eventually manage to get the truck in order, and head over to the EMT class we're helping to teach tonight.

Blair asked me if we could go help teach this class while we're on duty because they haven't had a night of active, scenario based instruction in months. The guy that's in charge of teaching the class has literally been standing in front of them and talking about random tangents and showing movies for at least 6 weeks. When the class walks through the door tonight, their eyes automatically glaze, and I can almost hear their heartbeats slow down.

Don't get me wrong, lecture has its place in EMS education, but I'm a firm believer in the idea that the best way to learn how to do this job is to do it. Scenarios, and active participation keep people engaged, and let them put their hands to good work.

I ran them through scenario after scenario, stopping in between each one to fill in the places they seemed weak, and throw in the extra stuff they needed to know, but hadn't gotten yet because of the format of the class. 2 things made me feel great. The first was when one girl said "We've learned more in the last 2 hours than we have in the last 2 weeks" and the second was when my boss, SuperJew, said I'd done a good job with part of the stroke lecture. I get nervous when he watches me teach, and always feel like I screw up in front of him, so it was nice to get some positive feedback.

Right at the end of the class we were dispatched for a respiratory distress call with SuperJew. We're dispatched to the motel that's attached to the hospital that UNC runs for outpatients and patient's families. Communications advices us to come to the entrance on North Medical Drive, rather than the usual entrance that's near the ER.

We pull up, and can't find anyone around. Blair stays in the truck while I walk down an alley a short way. From there, a little man pops out of a door and flags me down. I signal Blair, and she follows SuperJew and the fire truck that had been dispatched with us down the alley.

We head inside, and are directed to a room down a long hallway. Inside we found a woman in her mid-50s who was having trouble breathing, and thought she might be having an allergic reaction. She does have some raised red areas on the inside of both her elbows, but there's nothing else to suggest a reaction. She's also never reacted to anything before, and can't think of anything that might've set her off.

Her lungs are clear, and her blood pressure are both good though, and after we get some oxygen on her, she calms down a lot. SuperJew injects some benadryl into her arm, and we're fairly certain that she's out of any danger.

At this point, we're literally within sight of the UNC ER. If we walk down a hallway, and then 200ft around a circular drive, we'll be at the door to the ER. Unfortunately, regulations prohibit us from simply throwing her in a wheelchair and rolling her down the hill.

Instead, Blair and I have to go back outside and drive both the ambulance, and SuperJew's medic car around to the doors closest to the ER. The total distance between the two doors? 500ft. We drive a mile and a half thanks to UNC's combination of one way streets, and construction.

We put the lady in the back of the truck, and I check us enroute to the hospital, and out at the hospital with the same radio call.

"Central, 1261. We're enroute to, and discharging at UNC"

The dispatcher chuckled as he acknowledged the call.

We moved our patient over to a hallway bed as SuperJew gave his report to the charge nurse. While I was in the ER I did notice a new nurse who was really cute, but from the way she looked at me as I walked by, I think my chances are pretty close to nil there.

The rest of the night was uneventful, except for catching an episode of "The Boondocks" on Cartoon Network. (Stop laughing at me, they're big boy cartoons!) If you haven't caught an episode yet, you should.

We slept through the rest of the night, as there were no more calls in our district.

That mention of sleep has reminded me that I'm exhausted. I'll finish this tomorrow. I work 24 in Cary, which means that I'm really starting to fall behind.

Things to look forward to tomorrow:
Whiny patient
Gospel singing
A full day without eating
A cute Mom
Chris gets hit on (sorta)
Chris helps little old lady not die
TRT call
Movie review
Plus whatever happens tomorrow.

Expect a lot.

Shouldn't Be Awake

I'm so tired right now I can barely move, so this isn't going to be a long involved post at all. I worked last night (Thurs.) today (Fri.) got home and fell asleep for 2 hours, only to be awakened for a TRT (Technical Rescue Team) call. It's now 1am Saturday morning, and since Wednesday I've had 10 1/2 hours of sleep.

Details and stories about the stuff that's happened over the last 2 days will be forthcoming, just not tonight.

In other news, the Tar Heels managed to squeak by a tough and tenacious Murray State team, 69-65. I'm proud of the boys, and if we beat George Mason and make it to the Sweet Sixteen, this year will officially be a huge success in my book.

In Praise of Yellow Restaraunts

Waffle House is one of my favorite places on Earth, and I think the reasons for this are probably obvious. Where else can you get good (relatively) food at 3am, and have it come with some really great entertainment as well?

Late Monday night in a fit of spontaneity I decided to head to the last bastion of road tripping culture and enjoy a chocolate chip waffle. It was about 12:30am, but since I get some of my best thinking done late at night a trip to the WH at this hour isn’t all that out of the ordinary for me. It’s a tradition that actually got started when I began working EMS.

There were a couple of guys that I worked with fairly regularly, and if we got a call around 1 or 2am, we’d head to Waffle House after we cleared up, and sit and drink sweet tea while the strippers came in from the titty bar down the street. The strippers would sit and talk about some of the most ridiculous things I’d ever heard, and we’d drink tea and listen to all of it while we made fun of the dancers with bad boob jobs. (Do people really pay to see those?)

I digress. This particular evening had already been anti-productive, and my lack of doing anything worthwhile was making me angry. Everything I’d attempted to accomplish that day had backfired, and to top that off, I was bored. I was talking to a friend of mine who’s a fellow insomniac, and mentioned my sudden desire for an undercooked waffle served by a hard-edged woman named Marge who would just as soon kill me as hand me some syrup. My friend mentioned that she had nothing better to do with her time, and agreed to meet me there. Sounds like the beginning of an adventure to me…

I head down the road, and after I get on the highway I notice that the moon is out and full, and I haven’t spent any time looking at it in a while. It’s really very pretty. I can see the man in the moon, and it’s bright, and-

The rumble strips save my life.

I spend another three seconds looking at the moon before deciding that rumble strips won’t keep me from nailing an 18 wheeler, and resolve to concentrate on driving for a little while.

I pull into the Waffle House parking lot; planning on waiting for Katie (the friend) there until she arrives. It takes about a minute to realize there are 2 important flaws in this plan. 1.) This is the Waffle House. Its parking lot isn’t exactly safe. In fact, someone was killed in this particular WH’s parking lot last year. 2.) If you meet someone halfway between Cary and Chapel Hill, you’re meeting in Durham.

I’m in the parking lot of a Waffle House-

In Durham-

Alone-

At 1 in the morning.

Awesome.

None of those thoughts actually manage to change my plan one bit, and I continue to sit on the front of my truck as though I own southern Durham. I get several questioning looks, but as they mostly came from a group of Hispanic teenage girls I believe it was because I was the seedy character.

Katie arrives, and we head into the Sanctuary of the Holy Waffle.

The great thing about the Waffle House is that it’s the place where all walks of society collide. No matter who you are, where you've been, or where you're going, it's okay for you to enjoy a waffle at 2am, and to do so in the company of some weird folks. When Jesus comes back he'll start his ministry at the Waffle House. I sincerely believe that. I also sincerely believe that I’ll be struck down by lightning right after I post this.

We sit down at one of the booths (reserved for two or more customers) and take a look at the menu. Creepy moment number one: The waitress (Sha’quanda. I’m not sure what the apostrophe was replacing, so don’t ask) doesn’t leave, or even pretend to do something else while we look at the menu. She stands ramrod straight, and stares at us while we look at the menu. And by stares at us, I mean stares at Katie, because I already know what I want, and I’m not even pretending to browse the menu.

This (understandably) only makes her nervous, and unable to concentrate on the menu and the oh-so-important task at hand. Breaking the tension, I ask Sha’quanda for a sweet tea.

S’q- “Ummm hmmm. An’ fo her?”

I give Katie the raised eyebrow. Clearly saying to her “You’d better hurry up and order a drink before we get shot at the Waffle House in Durham, further tarnishing the reputation of this fine establishment”

K- “Uhhh- (sweating) I don’t really know! (Squeaks a little bit with stress) Coffee!”
S’q- “Aight”

Momentarily relieved of her antagonist, Katie takes the opportunity to say “I don’t think she likes me very much.” I assure Katie that Sha’quanda really does like her, but has had a hard day at home, and Marge, the manager, won’t let her take a smoke break with her pack of Philly Blunts until at least 4am.

I shut up quickly when Sha’quanda returns, beverages in hand, and shoots me the evil eye. Honestly, it really was evil. It spun completely around in its socket and shot lightning bolts at me. (Not true) I am tempted to tell Sha’quanda that if she doesn’t shape up there’s no way the Messiah will choose her Waffle House for his glorious return, but think better of it when I remember that she can have me killed. Marge isn’t afraid of going back to prison.

Since Katie wasted the drink-getting time talking to me instead of looking at the menu, Sha’quanda is forced to wait again (more intimidating stares included) while she figures out what she wants to eat. I order my chocolate chip waffle and, deciding to live dangerously, and add on an order of hash browns too.

The Eye is back on Katie.

I’m truly impressed at her ability to function under pressure. The intensity of this gaze is nearly deadly, but she doesn’t crack. She doesn’t look up from her menu either, but still. Finally, after 2 minutes in which I’m truly afraid Sha’quanda will spontaneously combust, Katie looks up:

K- “Can I have some cereal?”

S’q-“Ummm hmm. You want small or large?”

Obvious confusion from Katie-

K-“Small or large cereal?”

S’q-“Ummm hmm. Small or large??”

Katie takes a quick glance around the restaurant, I can only assume she was checking for exits.

K-“Large? I guess?”

This was good enough for Sha’quanda, and she goes off to handle the food prep. I just hope she keeps track of whose food is whose when she spits in Katie’s.

We sit and enjoy our food, and enjoy the various groups that also decided to be patrons of this particular Waffle House on this particular night.

Highlights:

-The dude still wearing a traffic control vest from his worksite. I finally figured out what I look like when I’m on the scene of a traffic accident. I’m not happy about this revelation.

-The dude who’d been punched in the face. One whole side of his face was red and raised. Katie: “Maybe it’s a pimple?”

-The Hispanic family. There were about 12 of them, all men, but family nonetheless. Brothers, uncles, nephews, fathers and sons. I’m filled with hope for humanity at the sight of such a quality family outing. It’s a beautiful thing. Then I see a genuine fistfight break out in the parking lot, and remember that the last time I was invited to a Hispanic family get-together it was via a 911 dispatch after one uncle shot another uncle. They’re a passionate people, what can I say?

-Sha’quanda’s boyfriend. He comes in and sits down with Sha’quanda after a quick tongue kiss. She talks to him for a while, and keeps shooting glances over at our table while she does this. I worry for at least 5 minutes after he leaves. He was a big dude.

At about 3am, we decide it’s a little warm inside the Waffle House, and retire to the parking lot. Turns out, it’s cold in the parking lot. Undaunted we sit on the tailgate of my truck and continue the evening’s (morning’s) discussion.

We’re interrupted a couple of times by people driving up in SUVs with big, flashy rims who then park around back. A few minutes later they’re met by another SUV with big, flashy rims. Two guys usually get out, talk for a minute, hand things to one another, shoot us suspicious looks, then get back in their cars and drive away.

Katie mentions her lifelong ambition to be an FBI agent. I tell her this is good surveillance practice. When you hear about a major drug sting at a Waffle House of the future where the undercover agents were supposed to look like two 20 year olds who were just “hanging out”, remember my story and smile.

Anyway, after a night of conversation and threatened violence from our waitress, I decide that 5:15am is the perfect time to drive home, since I have to be up at 7:30 the next morning. Good decision-making Chris.

I say goodbye and head home intending to pass out for 2 hours before I drive to Chapel Hill for a meeting with SuperJew, and the big boss from Durham Tech. I make it to my bed, and I’m stupid enough to check my computer for a second. I’m immediately assaulted by messages from Puddinhead, Katie, and SuperJew. Why all of these people are awake at 5:45 in the morning, I don’t know. (Except for the obvious)

Realizing that my hopes for sleep are dashed, I agree to meet SuperJew for breakfast at the local hippie food co-op, and don’t even go to sleep. After a shower and the addition of some clean clothes I’m back the road heading the opposite direction. SuperJew invited Katie to breakfast too, and even though he’d only met her two days before, he filled breakfast with jokes that made me laugh, and her blush/look uncomfortable. She went home after breakfast, hopefully to get some sleep. No such luck for me though.

I managed to not sound like an idiot for the next 7 hours, and we got a good bit of work done. I made it home after we finished, and collapsed into bed. I’d been awake since 9am the day before (about 32 hours awake) and I’d had a grand total of 18 hours of sleep since Thursday. I managed to nearly match that total in one night, as I didn’t even move for the following 15 hours.

Add this to the “Things I probably shouldn’t do again, but likely will” list.

Advantages of the Job

For all the shitty hours, and miserable nights of standing on the side of a cold, cold road in the rain while the Fire Department cuts another drunk-ass out his car there's a night that this job really does make you smile.

One such night was the evening I encountered Mizz Betty James (Name obviously changed).

I was working in Orange County, and happened to be riding in the medic vehicle that evening as part of my training with the county. I was working with SuperJew, and we'd already had a fairly eventful night. We'd already been to a serious wreck, and an old woman who was in the process of dying, and had stopped breathing. I was already wiped, and it was only halfway through my shift.

"Communications medic 8-"

Crap.

We're dispatched to "Injuries due to a fall", code 2 (no lights/sirens) response, no ambulance coming. This address we're given doesn't appear in the map book, so SuperJew calls back and asks for directions.

"Medic 8, you'll turn on to a dirt road off of..."

Seriously, the directions were "Take the dirt road until you come to a fork at a big dead tree. Take the right fork. About a mile down, there will be a gravel drive to the right. Follow this until the next fork, and bear left. Pull behind the house and park in the yard to avoid getting stuck in the mud."

SuperJew and I walk up to the front door of the house, and we're met by a sheriff's deputy. He was the only person originally dispatched, as Mizz James' alarm company could only say that this was an assistance call. He radioed for EMS when he found out she'd fallen. Personally, I'd prefer he wait at least until he figured out whether or not she was hurt, but old people are fragile, so I understand the logic.

We're out in front of this house in the middle of B.F.E. and the only light is coming from the headlights of the medic car we just pulled up in. The deputy says that Mizz James has been speaking to him the entire time from the other side of the door, and says that she's "Done fell out" and can't get up. She needs us to help her to her feet.

Unfortunately, Mizz James is one paranoid old lady, and keeps her house locked up tighter than Fred Phelp's ass cheeks when he's in San Francisco. From her position on the floor, she's not able to reach the lock to let us in.

I yell at her from a side window-

Me-"Mizz James! Are you hurt?"
MJ-"Fred? Is that you Fred?"
Me-"No Mizz James, this is EMS. We need you to open the door if you can!"
MJ-"Fred! I done fell out onto da flo! I think I mighta busted ma hip!"

Shaking my head, and wondering just who Fred might be, I walked all the way around her house looking for an open window, or another door that might let us access her house. Over the course of my circuit I manage to get my arms scraped up by a pricker bush (Why do people grow ugly, painful plants in their yards?) and step in a deep puddle that smells like it must be located directly over the septic tank.

A full trip around the house later, and we're no closer to getting in than we were when I started. Finally, the deputy decides he's sick of playing around, and uses his baton to break out a window, and boosts me inside.

MJ- "D'you jus break mah winda?"
Me- "Yes ma'am, it was the only way for us to get in."
MJ- "Don' like it when folks break winda's. Speaks a not bein' raised prop'ly."
Me-"Sorry to hear that."

I let the deputy and SuperJew in, and we proceed to help Mizz James to stand. At her full height, she's about 4'10" tall, and weighs about 75 pounds. She's the most ancient black woman I've ever seen, and looks as though she might've walked out of Egypt right behind Moses. She speaks through flapping lips over bare gums in a dialect that I can't properly capture with text, though I've obviously made my best effort.

I do my best to carry out an assessment on her, but my attempt is somewhat foiled by her insistence to serve us a "lil lemonade, an' fry up some chicken fuh you boys"

She keeps mentioning a little bit of pain in her right hip, but refuses to stand still long enough to let me figure out if she's actually hurt it. She's walking around pretty well though, so I decide it's not worth pursuing.

For our paperwork purposes, I have to ask her for her age, and she immediately lambasts me.

MJ-"Not proper ta ask a lady her age. Jus ain't right. I can't rightly say anyhow. I's born a while ago. Tha's all I know."
Me- "Well Mizz James, do you have a driver's license, or anything like that?"
MJ-"Now young man, I been wantin' to say somethin' bout that to somebody. A man came an' took mah card round bout a month ago, and I want it back. It ha'nt stopped me from drivin' none, but I liked mah picture"
Me-"Umm... I'm gonna let you speak to the officer about that."

SuperJew has been doing his best to fill out the discharge paperwork, and drink down some nasty lemonade that Mizz James has insisted on handing each of us, and finally asks if there's anyone he can call that will come take her to a doctor the next day. She proceeds to rattle of eleven numbers that she says will reach her nephew, whose name is either John, or Alfonz, she can't remember which.

Apparently all of Mizz James' family is familiar with her slightly rambling nature, because John, or Alfonz, or whoever denies knowing her completely, but when she hears his voice on the phone, Mizz James demands to speak with him, and convinces him that he really is related to her.

MJ-"Ain't you Sally's boy, by that scalawag what lived up Efland way?"

Whoever's boy he was or wasn't, it's determined that he is in fact related to her, and thus the chain of responsibility is removed from our necks, and placed around his. We tape some cardboard over the broken window, and, wishing Mizz James a fall-free remainder of the night, clear up from the call.

When we make it outside, SuperJew, who is from New York City, admits that he's really glad I was working with him tonight. I ask him why:

SJ-"Because I couldn't understand a word coming out of her mouth. I don't speak that language at all. A southern drawl through toothless gums isn't even words to me!"

Good to be useful.

Ripping Off the Band-Aid

I cannot do anything right tonight, and it's frustrating as all hell. I've been looking at this blank space on the screen for an hour and a half now, and I'm ready to scream. It hasn't been blank the whole time; I've written several hundred words, but none of it is going anywhere, and none of it was worth reading. I started out writing about one of the worst experiences of my entire life, made it 2 sentences in, and couldn't keep going. I don't care what Meredith Grey says, there are some Band-Aids that aren't supposed to be ripped off.

The problem is an obvious one. People I know have started reading this thing, and it's led to some self-censorship. There are things that I'm willing to write to a nameless, faceless internet public that I can't share with my "closest" friends.

Fucked up, I know.

The way I see it, there are two potential solutions. 1.) I can stop caring what people around me think and/or say. This is unlikely to ever happen, and is a bad idea. 2.) I can continue to censor what I write about on here, and deal with the frustration that results. This is likely to happen, but is still a bad idea. Anyone with a better solution should feel free to suggest it to me.

The truth of the matter is this- I'm not entirely sure I'm trying to be happy. I worry sometimes that because life is more interesting when there's ongoing trials and troubles that I will intentionally avoid potentially good things out of fear of boredom and complacity.

Fucked up, I know.

I'm also in the middle of trying to wrap my head around the confusing nature of women. I know my romantic life has been something of a side-note on this pile of crap, but believe it or not it's pretty close to center stage in my world.

The problem is, I don't know how to read women. That's not true. As long as the relationship between us isn't romantic, and I don't want it to be, I can read a woman. I can read anyone. I'm sick of saying this, and it's probably losing its effect, but that's not my arrogance speaking- it's just true. I've always been a good judge of character, and I watch people so much that I can almost always figure out what they're thinking. (That last statement about watching people is only 47% as creepy as it sounds)

I get into trouble when we throw in the confounding element of romance, and when that happens, I totally lose my head. It's like I go from seeing everything written out as clearly as words on a page to a dyslexic trying to translate War and Peace from a language he doesn't even speak.

It doesn't help that I have a pathological fear of rejection (blame the major female figures in my life- but that's another day's post) and this leads me to an almost total social shutdown around a woman I'm really infatuated with. I start to say stupid, unfunny things, (And you assholes that don't see that as an abberation from normal can just kiss my ass) and I get nervous. This creates a positive feedback loop (Thanks Bio11) when I start to feel like I'm screwing up, and get more and more nervous.

If the only place you've ever seen me is in public, in the middle of a crowd, then you probably don't believe it, but I'm an incredibly nervous guy. If you need proof come look at my fingernails someday. (Gross, I know. I'm working on it) There was one girl who I think almost put me in a serious dysrhythmia the first time I was with her in a romantic setting. Totally worth it, but had I died, I might feel differently.

Stop laughing at me.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote what I remembered about the first time I woke up next to someone else. (You Shouldn't Read This) Really, you still shouldn't read that post- that's no less true today than it was then, but it does contain a description of what runs through my head when I wake up next to someone, and I think that a lot of those feelings are fairly universal.

Imagine my pride then, when a few episodes ago Dr. McDreamy concurred with my assessment (couldn't resist) and while telling Meredith about their last kiss, mentioned the smell of her shampoo. When you're the kind of guy McDreamy is supposed to be, and I like to think I am (There's that arrogance!) those are the kinds of things you remember. I can still see every woman I've ever been with (In all honesty the list isn't that long) just the way they looked right before the first kiss.

Personally, I'd rather remember that than the last kiss.

All of the above crap really did have a point- at least for me. I've been trying to figure out exactly what I'm willing to risk in my pursuit of that elusive thing people call "happiness". I've decided that I'm gonna give it a try. An honest, nothing-held-back attempt at being happy. I'll let you know how it works out.

I'm almost excited now.

A Good Night

So I actually had a really great night last night, even though Carolina managed to lose to BC.

No details, except that I have some really cool friends, and Walk The Line was an excellent movie. Expect some sort of rambling tonight after Grey's Anatomy. Thank God it's back. I don't know how I've managed 2 weeks without some quality Meredith time.

Stop laughing at me.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

I went to dinner tonight with my old high school group of friends. Most of these people I haven't seen or spoken to in any great length for almost 2 years, and until Kaitlyn called the other day to make plans, I haven't really given any of them much thought.

My mistake.

I couldn't believe how easily everybody slipped back into their same old roles. No matter where we'd been, or what we'd been doing, suddenly everybody's personality reverted back to senior year. Luckily for most of these people that's not a bad thing.

Kaitlyn in particular was always someone that I could count on being able to look at across the table, and know what she was thinking, and know that she could read me just as well. I haven't seen her for at least 6 months, but there was no lapse. I could still look at her, and know exactly what was running through her head. It doesn't hurt that she's incredibly fun too.

I drove over to Kaitlyn's place at 7:30, where we were going to be met by Simone, and all of us would then drive to Southpoint together. At 7:40 Kaitlyn got a call, and as soon as I saw her start to smile I said "Simone's lost isn't she?"

Kaitlyn just laughed.

Simone has always been the unintentional comic relief of the group. Our junior year of high school we went to the Special Olympics of Wake County to help cheer (read: monitor) the retards of Green Hope's Sp-Ed program. Simone, in her infinite zeal for all things crafty and pretty made a banner to hang from our "team's" area. In huge, red letters she'd written:

GO GREEN HOPE SPECAIL OLYMPICS!

The girl mispelled "special" on the special olympics banner.

Anway, we made it to Southpoint at 8:20, which adding in Simone-time means we weren't doing so badly. Everyone else had been hanging around outside the mall for a while, so after hugs and handshakes were given all around, we were ready to eat. Unfortunately, none of us had thought of call-ahead seating, and with the Carolina game ongoing (79-67 Heels.) there wasn't an open table in any of the restaraunts available for at least 30 minutes. We finally decided to just put our names down at Maggiano's because they said "25-30 minutes" and that was about the best we could hope for.

I look at the menu, and realize what a bad thing it is to be poor. Everything in the place is $10+, and I'm tempted to just drink water and eat bread because I'm a cheap bastard lately. 2 of my contracts for Durham Tech have finally come through though, which means income, and that's a very good thing.

An expensive plate of spaghetti, and some funny conversation later and we're ready to roll. We leave Maggiano's, and Kaitlyn decides she's ready for some ice cream. I'm a pretty big guy, and I eat a decent amount of food, but I think Kaitlyn could destroy me in any kind of competitive eating contest. She's 5'4"-ish, and weighs maybe 100lbs, an absolutely tiny girl, but can pack it away with the best of them.

We spend most of the ice cream eating time making fun of a girl for her outfit. Listen, honestly- If I look at you and think "Oh, wow. That was a mistake." there's something seriously wrong with what you decided to pull out of your closet. This girl was wearing a white frock? (Ladies that were there, help me out with the right word) over a black shirt, on top of a jean skirt, with black pantyhose that had been cut off at the knees, all over brown high-heeled cowgirl boots.

Simone- "Oh. Someone needs to go slap that girl some sense!"

After shamelessly ripping on this girl for five minutes (she started spinning in circles a couple of times. No particular reason, just spinning) Simone finally got tired of it, and we progressed to the Barnes and Noble to pass some time. I found Kaitlyn a book "The Concise Guide to Becoming a World Dominating Dictator", but she said she already knew all the stuff in there.

It was after the Barnes and Noble browsing that I decided I, A.) Needed to see Simone again soon, and B.) needed to bring a notebook and/or tape recorder with me when I do.

We're standing outside B&N, discussing some random inane subject.

Neal- "Yeah, I'm taking the MCAT in April, and I'll probably be applying to Duke, UNC, and Wake because I don't want to wait a year for my guaranteed spot at Georgetown" (Neal's the overacheiver of the group)

Conrad- "Oh, that's nice. At least the pressure's off."

*General group agreement*

Simone- "I got bit by a cocker spaniel"

I lost it. I couldn't even contain the laughter that developed in the least. I really think that she's not paying any attention to the world around her. Instead, she has a continuous internal dialogue running, which occassionally spills out into the world around her. She gives the rest of us something to talk about for a little while, and then immediately goes back inside her head. Simone, I appreciate you.

As for me, I'm tired and ready for bed. I have Medic class all day tomorrow starting at the asscrack of dawn in bumfuck Durham, so I'm about ready for bed.

McNasty, hope this'll do for a while.

Say Anything

I am John Cusack. Lloyd Dobler anyway.

Tonight started with so much promise too. My medic class was really interesting for once. We were doing a lot of pharmacology stuff, and I learned a lot. I still don't understand most of it, but I can talk all about the different classes of dysrhythmics now.

Unfortunately, I get home, and I start thinking, and that's a bad thing.

The news started off good, as SweetCheeks is hooking me up with a little plastic card that will facilitate my socializing tomorrow night. He's a good guy, and is about to take off for a week of skiing and fun in Salt Lake City. Can't say I'm not a little jealous.

Anyway, the night continued with a nice chat with Puddinhead. He's just about head over heels for a girl, and cute as it is, in my ego-centric mind it's just reinforcing my severe lack of affection these days. It's not even affection I'm lacking, it's a depository for my affections. I'm just strange.

Continuing the trend of bad ideas, I started talking to TheRoommate about things, and since he's about as bad off as I am since his girlfriend is in Singapore, that didn't help much at all.

The culmination came when he told me that Say Anything was on TV, and I of course had no choice but to tune in.

Honestly, if you think Lloyd Dobler is a good guy, we can be friends. I was born 3 short years before Cameron Crowe's masterpiece, (yeah, I'm a baby) but he obviously heard about my birth and started writing out a story to mirror my life. I fall hard, I fall fast, I fall for the wrong girl... consistently. It's really funny the more you think about it. At least that's what I'm trying to convince myself.

I've had better moments than standing outside a window with a boombox too. I'm not trying to take anything away from Lloyd, or Peter Gabriel (what a great song...) but I think I've had some quality moments that can top that. We'll save that story for another day though.

There's a line in the movie- Diane's dad asks Lloyd what he wants to do with his life.

Lloyd- "What I really want to do with my life- What I want to do for a living- Is I want to be with your daughter. I'm good at it."

THAT ladies and gentlemen, is what we're all supposed to be looking for. When you find that person that makes you want to be a better person, hang on. You've found it all.

Cameron Crowe knew that. He knew it when he made this movie. He knew it when he made Jerry Maguire, and Almost Famous too. He figured out the key to the great American bildungsroman. (Thanks for making me look smart Mr. Everett. Freshman year english at Green Hope bitches. All you other ignorant folks can dictionary.com that)

What makes people identify with a movie isn't the story. It's not the actors, and it's not the set, or the costumes, or anything else. It's simply the universality of the situation you put the protagonist in. We've all been Lloyd before. We've all loved so deeply that we couldn't imagine life without someone else. We've all found someone who seemed to touch a part of us that nobody else did.

And then we've all been left wondering what we did wrong, and why things didn't work out the way we wanted them to. We've all stood out in the rain (literally, or figuratively) mumbling our troubles to someone who just couldn't seem to grasp the pain. We've all wanted to stand outside someone's window with a boombox, and a great song, and make them love us again.

Unfortunately, all similarities aside, I am not Lloyd Dobler. My life is not a Hollywood picture, and neither is yours. Standing outside someone's window with loud music more than likely won't result in the return of their love, and will probably just end up with an arrest on your record. Diane came back, but she's the exception that makes the rule.

There is some good news though.

The good news is, there's always tomorrow, and a chance for someone to start things all over again. Remember that feeling you get when you first fall for someone, and you're all floaty, (yeah, it's an adjective.) and they're all you can think about? That's what you've got to look forward to. I'll count it as a good thing.

It's That Time Again

I'm about due for a cardiac arrest.

I know that seems sick/twisted/strange depending on your perspective, but it's just one of the weird facts of my life. I seem to be on a rotating schedule where someone will die on me about once every 4-6 months, and it's been about 4 since I last worked a code. I did have two people die on me in one day this one time, but that was just strange, and entirely their fault.

If the only place you've ever seen a code run is on TV then you'd probably be really surprised to see what goes on in the real world. I've heard jokes cracked, people laugh, dinner plans discussed, and I've been grossed out when someone sat in pee, all while CPR was in progress.

I think the sad fact is, once you've seen one dead old dude, you've seen 'em all.

Obviously it's a different situation with younger people, (or God forbid, kids) but eventually the suprprise and shock of old people dying goes away. Honestly with the conditions in some of the nursing homes I've been in, I almost feel bad trying to resuscitate them, but that's another day's post.

It does give me a nice segue into an important point though. When you're old, and nearly dead, and pretty much done with this world, get a DNR. Seriously. Save your family, and EMS, and the ER, and everyone else the money and trouble of keeping you alive for a few days with expensive tubes and machines. Who wants to kick the bucket with all their ribs broken anyway? CPR has to hurt like a bitch.

I digress though. The truth is, a code (For the uninitiated a "code" refers to all of the resuscitative measures undertaken to restart someone's heart. Comes from Code Blue, and is often referred to as "working a code") is one of the easiest things we have to do. There's no piddling around, asking questions and playing detective trying to figure out what's going on. The problem is obvious, and our treatments are automatic.

A well run code is really a thing of beauty. Take the last code I was involved in. It ended poorly for the gentleman who died, but other than that, we did a great job. Sick humor I know, but if you can't laugh you'll cry.

Anyway, I was working in Cary, and we were dispatched to a respiratory difficulty call. I was on the truck with my paramedic partner, and we had an EMT student with us that day who may have been the biggest dumbass I've ever met in my whole life. His first words that morning had been "So do ya'll think it'd hurt much if I shocked myself with that 'fibalator thing-a-ma-jig?" It didn't help that he smelled like rancid dog vomit.

This is the day of the annual Cary EMS christmas party, and I'm working the day shift, which usually ends at 6pm. I've arranged for coverage to come in at 4, giving me time to shower, change, drive to Chapel Hill to pick up my date, drive back to Cary, and make it to the party.

At 3:45 we're sent to this call. I had done something to piss off the EMS gods.

We're pulling up to the house, and the FD had beaten us to the call by about a minute. Tops. As I'm stepping out of the truck I hear:

"Rescue 2 to Medic one"

My partner responds- "One, go ahead."
Rescue 2- "Be advised, this is gonna be a working code."

Maybe after you've been doing this for a long time, you can prevent that little dump of adrenalin that turns your gut cold and heightens all your senses, but for now even with all my bluster, I'm still new enough that I get really excited at the thought of doing something potentially life-saving. Can't help it.

We grab all our equipment, and head inside. By all our equipment I mean:

-The stretcher
-A backboard
-A cervical collar
-Backboard straps
-The monitor/ecg
-The airway box
-The med bag
-Suction
-An oxygen cylinder

In short, just about everything on the truck. As we make our way into the house, our Chief pulls up onscene, having checked in to help out when he heard it was a code. We're called into the back bedroom by the fire department.

As we walk in, it's apparent that this is not going to be a fun code. People die in the most inconvenient places, and there was just no room anywhere in this guy's house to work. The FD had pulled him out of his bed and laid him on the floor, but there was very little room around him. Typical.

According to the FD, they walked into the bedroom, and watched the guy take his last breaths. Gasp. Gasp. Nothing. They laid him on the floor, attached their AED (Automated External Defibrillator. If you don't know what it is, find out, learn how to use it, and learn CPR while you're at it.) and were promptly told they couldn't shock him. They started CPR, and we walked in 30 seconds later.

This illustrates perfectly the great thing about first responders. If we didn't have the FD with us on this call, we would've walked into a full cardiac arrest without many of the supplies we need to effectively work a code. They were there quickly, and were able to provide definitive care (defibrillation) almost immediately. If you don't thank firefighters when you see them out and about, you should. Leave EMS alone though, we bite.

Content to let the firefighter continue to ventilate the patient and thus absorb all risk of getting puked on, I set about getting the equipment ready for intubation while my partner attached our monitor to their pads. Sure enough, this old dude was in good ol' asystole; the flat line that is the calling card of none other than Death.

Contrary to what you may have seen in movies and/or TV, asystole is not something that can be "shocked" back to life. If you want to know why research defibrillation on the internet. What we could do was try to pace him (as in pacemaker) but that never works, and sure enough, it didn't work this time either.

Electrical options exhausted for now, my partner came back around to the patient's head, and asked me to get him a 7.5 tube, and a Mac 3 on the laryngoscope. I was holding both things in front of his head before he got the words out because I'm a good partner. This got me a head-pat later. I wanted a cookie too, but if wishes were horses, everyone would drive a camaro (El Guapo!), or something like that.

PS- The whole time all of this is happening, one member of the FD crew or another is performing compressions to keep pumping blood around and around. I'm not mentioning it because it's relatively boring, and it starts and stops so often that if I wrote about it everytime, you'd miss the cool stuff.

While my partner is trying to intubate the dead guy, the Chief is down looking at the guy's arms for an IV. IVs are often difficult on old people anyway, and when they're dead, it only makes things harder. The Chief tries once, but isn't able to get anything. Now I'm a little excited, because I know what's coming, and I turn to get it out.

The next step is the EZ-IO. IO standing for intra-osseus, which if you're medically inclined, or know your latin, you'll recognize to mean "within the bone". That's right bitches, we're about to drill into this dude's leg.

Meanwhile, my partner has managed to get the tube in, after suctioning spooge and other secretions from the guy's throat. Ick. 1st round of drugs goes in. 2mg of epinephrine (Adrenalin. Constricts the blood vessels of most of your body, opens up your lungs, and bitch slaps the heart.) and 2mg of atropine (Supposed to speed the heart up.) go down the tube. Some drugs can be delivered through your lungs. Pretty cool huh?

Bone drill is out, and in my hands. This is awesome. Take your leg, and find the top of your tibia, or shin bone. Go down about 2" and then slide your finger to the inside of your leg. We pop a drill bit in there. The reasoning behind this torture device is that the inside of your bones are filled with marrow, and very much vascular and alive. It's essentially an IV that you can't miss, and is very quick. Drill in, hook up the line, and you're set. This process done, our guy gets round 2 of his drugs. 1mg of Epi, and 1mg of atropine. The dose is lowered since we're delivering the drugs more directly to his circulation now.

I manage to get our capnography hooked up to the ET tube, so we can see that our guy is in fact properly intubated, and is breathing off CO2 with each breath the FD gives him, but not much. Things are beginning to look bad for our guy, and after 2 rounds of drugs with CPR, and no rhythm change, bad means pretty much hopeless.

Still, we're EMS, the eternal optimists (HA!) so we go for round 3, and he gets another milligram of Epi and Atropine. 5 minutes of CPR later, no change in the rhythm. This guy is dead. Not Princess Bride "mostly dead", but dead.

According to Wake County protocols, we've exhausted our abilities, and the hospital can't do anything more for him. We terminate our efforts, and my partner goes to inform the gentleman's wife that her husband has in fact, died. We disconnect our equipment, but leave all tubes and lines in place, as the Medical Examiner has to verify their placement to make sure that we didn't kill this guy. Gotta love our litigous society.

I begin carrying our equipment out of the house, feeling a little bad everytime I pass the guy's wife, as it seems so callous to be "done" with her husband, and preparing for the next patient. It's the way things go though.

I'm outside putting stuff back on the truck when this guy walks up in a soccer shirt and cordouroys with a notepad in his hand, and starts asking me what happened. I'm like "Dude, I can't tell you anything about it"

Then he flashes his badge and I feel like an asshole. They have to send a detective to investigate every death that occurs outside of a medical facility, and I missed the fact that our guy had driven up in an unmarked Crown Vic. Whoops.

He's the only guy I've ever seen open a door with his elbow. Makes sense if you're a detective I guess, but it still looks funny when you watch it.

We clear up shortly after he arrives, and tells us to be on our way. It's pretty obvious there's nothing suspicious about this death, and it'll be a quick report for him.

Remember that date I mentioned? Well after running the code, cleaning everything up, waiting for the detective, cleaning more stuff at the station, and writing an earlier report, it's now 6:15. The party starts at 7, I still need a shower, and Chapel Hill is an hour's drive round-trip. This is the reason that my friend Blair will forever be one of the coolest people on Earth. She'd already bailed me out by agreeing to be my date in the first place after my girlfriend broke up with me about 3 weeks before the party, and after hearing about my current dillema, she offered to just drive over, and meet me at the station. Blair is obviously awesome. I felt bad since when I ask someone on a date, even if it's a "friend" date, I like to treat them well, but I wanted to go to the party, and I wanted a date. I'll make it up to her one day.

Anyway, that night at the party I was awarded with a sweatshirt for having a successful resuscitation in the previous year. The irony of the day was not lost upon me.

Uh Oh

Melancholy/angry post alert. Skip this if you're just looking for the funny shit.

I've been in a weird mood all night, and I still haven't quite figured it out. Even downloading some 80s music didn't help, and we all know my affinity for the lyrical genius of that decade. (Huey Lewis and the News did help for a bit)

It didn't help that tonight started out with another rendition of "Bore Chris to Tears" in the paramedic class. I caught shit from Jordan and Alex for "feeding it" with the occassional smart-ass comment, but if I'm sitting there trying not to slit my wrists I'm going to do whatever I can to keep myself entertained. At least I didn't ask if the pancreas feels squishy when you palpate someone's abdomen.

Four essentially worthless hours later, I got home tired, hungry, and entirely without motivation to feed myself. Nevertheless I sucked it up and microwaved a can of ravioli. Culinary genius? Why yes, yes I am.

Tangent- I know I promised to keep this blog from getting political, but FUCK South Dakota. What in the world is wrong with those people? First of all, a government, at least in America, is not supposed to legislate with moral authority it's not what it's there for.

Secondly, where do you get off telling doctors what's right for their patients? Who does Mike Rounds and the rest of the South Dakota legislature thing they are? I don't think they have to deal with the dead teenager who would rather kill herself than face telling her parent's she's pregnant. I don't think they have to tell a woman she's permanently sterile, and will never have children after her botched back alley abortion.

Why don't they have to do these things? BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT FUCKING DOCTORS! STOP ACTING LIKE YOU ARE!

My intelligent side (And yes it exists. Assholes.) knows that this will be stopped by an injunction long before it's appointed start date, and that it will be tied up in court for years. The problem is, my impassioned side is pissed that it even has to happen.

Let me make it clear, personally and morally, I'm completely opposed to abortion. I think it's horrific, and has far-reaching psychological scars on the women it's performed upon, many of whom aren't adequately counseled about these dangers, or their options.

But...

It's necessary, for the reasons I listed above, and many others.

Off my soapbox now, but I'm too pissed to say anything else. This wasn't so melancholy, but whatever. If you disagree with me, kiss my ass, but feel free to leave a comment and I'll argue it with you.

The Power of Prayer

UNC beat Duke. There is a God, and He is just.

You see folks- I was praying, and praying hard througout that game. For four freshmen to outscore four seniors, on senior night, in Cameron, when Duke is number one, and are led by the strongest scoring duo they've ever fielded, it was a miracle plain and simple.

Also, Roy Williams should be the National Coach of the Year, I don't care who you are.

Done with basketball now. Mostly.

I was working the campus truck Saturday night, but in our eternal optimism, we'd gone ahead and pre-planned for Franklin St. coverage in the event that we won and the students stormed the street. We watched the game at the station, and incredibly managed to see the entire thing. Only one call went out county-wide while the game was on, and it was a looong way from where I was stationed, and thus officially not my problem.

Side-note: According to the people I work with, I'm incredibly entertaining to watch during a basketball game. I full well admit it too- I'm a little more involved in the game that your average fan. They devised a scoring system, and decided that it would be an Olympic sport at the next summer games. The only real rule we figure out was that everyone- competitors, judges, me, fans- all had to be dressed in Spandex. Reason number 367 you should never call 911.

2 hours of incredible ACC basketball later (and it really was a good game) the Tar Heels have won, and I am hauling ass to Franklin St. so we can get our resources deployed before the crowd becomes unmanageable. I park our truck at CHFD Station 1 while we wait for PD to get barricades up and close the street.

Normally this is a quick, painless process, but after the relative shock of the win last night, it didn't progress quite as smoothly. I took this time to enjoy watching the already large, drunken mass of humanity surge by me towards the main intersection. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: there's no place on Earth with women as beautiful as Chapel Hill's. It's incredible.

Anyway, a short time later, the barricades are up, the street is closed, and we move up to the main intersection. I step out of the truck and breathe in the sweet, sweet scent of victory.

It mostly smells like burning toilet paper and stale beer.

As soon as I step out, I hear the other truck we have covering the street check enroute to UNC with a guy who already has second and third degree burns on his arms and legs. Fucking stupid. I'm all for getting drunk and partying hard, especially to celebrate a win like this, but why the need to jump over a fire? Is it that exhilirating? Is it that cold? I don't think so.

For most of the night I just stood around talking to my various friends who were in the crowd having a fun, drunken time. Each one of them promised to have a drink for me, so I was honorarily drunk too.

EMcNasty actually went to the game in Cameron, and flew back to Chapel Hill to take part in the revelry. I turned to look down the street, and was greeted by a loud squeal, and a woman hanging around my neck, legs wrapped around my waist, smelling of sweet victory. (really, it was actually sweet this time) Obviously I'm a fan of this, but it was still shocking to suddenly have someone attached to me.

She also gets total credit for the win. She claims credit for 3 Shelden Williams FT misses, and wore the lucky shirt that got us a National Championship last year. Additional cool points for wearing a "Dook Girls Are Ugly" T-Shirt to Cameron. What a gal.

Unfortunately my McNasty time was cut short by a frat-tastic dumbass from Granville who managed to fall in the fire and burn his hands. There's an easy way to avoid these burns from bonfires.

STOP FUCKING JUMPING THROUGH THEM!

He got a ride to the hospital, but only because all of his similarly frat-tastic "friends" deserted his Sperry wearing ass when they figured out what a total tool he was. On the way in to the hospital he asked if his parents would get a bill, and went pale as hell when I told him yes. There are perks to every job...

By the time we made it back up to Franklin St. McNasty was gone, and with her most of the crowd. It died down fairly quickly last night. Partially because it was cold, and partially because people still haven't recovered from last April's celebration. The story of that night will have to be told someday.

After they cleared the streets, Pepper and a friend of hers met up with me at the corner of Franklin and N. Columbia, and I got to talk to her for a while. Her friend was shitfaced, and kept falling over. Everytime I'd catch her she'd look at me and go "I'm cool. I'm cool." I always agreed, but caught her nonetheless. I save myself paperwork if I can keep people's heads from bouncing off the curb right in front of me.

We cleared up a little while later, and went back to Station 2 to drop people and equipment off before SweetCheeks, our cadet, and I went back to the campus apartment to sleep through the rest of our shift. Rather than monitor radio traffic to figure out if we were the closest unit to any given call, which I'm usually an advocate of, we decided to turn the radios off, and let communications dispatch us with the pagers knowing that it would never happen.

We slept through the night.

Up at 6 this morning, we drove the ambulance back to the station, and I jumped in my truck to head to my next 12 hour shift. Cary is usually a busy place to work, but I'd drawn duty at the "vacation station" in Morrisville. My partner today was awesome, and I love working with her, so I didn't even mind that I was there at 7am after barely 3 hours of sleep.

We got the truck checked off and the morning duties done, and then the firefighters cooked us breakfast. Let me tell you something: if you want to learn to cook good food, quickly, and for a lot of people, go spend time in a firehouse. French toast, eggs and sausage, and OJ for $2.50. Kiss my ass McDonald's.

The morning started off great with the other 2 trucks running a couple of calls a piece, while we took a nice morning nap. That can't last.

At about 11 o'clock we were paged out to an apartment fire.

I pulled out behind the ladder truck, deciding that following the big red thing that was going to the same call we were would be easier than looking up the call in the map book. Driving down the road, I'm beginning to wonder if they even know where they're going when we come upon an apartment complex with black smoke rolling off one of the buildings.

Found it!

It's always kinda cool to arrive on the scene of a working fire. Fires take an incredible number of people to put out, and the sheer amount of manpower and equipment that goes into fighting one is impressive. EMS however, is pretty much there in case someone dies, and to make sure the firefighters are healthy when they come out of the fire. Catch me one day when I'm not tired, and I'll explain more, but for right now, that's it. Fires are cool.

An hour later we cleared up, ate lunch at Taco Hell, and went back to the station for nap-time, round 2.

I slept for 3 glorious hours, and then decided I was being a true bum, and got up to do something productive. This too was apparently viewed unfavorably by the EMS gods, as we were immediately rewarded with a call at the airport for an unconscious person.

Now I have to admit I like responding to the airport. It's a badass feeling to be driving with lights and siren through planes out on the tarmac. No shit, we really do. Our ambulance parked between two 727s at the gate. It looked better than both the planes... way more flashing lights.

Anyway, inside waiting on us is a 34 year old female, drunk as shit, beligerently arguing with RDU FD. She's had enough to drink that I can smell the rum on her breath from across the concourse, and she's passed out a few times. Now the airline is refusing to allow her to fly, for obvious reasons.

She's alert, and oriented though, and after some coaxing agrees to let us check her blood pressure, blood sugar, and a few other things. I think her biggest problem is that she's a bitch from New Jersey who also happens to be a Duke Alum. I'm telling you, they're all bad people.

She spends a little bit of time cursing at me before I tell her that if she keeps up that way I'll have the nice officer put her in cuffs and take her to a cell to sober up. She's remarkably nice after that.

She eventually refuses to go to the hospital, and we decide she's sober enough to sit around with PD and sober up. She signs the refusal form, and I go back to tear-assing around on the runways...

Well not really, but I was still driving where the planes drive!

That's it. I'm tired, and my day from that point is uninteresting. This thing is probably full of typos and grammatical errors, but I couldn't care less. I'll work on something better for next time.

Forget it

Had a million things I thought I wanted to write about tonight, but nothing's coming out the way I want it to.

This is true for every single part of my life right now. Art imitates life? Is that the quote? Is this art? Answer me dammit!

I work tomorrow night (during the Duke game. Go Heels. Fuck you JJ.) and Sunday during the day. Should have decent material after that.

The Ridiculous Thing Is...

I've officially determined that I'm a good guy. Perhaps even a catch.

I had an ex-girlfriend, one that I broke up with, tell me tonight that she wished guys were like me.

[ExGF]: i think i'm either going to become a nun or lesbian
CDDye: Why?
[ExGF]: because i have given up on boys
[ExGF]: i wish they were more like you
CDDye: Hold on. You do remember who you're talking to right?

Note my obvious and instant incredulity. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The truth is though, the more I thought about it (and the more I let my ego inflate) the more I realized that she was right. I'm a damn good boyfriend!

I think my problem in a lot of relationships (or the pseudo-relationships I've found myself in) is an unwillingness to play the game. It's sad that that's what it comes down to. Maybe it's a symptom of the age group, but it seems like no one can be up front and honest about everything.
This leads to problems for me as I am apparently incapable of keeping my thoughts and/or feelings to myself. (See: This freaking website) What some of you may not realize is that I'm pretty much like this in real life too. Give me a microphone and a stage, and I'll pour it all out to you, most of the time with a grin and some wise-cracks, but I'll tell you what's going on in my life. There are certain subjects (namely my emotions, or lack thereof) that won't be discussed, but if you want a play-by-play I can definitely do that.

Here's the honest truth though- I'm unwilling to change. You're not going to find me playing games any time soon. I am, and will forever be, Chris, and once we break up, you'll like that!

There is something really wrong with me.