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.
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.
posted by C at 6:15 PM
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