Lights and Sirens Scare Me

Same Shit

2006-09-01T23:49:00.000-04:00

Different Day.

Looking for me? Try here instead: http://heret0saveyou.blogspot.com

It's Kinda Funny, but...

2006-04-20T13:40:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-17T14:03:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-04-16T22:37:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-03-23T12:16:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-23T02:23:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-21T00:57:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-19T12:47:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-03-18T14:31:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-18T00:44:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-15T16:40:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-13T18:15:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-13T02:33:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-12T16:58:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-11T00:14:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-09T02:00:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-08T03:36:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-07T02:26:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-05T22:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-04T01:44:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-03-03T01:25:00.000-05:00

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.

A Thank You

2006-03-02T03:03:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when everything is going poorly, and you've had a terrible night, or four in a row, the Universe takes pity on you, and puts someone truly awesome right in the middle of your path. It happened to me tonight, and I was reminded of what a great thing it is to have a friend who sees things like you do, and understands what you need.

In her honor, and at her request, a story.

This story does not star me. In fact, I don't appear at all. This happened before I was even a member of the squad, but the medic involved is famous for it, and doesn't mind retelling it. I've heard it enough times now that I feel confident in my ability to get it out on my own. That said, and without further ado: "Love Can Build A Bridge".

It's the day before Christmas Eve in Cary. All of the busy little Yuppies and Soccer Moms are out doing their last minute shopping, and the scent of stress is heavy in the air. For a little background, Cary is probably the single most pretentious town in America. It's full of young professionals who commute to their cubicles in RTP everyday, and spend the rest of their time counting their money and convincing themselves that it will fill the holes in their soul. Conventional EMS wisdom holds that it would be more efficient and effective to just go ahead and put Paxil and Zoloft in the water supply, rather than medicating everyone individually. I think that proposal comes in front of the Town Council next month...

Anyway, it's Christmas Eve-Eve and this medic, we'll call him EW, (He went down to New Orleans after Katrina, and the local paper did a piece on him that started out with "[His Name]- EMS Warrior." He's been kidded about it ever since) is paged out to an "Unconscious Person". I hope you all remember the rule about "unconscious" people.

They arrive at a large house in a well-to-do (as if there's any other kind in Cary) neighborhood, and walk inside. The FD is with the patient at the top of the stairs getting vital signs, and talking to this lady's husband. EW walks to the top of the stairs, and bends down to assess this lady. He starts off with a sternal rub.

Take the knuckle of your middle finger, and press it to your breastbone. Now, while maintaining heavy pressure, rub it up and down. Hurts like a bitch right? This lady doesn't flinch.

Still not convinced of her "unconsciousness" EW pops an ammonia capsule in front of her face. Sure enough, the lady holds her breath. She's faking. Doing a good job of it, but faking nonetheless. He touches her eyelashes, and they flutter, further confirming her bullshit.

Finally, he comes to the hand drop test. If a person is truly unconscious and you hold their hand above their face and drop it, it will hit them in the face. Every-single-time. Magically enough, if someone is faking it, their hand will slide to one side of their head or another.

EW holds this lady's hand above her head, drops it, and she HITS HERSELF IN THE FACE! EW calls his partner's attention over, and does the test again. Sure enough, she slaps herself on the other side of her face. Impressed at this lady's determination, and obvious familiarity with feigning unconsciousness, EW and his partner proceed to administer the hand-drop test 5 more times. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Compassion.

They load this woman into the truck with the help of the fire department, and get on the road to the hospital. EW is in the back, and starts an IV on the lady, and puts her on the heart monitor. After this, it's just an easy ride to the hospital, and he drops her off never to hear from her again.

Oh come on, that was just too obvious. Nothing's ever that easy.

Instead, EW goes to sit in the airway seat (front of the box, easy access to the patient's head, also where the radio is) to give his report to the hospital. As he does this, the patient starts to make these strange motions with her hands, right over her chest. She still hasn't opened her eyes, and she won't respond to him, but she's moving. He found out later that she's a teacher at a school for the deaf, and was apparently signing a song judging by the rhythmic movement of her hands. He thinks that this is a little strange, but nothing to be concerned with.

He turns to give the hospital his call-in:
EW- "Western ED, Cary Medic 1 calling on 340"
Western- "Go ahead Cary."
EW- "Western, this is Cary Medic 1. Enroute non-emergency with about a 5minute ETA with a 44 year old female, unconscious, 10-96. (crazy) IV, o2, Monitor established... No no honey-
*static*

As he'd started his call-in, the patient had gone from silently signing her song, to humming along with it. Now, this isn't exactly the perfect medium for this portion of the story, but I'll try to render the humming in print as best I can.

"Hmmmm haaa himmmm ha ha... HMMM HMMM. HMMM HMMM."

At about the time EW said "No no honey" the lady had taken the index finger of one hand, and popped the seatbelt across her chest off, without ever opening her eyes. She then proceeded to sit bolt upright, and rip the IV out of her arm, thus creating an open, and profusely bleeding hole in her arm.

EW reached forward and grabbed her shoulder, intending to pull her back and calm her down while controlling her bleeding.

Crazy lady did not like this plan, and proceeded to go about kicking EW's ass, with gusto. Somewhere between the second and third pile-driver, it occured to him that she was singing a song that seemed to be a fleshed out version of her humming.

"Love can build a bridddddge... FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!. Love can build a bridddddge... FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

EW throws himself across the crazy lady, and yells for his partner to pull over.

Remember, it's the day before Christmas Eve. Everyone is out doing their shopping, bustling about full of holiday cheer. So where does his partner decide to pull over? Yeah, The mall. Perfect.

His partner runs around to the back of the truck, and flings both doors wide open, exposing to a horrified public this scene: EW is sprawled on top of a maniacally bucking woman who is screaming at the top of her lungs "LOVE CAN BUILD A BRIDGE... FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!" while spraying blood all over the inside of the truck, herself, and EW.

EW's partner manages to get inside the truck, and in front of a truly disturbed populace, they manage to gain control and tie her down. As soon as they finish the last knot, the PD unit EW's partner had called for finally appeared. Cary's finest...

Now that she's tied down, the rest of the trip to the hospital is fairly uneventful, and realizing that fighting the restraints is futile, Crazy Lady settled down quite a bit. Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that the standing rule with all crazy patients is that the second you roll into the ER, they're the nicest, most normal person you've ever met. They have no idea why these mean EMTs and Paramedics tied them down, they certainly didn't do anything to deserve it. By the time they got this lady to the hospital, she was essentially back to the state they'd found her in. Lying on her back, eyes closed.

Here's the funny thing. Nurses and docs fall for it every time. As they're moving this lady over to the hospital gurney, the nurse proceeds to take the restraints off of the woman; leaving her free to wreak havoc at will.

EW- "Ummm, that's a bad idea. You want to leave those on."
RN- *Snidely*: "Oh really? Why's that?"
EW- "Are you looking at me? Do you see that I'm covered in her blood? Well, mostly her blood... She was kicking my ass in that truck 5 minutes ago. You should leave the restraints on."
RN- *Snidely-er* "I think we can handle it... thanks."

EW walked out to the hallway, and started to do his paperwork. He made sure to stand nearby, because when the fireworks started, he wanted to be around to see them. About 5 minutes into writing his trip ticket, he can hear ""Hmmmm haaa himmmm ha ha... HMMM HMMM. HMMM HMMM." coming from the room they'd placed this lady in. The nurse apparently thinks she's asking a question because she keeps going "Excuse me?" and "Hmmm?" everytime the lady does this. Meanwhile, EW has a huge grin on his face.

About 2 minutes later, he hears "No no honey-" followed by a literal CRASH as both the nurse, and the over-bed table come FLYING out into the hallway.

"LOVE CAN BUILD A BRIDGE... FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

RN- *Officially kissing ass* "Would you help me restrain her? Please?"
EW- "Did I not just tell you she was kicking my ass? Did I not just tell you to leave the restraints on her?
RN- "Well yes, but..."
CL- "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

A doctor came running across the ER, yelling "Haldol! Haldol!"

Unwilling to let the clusterfuck continue, EW jumped up for round 2 with the Crazy Lady. A short time later, they have her restrained, both physically and chemically.

EW finished up his paperwork, and made plans to go out with the nurse, and make her buy him beer all night. Being right all the time has its perks.

A few hours later, EW brought another patient into the hospital. At the time, there was only one "room" in this particular ER that had a door, everything else was just partitioned off with curtains. When EW returned to the ER 4 hours later, they'd moved Crazy Lady into this room, but through the door you could still hear, very clearly:

"LOVE CAN BUILD A BRIDGE... FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

And thus, a legend was born.

The Stupid Friend

2006-02-27T19:12:00.000-05:00

Stupid people just suck ass. It’s the most obvious thing in the world to me. Everybody has that “friend” who you keep around because every once in a while they’ll do something that makes them worthy of breathing, but for the most part is just a waste of valuable oxygen.

If you don’t have a stupid friend, you are the stupid friend. Sorry, but at least you’re hearing it from me, instead of someone who cares.

The StupidFriend is the one who likes to get in loud, usually drunken, arguments over inane topics. What the StupidFriend doesn’t realize is that even if they “win” the argument, they’re still the StupidFriend, and they’re just not that smart.

The StupidFriend is the one who when you were in Kindergarten was assigned to the “Red” reading group (Red for “Give up now, you’ll never amount to anything”) with the kid who smelled like curry and old salmon and always leaned a little to the left.

The StupidFriend is the one who would always eat anything during lunchtime, and thought they were gaining legitimate friends in their efforts. “So, if I eat the Cricket & Mystery Meat Stew with the turpentine chaser, I can come to your sleepover?”

The StupidFriend is the one who joined the football team in high school, because he heard “no one got cut”. No one bothered to tell him that being the 4^th string punter who only got half a uniform due to budget constraints would not only not get him a girlfriend, but would only open him up to ridicule in the locker room for his turd-stained tightie-whities.

The StupidFriend is the one who has at various times belonged to the:

Pickup driving, camo wearing, Skoal chewing, Faux Redneck Crowd

Roca Wear styling, 50 Cent playing, Basketball Jonesing, Wigger Crowd (Obviously not applicable to black StupidFriends)

Anime Watching, Sushi Eating, Asian Schoolgirl Porn Watching, Asian-Wannabe Crowd

Jock crowd (see above)

The StupidFriend is the one who could add their opinion to any academic debate, in any class, at any time, and immediately cause a cease in all exchange of thought, instead creating a vacuum of silence in which everyone present feels stupider just for having heard their comment.

The StupidFriend is the one who ran out to rush a frat during their first week of school, because they never did learn the lesson that eating the Cricket Stew was supposed to teach. “Hey! This is like a permanent sleepover!! AWESOME!”

In short, the StupidFriend is a permanent version of ThatGuy. We’re all ThatGuy every once in a while, but the StupidFriend has made a science of the art, and we hate him for it.

Help StupidFriends everywhere, and stop letting them live in ignorance. If you can’t tell them face to face, point them here, and I’ll do it for you.

If you’ve got additions to my (obviously incomplete) list of criteria for The StupidFriend, email them to me at EMS8002@gmail.com I’d like to see a few for the ladies too, since this one is obviously written from the male perspective.

Earn Money Sleeping

2006-02-26T16:22:00.000-05:00

I'm working for 24 in Cary today. The day did not start out well.

I walked in the station at about 6:45, because even though we're not required to be there until 7, it absolutely sucks to take a call 15 minutes before you're supposed to go home. Today, it bit me though. I'd barely managed to set my stuff down before the tones went off. I grabbed a radio, and off we went.

The first call of the day was for a 300lb woman with knee pain. She'd had surgery in the first part of January, and got an infection in her incision site. Today, the pain has become "unbearable" (even with 2 oxycodone) and she can hardly survive. At least half of this lady's problems stem directly from the fact that she's a bipolar lardass with hairy legs. Ick. Also, she smelled.

Take her to the hospital, and drop her off. She hurt my back. It should be a law that if you weigh more than 250lbs, you can't call 911 unless you plan on walking your ass out to my truck.

Done with that lady, my partner and I head back to the station, and meet up with the oncoming crew so he can go home. We check the truck off, and head for breakfast. Here, you can find one of the rare benefits to EMS. Some wonderful places decide that emergency personnel in uniform deserve free, or discounted food. These are the best people of all time. I had a great breakfast at Barry's Cafe, and paid $4. That means a lot when you're poor like me.

We made it back to the station, popped in some Family Guy DVDs, and began instructing the students who're riding with us today on the finer points of sleeping on the couch.

Like all good things though, this comes to an end relatively quickly, when we're paged for a "head injury" down the road at an apartment complex attached to one of the nicer neighborhoods in Cary. While we're enroute, we're informed that we'll be met on the scene by law enforcement. You smell that? It's trouble.

Our patient is a 51 year old female, who is out of her freaking gourd insane. The first words out of the CPD officers mouth are "Good luck" followed closely by "She says she was assaulted by the FBI Wednesday night."

Our gal is sitting on the couch, moaning to herself, and is absolutely covered in bruises. True to her (obviously false) story, they do appear to be a few days old. She's quietly moaning-

CrazyLady- "Ohhhhh, who could do this?"
Me- "Ma'am, what's going on?"
CL- "They tied me with poofy string!"

You can imagine how the rest of our conversation went. I check out everything I can think of that could possibly make this lady act crazy (short of her just being crazy) and nothing pans out. There's no family around, and no neighbors. Essentially, we're killing time while we wait for the police officer to get in touch with some member of her famiy. During this time, I'm treated to several courses of psycho babble, all of which involve many fantasies of strange men coming and tying her up.

Me- "Ma'am, did these men hurt you?"
CL- "No! They just tied me in ludicrous positions! With poofy string!"

Word for word. No lie.

Law enforcement finally gets hold of this lady's father, who says that she has a history of psychotic breaks like this, and that we should take her to the hospital. He also says that the bruises came from her. She's used a hammer on herself in the past. He has custody of her 3 sons, all of whom are autistic and bipolar. Honestly now, who can blame this lady for being crazy?

We load her into the truck, and ride her into the hospital. While we're pulling up to the bay, the lady says "Who would do this to themselves? They'd have to be crazy."

I could only reply with "Ma'am, I'd have to agree."

We clear from that call, only to be immediately dispatched to another call at an urgent care office, literally within sight of where we're standing at the ER entrance. We copy the call, mark enroute, and mark onscene, all with the same radio traffic. It's the little pleasures that make life great.

This urgent care office is notorious for abusing the hell out of the EMS system, and the doctors here are officially fucktards, who don't know there ass from a hole in the ground, much less how to treat acute emergencies. I forgive them when I see how cute our patient is.

She's 4 years old, with a history of asthma, and her mom has been unable to control her wheezing all day. She's been getting breathing treatments, and IV steroids, but the docs there didn't think about putting her on oxygen. Whoops. 4 years of medical school, for what?

I end up carrying her from the bed in the room to our stretcher in the hallway, and for 15 seconds, I am this little girl's hero come to life. Try not to let your heart melt when a sick four year old manages a "thank you" as you lay her down. I dare you.

A looooong ride to WakePeds later, and we're done with cutie pie. We head back to the station, and I'm ready to resume lessons with the students.

Unfortunately, Christian, who is one of the funniest people I know, (Today, watching TV "Dude, they're making a show about midgets! Hell Yeah! I love midgets!") is snoring like it's his job on my favorite couch. Undaunted, I proceed to the bedroom, and manage one of the best 2 hour naps of my life. It's slightly ruined when we get a call, but we're quickly cancelled from that, and I decide it was for the best anyway. I don't want to seem sloth-like in my daily re-tellings of my life.

Christian gets back from a call soon after this, and we decide it's time for dinner. (5pm. We didn't eat lunch. Mistake.) Stupidly tempting fate after it was kind enough to let us nap this afternoon, we decide to try for a nice meal at The Olive Garden, rather than the usual quick-meal-that you're-almost-guaranteed-to-be-able-to-eat.

I managed to order a water before the tones went off.

We roar through town again, off to save an "unconscious person". We arrive to find the meanest old patient I've ever had, seated in a chair, asking "Who the hell is that now?" when we walk in the door. I quickly decide that he can be my partner's problem, and I ask his wife all the questions she can answer, to avoid having to deal with him. I probably missed out on some good material for this thing, but I didn't get in trouble for putting my boot to his larynx either.

Since I had little to do with him, I have little to write about, except that he was an asshole, and made me miss my dinner.

We clear up from his bullshit, and we're pulling into the parking lot of Boston Market (note the progression down the food chain as we become more desperate for food) when the next set of tones goes off. Back to the urgent care place we'd already been to once today (they eventually called 3 times) this time for a 14month old male, who's dehydrated, and had a low blood sugar.

The same dumbass doc tells me that they can't treat him here, since they only have D50 (50% dextrose in water) and a kid his age can only take D10 (10% dextrose in water, but you knew that.) I don't bother asking if they didn't teach her enough math in medical school to learn how to dilute a solution, opting instead to take the kid and go to WakePeds. I'm grumpy. I haven't had dinner. Sue me.

An hour later, we make it back to our district, and stop at the first option we see. CookOut, how I love thee. $6 later, I have a chicken sandwich, hushpuppies, onion rings, a coke, and a chocolate cherry shake. There is a God, and he loves me.

Back to the station, and I catch the end of Carolina's domination of Maryland, which makes me a happy boy. Shortly thereafter, we're dispatched to a hemorrhaging call.

We race across town, nearly dying when the teenage girl in front of us decides red lights and a siren behind her mean "Lock the brakes, and sit in the middle of the road." We arrive at the address given by our dispatcher, and knock on the door.

No answer.

Knock some more.

No answer.

Knock REALLY HARD.

*thump thump thump*

There's now a breathless indian man wearing only a towel standing in front of me.

Me- "Did you call 911?"
IM- "No sir."
Me- "You sure?"
IM- "Yes sir."
Me-"Okay."

We walk down to the next apartment, and get the same response from a lady with 2 very large dogs. I don't argue with her. We call central back, and ask them to call the complainant back, and figure out what the hell is going on.

After some calling, and asking around, it turns out that the indian guy's mother-in-law called 911, from Ohio, because her daughter (his wife, apparently estranged) has been unable to contact him all day. I want to call her back to tell her that just because this guy doesn't want to talk to his bitchy ass wife is no excuse to call 911 and say he's bleeding to death, as I almost did die when the Teenage Drama Queen in the Ford Focus flipped her shit and forgot how to drive.

Rant over. In the end, karma is great, running that call meant that I missed the next one, and got to see all of Grey's Anatomy. She hurt George, but I can't really be angry with her. She's just too damn cute. It's the eyes ladies. It's all about the eyes for me.

I'm about ready for bed shortly after midnight, so of course, *deet deet* "Pre-alert, back pain."

It's a no lights and sirens response, but we still drive fast because it's late, and we're tired. We walk in to find out patient sitting in a chair and smiling at us. Supposedly, she's experiencing excrusciating back pain that's making it impossible for her to walk. I ask her to describe the pain, and she says "It's a 10!". Hello drug-seeker. My name is Chris. You will be receiving zero pain medication on the way to the hospital. Thanks for flying "I'm not an idiot" airlines.

This lady is in no distress, at all, and has a UTI. That's about it. She was even sent home from the ED last night with Oxycodone, but no no. She wants the good shit.

Oh, and rememeber how it's impossible for her to walk, due to the pain? Well she forgot, because when we ask if she can walk to the truck, she says "Sure!" and springs to her feet. On the way down the stairs, she hollers back at her sister "Bring my word puzzle book!" 10 out of 10 pain my achin' ass.

Since we're not allowed to refuse patients in Wake county, we're obligated to give her a ride, but I literally check her blood pressure, and then sit and look at her, and there was a lot to look at. She was about 300lbs.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 300 pounder to 300 pounder. As my day began, so it ends. Goodnight all, I hope there's nothing to add to this in the morning.

Writer's block

2006-02-25T22:38:00.000-05:00

I've been sitting here for 5 minutes trying to figure out something to write for 2 reasons. A.) If I don't update this thing regularly, I'll forget about it, slack off, and stop working with it, and B.) I feel an obligation to you, the poor sap with nothing better to do, to entertain you. The bad news is, I can't come up with anything funny, meaningful, or exciting, and I'm too tired to remember a story from the past right now.

I can't even recap my crappy day like I was planning on doing. I'm just too exhausted. I work 24 in Cary tomorrow. Oughta provide some material. I'll see you then.

Too funny not to share

2006-02-25T04:39:00.000-05:00

That's all. Have a nice day.

The Days (and Nights) Are Running Together

2006-02-25T03:50:00.000-05:00

Jordan flaked on me tonight, but with good reason. He ran one helluva call last night, and didn't manage any sleep.

Puddinhead flaked too, but without any reason. Listen folks, if you want to make me mad, tell me you'll call me back, and then don't do it. It's not a good thing.

I went to campus for a little while before heading out tonight? Why, because I'm a sucker for a pretty girl with a nice smile. In case you hadn't heard, the UNC Dance Marathon is running from 7p tonight, to 7p tomorrow night, and the "dancers" will be on their feet for 24 hours to raise money for the UNC Childrens Hospital. Good cause, here's the plug:
http://www.uncmarathon.org/

Donate some money if you can.

Anyway, that girl whose relationship with me seems to be undefinable is dancing, and asked me to stop by (and bring food too) and I'm not one to deny such a request. Give the people what they want! Especially if it's me.

I spend about an hour talking to her, laughing at the various techniques people have devised to help keep themselves awake, and listen to some terrible music. All in all, I'm really glad I'm not a dancer.

I leave at about 10:30, and I'm ready to head to Pepper's party (See "The Details"). I give Puddinhead a call, as he's been talking all week about how he wants to go out Saturday night. I'd talked to him on my way to Chapel Hill, and he'd said he was going to call me back in "5 minutes". An hour later, I'm calling him back. No answer. I smell a girlfriend.

Whatever. I can fly solo. It's not my first choice, but I'll do it. I head up Airport, and arrive at Pepper's self-described "bombass" party. Honestly, she wasn't kidding, it was a good party. Lots of people, and a good mix too. She was the perfect hostess. Ran around making sure everybody was having a good time, and introduced me to about ninety people. I'm good with names, but I think maybe 2 sank in tonight.

She lives in a very nice house with 5 other girls, not one of whom I found unattractive, but one girl definitely stood above the crowd. She had a great body, and knew exactly what to wear to make it look great. I've seen maybe 2 other people in my life who made a pair of jeans look better. I managed 5 words with her, and felt like I'd actually accomplished something. Sometimes I make myself sad.

I'd only been there for about 30 minutes when I got a call from a friend who was already drunk off his ass (at 11:30) and needed a ride home. I told Pepper I was heading out to pick him up, and I think she thought I was looking to skive off, because she kept worrying about whether or not I was coming back.

I managed to get the drunk ass home, and as long as I was down that way I gave TheRoommate (not technically a roommate anymore, but it's still his name) a call to see if he wanted to join me for the remainder of the party. He was eager, and I went by his dorm to pick him up.

Made it back to the party, and I laughed at Pepper's obvious shock at my return. One day she'll learn not to doubt me. Lots of good looking women around, but most are considerably older, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like flirting. I can't figure out what was going on, but there was nothing charming about me tonight. I know how arrogant that must sound, and really it is, but anytime I'm out in a social setting, and especially if I'm drinking, I can talk to people. I can make just about anyone like me. I'm just one of those people. Tonight though, my heart's just not in it.

I spend most of my time there talking to TheRoommate and Pepper. Now that I'm home and going back through my mind all the attractive (and theoretically single) women that Pepper introduced me to, I'm beginning to think that this was a serious mistake.

Sometime after 1, TheRoommate and I bounce, thanking Pepper for a truly "bombass" time. I like that word, and plan on using it with reckless abandon for the next few days. Look out world. Also, everyone give Chris a big hand for being incredibly in-control tonight. 2 beers over three hours. Kinda made me wonder why I was even bothering to drink beer instead of Coke, or something like that, but there are some questions that just aren't meant to be answered.

On the way back to his dorm, TheRoommate and I order Pokey Sticks, which if you've ever consumed them you know to be a little piece of Heaven right here on Earth. A half box later, and I'm not feeling so hot. I make the excuses with TheRoommate (who's drunk and barely listening to me anyway) and head out.

Earlier I'd promised MissUndefinable (3 nicknames now. I think I finally hit a good one here though) that I'd return with more food after my night ended, so I went up to TimeOut to grab her some grub. As soon as I walk in, I'm eyeballed by an asshole Chapel Hill PD officer who I don't recognize. I find this funny, since I'm probably the only non-drunk in the whole place, and he's gonna play the intimidation game with me. Jerkoff.

I call MissUndefinable to see what she'd like from this fine establishment (Fried okra and French Fries. No, she's not fat.) and since I can't hear her over the roar of humanity inside this pillar of the culinary arts, I step briefly outside to hear her better. While doing this, I stick my fist in the door, keeping it open, for easier re-entry after the 5 seconds I plan on spending outside.

I suddenly feel a hand pushing my fist out of the door, and look over to see the asshole cop closing the door. I hang up the phone, and go back in the door, literally 5 seconds after I walked out, and give asshole cop the eyeball right back.

I order MissUndefinable's food, and head back out to my car, passing asshole cop in the parking lot. He's walked out to his car to get his jacket, since I made his post so cold. As I pass his car I see a "Duke Alumni" sticker on his car. This confirms my long held belief that anyone associated with Duke in any way, shape, or form is a total douchebag.

MissUndefinable enjoys her food, and I give her shit about having another 16 hours of standing on her feet ahead of her, while I have only a warm and comfortable (though empty of all things warm and female) bed ahead of me. This does not earn me points. She does have an incredible smile though. We talk for another hour, and I head home.

It's late, I'm tired, and I'm not dancing for the kids all night. Another Friday night in the life. UNC Women's basketball game against Duke tomorrow. Go Heels.

Soapbox

2006-02-24T16:39:00.000-05:00

I'm not a fan of abortions, I don't like the thought of killing babies.

But if you're still stupid enough to think that banning abortions is a good idea, you too can run a state government:

http://www.cnn.com/2006/POLITICS/02/24/dakota.abortion.ap/index.html

Personally, I'm not a fan of taking 16 year old girls to the hospital with perforated uterine walls and sepsis thanks to their coat hanger attempt. There's a reason doctors do this. It's not something anyone enjoys. No doctor goes to medical school thinking "You know what I'd really like to do with my career..." but they recognize that there's potential for much greater harm if women have nowhere to turn.

This is as political as this blog will get, I promise.

So Here's the Truth

2006-02-24T02:39:00.000-05:00

It can end in an instant. Period.

There's a great equalizer in the very nature of our humanity. Every man, woman, and child on Earth can count on one thing. One day, they're going to die. There's no getting around it. No matter what you do, no matter how much money you make, no matter how many great and wonderful things you accomplish, one day you'll be dead and buried just like the crack dealers and soccer moms. We're all gonna be there one day, and it's the same for all of us.

Most people will slip off in their sleep, or die from a prolonged medical condition, but when someone is torn from us by a sudden, traumatic event the pure humanity displayed is enough to make you reevaluate everything in your life.

I questioned whether or not I wanted to tell this story or not, as it's not something that a lot of people can understand. I can put the words out there and do my best to describe the images and feelings, but unless you've been in a situation comparable in some way to this you're just not going to get it. I don't mean that in an arrogant, or negative manner; I just mean that the issues with this story are off the scale of what you're average person deals with.

Anyway, without further ado, here's the story of my first night on the job.

It's Saturday, November 1st, 2003, and I'm a senior in high school. I'm also an "explorer" with Cary EMS. I had managed to arrange my schedule at school so that I could take an EMT class two afternoons a week, and through another guy in the class stumbled across the program.

An Explorer Post is technically run by the Boy Scouts of America, but in our case that meant they got my $5 dues, and didn't have anything else to do with us. Basically, an explorer was there to get some ride time in, and was trained in CPR/First Aid, knew where everything on the truck was, and could help the paramedic or EMT who was working in the back.

Since I was in an EMT class at the time, I knew a little bit more than your average explorer, but not a whole lot. We'd had a meeting that morning, and the people who needed to get their CPR certification were having that class in the afternoon. I already had my CPR certification, and having been "cleared" to ride the week before, I'd decided to take advantage, and signed up to ride from 3p-11p.

Right at 3 o'clock, a call came out, and I swear I don't think I've ever had a grin that big spread across my face. I was simultaneously excited, and scared, and happy, and almost sick. I jumped in the back of the truck, and strapped myself in. I swear from the second the siren cut on I knew that I'd found something I was really going to love.

We went down to an apartment complex I've since learned to know (and hate) very well. A girl in her mid-twenties had just broken up with her boyfriend, and decided to take a bottle of Oxycontin to get back at him. She did this with her 4 week old infant lying next to her on the bed.

Unfortunately for this girl, we have a drug that very quickly, and not so nicely, reverses the effects of narcotics. Essentially she went from the greatest high you can imagine to full consciousness and a lot of pain almost instantly.

She puked. Hard.

We took her to the hospital, and cleaned up the truck, and I was ready to go again. I couldn't believe how awesome it really was. Someone actually called 911, we came in, worked some magic, saved the day, and turned around daring the world to give us more. I was 10 feet tall and bulletproof.

A few hours later, just after dinner, we ran another call for a lady with a headache. I don't remember a lot about the call, and wouldn't remember anything at all if it hadn't come on this night, but it was the first call I ran with the crew that I'd be with for tonight's big adventure.

"T" was our paramedic, and she's a helluva medic.(I'm changing names just because these people are working full-time in EMS, and most don't like publicity. Really, she deserves to be recognized, but most media outlets are incredibly gifted at fucking up the lives of emergency personell) She'd been in the field for nearly 10 years already at this point, and while no one's seen it all, she's as close as you could hope for. Her skills are top-notch, and there's no one I would've rather been with on this night. She was great.

The OldMan has been doing EMS nearly as long as I've been alive. He's old, gross, racist, sorta stupid, and would do anything in the world for you. Someone once told me "[TheOldMan] would give you the shirt off his back, no question. You wouldn't want to wear it, but he'd give it to you." I think that describes him perfectly. He also knows the truck better than anyone, knows every road in the county, and has been at this so long that nothing fazes him.

In all honesty, I couldn'tve hoped for a better crew.

We make it back from the headache call, and we're all sitting down to watch a movie. I can still see the room in my mind. I was looking across the room at T when the pre-alert tones went off, and made me jump. It was about 8:45

"Pre-alert- Multi-system trauma. Highway 54 and Nowell Rd."

Immediate adrenaline. I'm pumped. Trauma! Blood! Guts! This is what I signed up for! Making a difference on the side of some road late at night... this is great! I didn't notice at the time, but T looked concerned. Very concerned.

You see, they don't page out calls as "multi-system trauma". Ever. Hearing something like that meant that someone official was already onscene, and knew that whatever patient we were going to get was fubar.

I get up, and try to play it cool as I walk out to the truck. It was really a struggle to keep from running. I get in the truck, and we start down the road, lights and sirens blazing.

T turns to me- "Do you know how to set up an IV?"
Me- "Of course!" (I am, afterall, one badass explorer)
T- "Hang a bag of ringers for me, and don't forget your vest!"

She wanted me to hang an IV of lactated ringers, a fluid used to replace lost blood in trauma patients. She was also reminding me to put on my reflective traffic vest designed to keep me from being plowed over in traffic. Ha.

I hang the bag, and before I can believe it, we're slowing down, and TheOldMan cuts the siren out. I lean to the side, and look between the seats in the cab, and out the front window. I can see it perfectly even now.

There was a line of traffic in the right lane, that seemed to stretch forever. We were in the center of the road, straddling the center line since there was no opposing traffic. There was a State Trooper in his Smoky hat slowly waving us foward toward a line of flares that stretched across the road. As I look past him, I think to myself, "Why are all those blankets in the road?"

TheOldMan parks the truck, and I jump out, vest on, gloves on, ready to go. I go around back to help get the stretcher out, but TheOldMan tells me to follow T. I walk back around to the front of the truck and begin towards T, who's talking to a firefighter.

There's a foot sticking out from one of the blankets. A foot that isn't moving. Nothing under the blanket is moving. It was a white Reebok tennis shoe, with green trim. Tall white socks. A woman's leg. As I continue to pass the blanket, I see dark curly hair on the other side, and what looks like pieces of a really thick egg shell cracked open on the ground, with some grey scrambled eggs next to them. I realize what I'm looking at, and freeze.

I lose all track of time, place, event, everything. It's all gone. I just stare around me. I am in a field of gore, and can't seem to figure out how I got here. The scene is lit up like daylight by several of the fire engines, and this intersection seems enormous.

I'm standing next to one "blanket", and there are another 2 right in front of me. There's a white van with a crushed front end sitting in the middle of the intersection near a dark green SUV. Across the intersection from me, seemingly miles away, two people are performing CPR on a black man, and everytime they do a chest compression, his belly dances in an almost comedic wave. A deep part of my brain thinks "Santa- Bowl full of jelly" and laughs.

I'm shaken out of my reverie by a voice saying "Are you from Cary?"

I have to think, but finally manage a "Yeah!" and begin walking towards the voice. When I discover the source, I rethink my affirmative answer. At the head of a backboard is a lone firefighter who looks to be about my age, and twice as terrified as I am. He again asks if I'm from Cary:

Me-"Yeah"
FF-"This is your patient. We got him backboarded for you, that's all I know."
Me-"Uhhh... hold on."
"T!"
T-"Hey. This is our guy right? You and OldMan get him loaded up, I'm gonna go get the truck set up."
Me-"Okay"

At least, that's what I think I said. It was probably something more like a mumble while I quietly went about crapping my pants. TheOldMan brought the stretcher over, and parked it about 5 feet away. I quietly curse him for leaving it so far away, but I'm not a complainer.

I try to think about what I need to do before we move this guy, and that's when I notice that his left leg has an extra bend in it. He's got an open fracture of both the bones of his lower leg, and there's about an inch of bone that's just missing. His shin has a 90 degree outward turn in its middle. I'd learned that very week that gross deformity gets corrected, so without having much of an option, I took hold of his foot, and straightened his leg on the board.

He screamed. Loudly.

I look at the firefighter, and count to 3. We lift him up, and as I unconsciously take an extra large step, I figure out why OldMan didn't bring the stretcher closer. There was another body between our patient and the stretcher. I'd been kneeling next to him the whole time, and never noticed.

We loaded the stretcher, and I climbed in the back with T. From here, the details are fuzzy, so I'll do my best to stick to what I remember. I put an oxygen mask on the guy, and T asked me to put him on our heart monitor while she started an IV. I put the electrodes on backwards at first, and T had to look up and tell me to switch them.

T gets her first IV, and tells me to switch places with her so she can get one on the other side too. She tells me to do the best I can to dress his wounds, and to try to get some information and vital signs when I get a chance.

I finally look at the guy, and he's covered in blood. His whole body is like one big mass of road rash. Most of his skin actually looks black from coagulated blood and asphalt fragments. Normally we have to cut trauma patient's clothes off, but in his case, almost everything was gone anyway.

I dressed his wounds as best I could, but at this point nothing was really bleeding anymore. He kept grabbing my leg, and even though I felt like a bad person, the thought of getting his blood all over me was still repulsive.

I got a set of vital signs, and T gave the hospital a quick call to let them know what we were bringing in. I did my best to get some info, but our guy had a pretty good head injury, and the best I could get was his name. He couldn't even tell us what car he'd been in.

Before I can believe it, we're pulling into the hospital. I honestly think TheOldMan has driven 120mph the whole way there, but he tells me he never passed 75. Turns out, he's not lying, time literally just flew in the back of that truck.

We bring our patient into the trauma bay at WakeMed, and I have never been so happy to see a group of doctors and nurses in my entire life. There's such a sense of security in handing off a patient to someone who knows more than you do, and is ready and willing to take over, and thank you for a job well done. I'm a little scared of the eventual day when I'm the doctor, and that's no longer an option for me.

Me move him over to the hospital bed, and I spend a minute or two disconnecting our equipment. Across the room they're still performing CPR on the black man from the scene, and a guy who looks to be about my age is screaming in the other bed. I walk out of the bay, and run out of the hospital. I'm desperate for air, and freedom, and escape.

Right about here is when what just happened finally hits me. I look at the back of the truck, and the disaster that iwaits inside, and I just start to shake all over. I think it was mostly the adrenaline wearing off, but my whole body was just taken over by tremors for about 2 minutes. I'm glad no one is there to see.

I pull on a new pair of gloves, and start trying to get the truck back in order. Everytime I think I've gotten everything clean, I'll notice a new spot of blood somewhere. It took me an hour to clean a 5'x7' area. Insane.

T is inside trying to write her paperwork up, and it's no small task. I go and get her a cup of water, and she gives me one of the most heartfelt "thank yous" I've ever received. As I'm walking outside, a medic from another service points out a chunk of flesh that's stuck to the toe of my boot. Cursing, I clean this too.

2 hours after we arrived at the hospital, the paperwork is finally done, and the truck is clean. On the road back to the station, T tells me to call my Dad and tell him that I'm going to be a lot later than usual.

After any major event, like a multi-fatality wreck, or a bad pediatrics call, your service is required to offer something called a "Critical Incident Stress Debriefing" or CISD. T wants me to go to the one being held for this call.

We make it back to the station, and I catch a little bit of the news coverage of the wreck. They don't know much more than I do, and at this point that's not saying much. At about 1am we head to CFD station 2 for the debriefing.

We're in the day room of the station along with all the Cary firefighters who'd been on the call. There's a shrink, and one of CFD's assistant chiefs there.

We proceed to have a 2 hour discussion. It's supposed to be about everyone's feelings, but what it mostly centers on is what happened, and that it's my first night.

The details that emerge are that there was a minor, 2 car accident. Turns out my patient was the driver of one of those vehicles. Several "Good Samaritans" stopped to help the two people involved in this crash. About 2 minutes later, 6 of them were wiped off the face of the Earth by a drunk driver who plowed through the whole scene, and never tapped his brakes.

He killed a nurse, and her husband, while all 3 of their sons watched.
He killed 2 college buddies who'd gotten together for a football game and a good time.
He killed a college student from Campbell who was 6 months older than me.
He killed a man who lived nearby, and after hearing the first crash rode a bike to the scene to see if he could help. It was him I saw CPR being performed on.

It was the nurse whose foot shocked me at the beginning of the call. She and her husband landed in such a way that their hands were touching.

The college student was the body that I never noticed was next to me until I stepped over him.

Everyone at the CISD was very concerned over my well-being, but I didn't understand why. As far as I could tell, I had no reason to be upset. Someone needed help, and I was there. We got him to the hospital alive, and his life was signifigantly better off for my having been involved in it. I felt really, really good. I still do.

I finally made it home at about 4am, and slept easily. No nightmares, no reliving it. I woke up the next morning, and went back to the station to ride for a few hours, just to make sure I could. It didn't bother me a bit. I was ready to keep going. I needed to keep going.

The drunk got a minimum of 8 years in jail. Killed 6 people, and got 8 years in jail.

I don't know if I'll leave this up or not. I still don't think I'm doing it justice.

*Edit*
I remembered today that I did have a little bit of purpose in writing this. The one part of this entire experience that did bother me a little bit, was the knowledge that it could easily have happened to me. If I'd come up on this wreck in my car, I'dve done the same thing that all of those people in the middle of the road did. No concern for my safety, or blocking the road, or marking the scene, or anything. I'd be a greasy stain, and it's still true today.

Just be careful.

*Second Edit*
Fixed some typos, clarified a few points.

Also, it took me 3 months before I drove through that intersection again. I went back one night at about the time the accident occurred, parked my truck, and walked around a little bit. There were still flowers and crosses littering the roadside. Sad little things that didn't really seem memorial enough for 6 lives. The intersection wasn't the sprawling expanse that I remembered, it was tiny. A 2 lane road crossing another 2 lane road. I stood exactly where I had when I'd gotten out of the truck, and couldn't figure out how everyone had fit on the scene.

To this day, I still shiver a little bit when I drive through there. Most of the time I avoid it.

The Details

2006-02-22T15:34:00.000-05:00

The night began with the EMT class going over some patient assessment stuff. They'd been over it once already, and remembered it pretty remarkably well. Satisfied that we aren't total screwups, Jordan and I loaded them up into cars, and we were off for our field trip to communications. I almost asked everyone if they'd remembered to get their permission slips signed.

A 20 minute caravan later, we arrive at Emergency Management, and head inside to the training room. SuperJew, my boss/mentor/really cool guy is here tonight, and he gives a quick talk about the monitor, basically letting them see some of the cool toys we get to play with. At one point he mentions that he just got back from a conference for medical directors and emergency managers called "Gathering of the Eagles". EMcNasty (formerly known as E) gains ultimate cool points by asking if it was "Gathering of the Bald Eagles". She doesn't say it loudly enough for SuperJew to hear it, so I have to repeat it loudly. This is a good moment.

The mole queen comes upstairs to talk about telecommunications. She's the mole queen because she's in charge of the mole people, the telecommunicators who work downstairs answering 911 calls and dispatching units, and only rarely see the light of day. She tells the class about all the things they do, and we head downstairs to the communications center.

30 minutes later, after looking at a lot of equipment, and hearing some radio traffic, we're done, and back on the road. We head back to the B-School parking lot, where it doesn't take us long to decide that there's some drinking to be done tonight.

Several of us agree to meet at TopO in about 30 minutes, as several of the ladies, plus Jordan, have to change before we go out. I head to Burger King, because I'm hungry, and not interested in paying $12 for some food at TopO. Jordan changes his shirt and meets me there, and we enjoy some greasy pre-beer food.

We drive up to the Church St. lot, and after parking, head in to TopO. It's now 10pm, and I realize that if I want to avoid being a slobbering mess by midnight, I need to not start drinking now. I order a water, and sit down with Jordan, EMcNasty, and GIKD, who needs a better name than that, since we haven't been out since she got that moniker. It'll work for now though.

They make it through rounds one and two, and we're having a good night. I'm goaded into telling an embarassing story or two, but there's embarassment enough to go around on this night. After we're joined by Pepper, another girl from the class, I decide that 11pm is late enough for me to start drinking, and I go pay $4 for a beer that tastes a helluva lot like Bud Light, but supposedly isn't.

*Edit* I caught flack from Pepper because I left her out of the story. Not true if you read the above paragraph, but here's another mention for you. She came in with a friend named Kenan. That's about all I got. Most of the time she was there was spent doing the things listed in the next paragraph. Sorry Pep, but you're likely to make many, many, more stories if my plans hold up.

GIKD decides she wants a cigarette, and offers me one, but I'm nowhere near drunk enough for that. I do agree to go sit with her while she indulges though. When she's done and we make it back inside, everyone pretty much agrees that we're done with overpriced drinks, and we gather ourselves for a jaunt to another bar.

We make our way to Yeats, and once inside, immediately realize that we've made a terrible mistake.

It's apparently been taken over by pirates for the evening. There's a mixer going on inside, and we just don't belong. Undaunted though, we head to the bar for a round. On the way there I turn to Jordan, because there's something bothering me.

Me- "When did all the sorority girls here turn into fat, ugly, cows?"
J- "I don't know man. What's going on?"
Me- "I think this is an event for Fattie Alpha Tau. Aren't they a sorority?"
J- "Yeah man, that's even a greek letter. Fattie. Haha."

Jordan thinks I'm funny when he's drunk.

Officially stuck in the middle of Greek hell, we decide to numb the pain with pitchers. I buy the first one, and we manage to snag a table almost instantly when some of the fatties (I swear one even had a real peg-leg) waddle to the dance floor to rub against one another in some kind of repressed lesbian fantasy, while the guys around the bar try to block out the image so we can still enjoy girl-on-girl internet porn.

We're halfway through the first pitcher when GIKD gets a call from other friend's who are celebrating a birthday, and leaves us for Bub's. I am incredibly okay with this. My "fuck it all" attitude is working out great.

GIKD is replaced at our table by another girl from the class, who's generally nice, but makes me kind of mad when her first comment of the night is:

Girl- "Ya'll aren't supposed to be here..." (she says this quietly, like she's letting me in on a secret.)
Me- "Why's that?"
Girl- "Because you're not Chi-Psi! This is a mixer for Chi-Psi's and Pi-Phi's!"
Me- "On the list of 'Shit I don't care about', that's about number one. Are those girls out there (referring to the 300 pounder who is about to devour a smaller girl) with you?"
Girl- "Yeah, they're here with me."
Me- "You might want to make them stop dancing. I think it's making the big one hungry, and cannibalism is still illegal in North Carolina."

It took me until this morning to realize that she sat with us for the rest of the night. She didn't really say anything, or do anything, but she sat there.

4 pitchers later, Jordan, EMcNasty and I are hammered, and the lights come up. Somewhere along the way, Jordan got started on the Olympics. Highlights:

"Hey, hey. Have you seen this? Have you seen this in the 'Lympics? They gots skiing, with guns. Skiing with f-ing guns. Crazy man"

"You know what would be cool? Is if they had swimming in the Olympics. That shit would be cold."

"Hey look (pointing at a random bike race on ESPN) It's the Tour De French."

That first comment got our Chief a drunk dial, as it was too funny not to share. After the lights come up, making me fairly angry, we decide to head to TimeOut to help the sobering process. TimeOut twice in one week is a bad idea. Trust me.

A chicken biscuit and a huge Dr. Pepper later, I'm having trouble unlocking the door to get out of the bathroom. I finally manage it on my 5th or 6th try, and the Chapel Hill Police officer on the other side of the door asks if I'm okay. I nod, and head back to my table so that we can continue ripping on the douchebag who's wearing a Ferari jacket.

I walk home with EMcNasty, since she lives close by, and I need another 30 minutes before I can drive. I feel bad when I knock her down (accidentally) on the sidewalk while trying to prevent her from screaming (literally screaming) at Jordan across the main intersection. She cuts her hand, but it was at most half my fault.

I crawl into my bed an hour later, and realize that it's after 4 in the morning, and I am an idiot.

But idiots have a lot of fun.

80's Music and Me, Part Deux

2006-02-22T04:07:00.000-05:00

I had a great night.

I sang Creed on the way home.

Details to follow.

That Didn't Work Out At All...

2006-02-21T13:04:00.000-05:00

So much for "live" blogging. My lifestyle just doesn't cooperate. After finishing that last post, I went to go lay down for a few minutes, and then 3 calls came out in rapid succession. There are 4 ambulances in the county. This is how my thought process went.

Dispatcher- 1463(the other southside truck) respond to blah blah blah...
Me- Oh thank you God. Maybe I can finally get some sleep. Hehehe. And everyone else is working.
Dispatcher- 1465(my truck) need you to move to the middle for coverage.
Me- God, that just wasn't funny at all.

Orange County works under the philosophy of "System Status Management" which means that if a truck from one area goes out, a truck from another area must rotate in that direction to maintain adequate coverage for the whole system. What this really means, is we spend a lot of time "covering" huge geographic areas, only to have the next call come out 10 feet from where we were.

In this case, we were told to go cover the ambiguous area known as the "middle". (Literally the middle of the whole county) We were the only truck available in a county of 170,00+ people. Were we about to get a call? Oh yes.

We turn around (because of course the call is back in the direction we came from) and head off to this call. It's another one that's near the county line, out in the middle of nowhere, and we're dispatched code 2 (no lights, no sirens). I tell my partner how to get there, then try to sleep for the 25 minutes it's going to take us to respond.

25 (sleepless) minutes later, after taking the dirt fork off the gravel road, we arrive at a very nice house back in the woods. The paramedic has already been on scene for 15 minutes at this point, and has all our information ready for us. This guy had a colonoscopy (camera up the butt) on Tuesday, and has been experiencing excruciating abdominal pain for the last 6 hours.

High points-
A first responder asks- "Do you take any over the counters?" Meaning OTC medications.
Paitent- "Do I have any ovaries???"

I point out the patient's Self-help and "Healing by Energetics" videos to my partner, who is from Hillsborough. If you're from around here, that will explain his response:
Partner- You think that's the problem? He tried to make hisself better with energizers up 'is butt?

Medic- Have your bowel movements been normal?
Patient- Well yes. I had one this morning, and it was normal. Normal color, normal texture.
Me (in my head)- How much time do you spend examining your bowel movements? Gross!

He gets a ride to the hospital.

While at UNC, I'm stopped by a patient in another room. He's a youngish guy, probably a couple of years older than I am, wearing a hospital gown and talking on a cell phone. He stops me and asks, completely coherently "Where am I?"

Me-*confused* UNC...
Guy- Thanks.
*on phone* I'm at UNC.
*to me* Where's that?
Me- Uhhh... Chapel Hill?
Guy- Thanks

Turns out this guy is talking on the phone to his wife who is flying in from Alaska today to pick him up from the hospital. I have no idea how he got there, or what he did to deserve it, but it must've been spectacular.

Guy- *on phone* Honey, I need you to bring me some pants. I don't have any pants.

We clear from the hospital, and start to head to the station so I can pick up my stuff, as it's the end of my shift. We make it about a quarter mile down the road before we're dispatched to the other side of the county to pick up a patient from a doctors office.

That's right folks. Doctors call 911, and they do it all the time. Doctors, are in general, idiots. Especially outside of a hospital. Don't trust them. At least until I'm one, then trust me and give me lots of money.

The dispatcher tells us this is an "adverse drug reaction" and the patient is having "uncontrolled movements". I call bullshit.

We arrive at the doctors office, to find this guy who is wildly flinging his arms and legs around in "uncontrolled" ways. He and his doctor believe this to be a side effect of his medication. I believe this to be a side effect of his multiple psychiatric disorders, and the fact that he is in general a crazy dude.

If you talk to him, or tell him to "concentrate" the movements stop. Ding Ding, we have a winner. Psychogenic folks. If he can control it, it's IN HIS HEAD. Unfortunately, I don't make decisions, I do as I'm told, which means I take this guy to Duke. While in the back he spends most of the time telling our cadet about his time in 'Nam, and how he paid his dues. PTSD anyone?

We give our report to the nurse at Duke, which considering this guy is totally alert, and a good historian, isn't a whole lot. I tell her what we found, what the doctor said, what the guy said, and hand her the paperwork from the doctor's office. She's being kind of a bitch throughout this process, so I eventually just ask her if she needs anything else. She promptly responds "No, I don't need anything else from you." (Emphasis her's.)

Done, I turn to walk out. She starts to fill out her paperwork, then turns to me and says "Hey! Can I get some help with his medications please?" She's still being snide by the way.

Pissed, I stalk over, glare at her, turn to the med list in the paperwork I handed her before her first bitchy comment, hand it to her, and walk out without another word. I don't like being treated like shit.

We clear from Duke, and I make it back to emergency management, and get the hell off of that truck. I head back to the station, and then home, with the intention of typing this out and making dinner.

Instead I get in bed at 7pm, and don't wake up until noon today. This is why we have circadian rhythms.

The Best Laid Plans

2006-02-20T11:07:00.000-05:00

So my original plan was to post all of this live through the day, as something of a play-by-play of a day in the life of me while I'm at work. I'm probably overestimating the readability of such a thing, but modesty was never a concept I excelled with.

Unfortunately, for the first 5 hours of my shift, we've been running non-stop, so this is the first chance I've had to write anything down, thus defeating both the "live" nature of my original idea, and the perfect recall I hoped to acheive. Anyway, here goes my best shot:

04:25- I get up from bed. Note- get up, not wake up. That's because I never actually managed to sleep. I laid in bed, talked on AIM, read stupid things on the internet, became irrationally enraged, and did everything I could to make myself fall asleep, and failed miserably.

04:50- Out of the shower, freezing. Into uniform, still freezing, but damn I look good. There's something inherently manly about wearing a duty shirt, and having a radio on your belt.

05:15- Out the door. It's freaking snowing outside. It was 70 degrees 3 days ago. What is wrong with this place?

05:40- I arrive at Orange County Emergency Management. 20 minutes early, because that's just who I am. My pathological fear of being late has turned into compulsive earliness. I sit around looking at other people who seem to be having as much trouble with being up at the ass-crack of dawn as I am. One of the medics, Country, actually falls asleep sitting up. Not slumped over, or bent down on the table, but sitting up straight. I vow to emulate her.

06:00- The daily briefing starts. A lot of information about stuff I don't care about, and that doesn't affect me is discussed. I sit and try to be more like Country.

06:30- Briefing ends, and we head outside to start the truck, and head to our area. We jump in our ambulance, and mosey on down the road.

06:34- Supervisor calls and tells us to come back. The truck we're in is scheduled for maintenance today. Now that would've been something to mention in the briefing.

06:45- New truck, back on the road.

07:00- Make it to Carrboro, and start breakfast. Elmo's does a pretty good egg/biscuit/home fries/country ham breakfast.

07:30- My breakfast is interrupted. I almost got to finish my biscuit.

07:35- Onscene at an apartment complex in Carrboro. 90 year old man having chest pain. He has an extensive list of heart problems, including a potentially faulty pacemaker. He's clutching at his chest and moaning, and is in legitimate pain. We move quickly.

07:40- We're in the truck, on the way to the hospital, and with some relatively minor treatment, this guy is looking a lot better. Oxygen and nitroglycerin will go a long way for a lot of people.

07:50- First patient of the day arrives at UNC, slightly better off having known me. Success.

08:10- I make it back to the station, and start to think about maybe taking a nap.

08:10:37- Second call of the day goes out, and it's in the middle of BFE. If your only experience with Orange Co. is visiting UNC, you never realize how big this county is, or how rural most of it is.

08:30- After 20 minutes of driving, with lights and sirens, we arrive at this house out in God's country. I step out of the truck expecting to hear dueling banjos

08:31- I realize that our patient is crazy.

She's telling us that she's having a stroke. Unfortunately, this is untrue. She's 80 some years old, and totally full of crap, and is ineffectively faking her symptoms. She only remembers to slur her speech sometimes, and she can't keep straight which side of her body is supposed to be weak and/or numb.

She also decides to refuse transport to any hospital we can transport her too, and instead sits around telling us every grievance she can think of against every doctor she's ever met.

-One doctor told her she wasn't having a heart attack, and was instead having a panic attack. She called him a "pisshead".

-She railed against UNC, and everything associated with her for putting her with a "student doctor" and said she didn't need someone who "don't know no more than my dumbass husband" taking care of her. They also made her sit through multiple MRAs (By which she means MRIs).

-She saved her greatest venom for a mysterious "Dr. Steele" at Alamance. This doctor apparently referred her to mental health professionals ("damn shrinks") after her last "stroke".

After 20 minutes of random verbal abuse of various healthcare professionals, we finally manage to talk her into simply letting us help her to her van, where her meek shadow of a man husband is waiting to drive her to Moses Cone, 50 miles away.

09:05- I make it back to Carrboro. As soon as we're within sight of the station, another call goes out.

09:15- We're onscene at a nursing home that's infamous for letting patients die without noticing. We're dispatched to this as a difficulty breathing call, but it turns out that this guy is having trouble breathing because he's having a massive stroke. No muscle tone at all on his left side, he's pulling to the right, unresponsive... totally FUBAR. I hate doing it, but I ask his daughter who's onscene if he had any wishes regarding end of life care. She tells me he's a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) like she's saying that he takes 2 sugars in his coffee. The staff failed to mention this. Dumbasses.

09:30- Medic arrives, and we head to the truck. IV, o2, and monitor set-up, and we hit the road to the hospital.

09:45- We get to the hospital, and my mouth drops in shock at the mess the medic made in the back of the truck. He blew the IV with the BP cuff, and there is blood everywhere. We take the patient inside, and push him off on the nursing staff. I spend the next 40 minutes cleaning the truck.

10:25- We finally clear the hospital. Head back to the station.

Whenever I add to this I'll try to add in some of the more humorous moments. There've already been plenty today, but I'm exhausted.

Well now,

2006-02-20T00:14:00.000-05:00

I'm irrationally angry right now.

After being up late last night, I slept a good portion of the day, and will thus be wide awake all night. Unfortunately, I agreed to work tomorrow, and have to be up at about 4:45. For people taking notes, that's about 3 1/2 hours from now, but I don't think that's what's bothering me.

I'm receiving mixed signals like nobody's business from a million different places, and it's confusing and frustrating, and debilitating, all at the same time, but I don't think that's what's bothering me.

I'm pissing off everyone I'm talking to, and I don't care, but I don't think that's what's bothering me.

My good friend has joined the sexual world with the help of her boyfriend (Who I don't trust, the fact that I've never met him notwithstanding) and it's leaving me feeling a pang or two of jealousy, but I don't think that's what's bothering me.

My mother is a huge bitch with some serious issues, not the least of which is the manner in which she relates to her children, but I don't think that's what's bothering me.

There is however, SOMETHING bothering me, and I'd really like to know what it is. If you want to play shrink, let me know.

Grey's Anatomy

2006-02-19T20:44:00.000-05:00

Comes on tonight, and I have to admit it's my guilty pleasure. It also makes me miserably introspective. It also convinces me that I'm a big girl.

I can seriously sit and watch that show, and (barring the ridiculousness of the "medicine" they depict) get totally lost in a world that I can really identify with. Sleeping with co-workers, getting dumped for someone else, random hookups that come back to haunt you, and most of all, falling incredibly hard for someone, just to be a little disappointed, but no less in love with them.

Here you go:

Dr. Meredith Grey: Okay, here it is, your choice... it's simple, her or me, and I'm sure she is really great. But Derek, I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me.

Pathetic right? Who wants to beg for someone to love them?

Me.

And Meredith.

I'm a Bad Influence

2006-02-19T03:45:00.000-05:00

Out tonight.

Started out trying to get Chinese food with Jordan, because I was straight-up craving some pot stickers, but the chinese restaraunt on Jones Ferry closes at like 9pm. Bastards.

After my grease fix fell through, we went into Food Kitty and got some cheap beer, then he went over to Yeates' while I went to E's house to pick her up. (You didn't miss anything, E's new.) We sat and watched the Olympics for a bit, before E called GIKD (Who she's also friends with) and talked her into coming out. She also told GIKD to come over to her house without mentioning that I was there. In my neurotic mind, I really believe that GIKD would've refused had she known, but I'm just like that.

So GIKD arrives, and after an awkward moment or two, we're off to the first party of the night. It's being thrown by a guy in the class I'm teaching, and Jordan and Puddinhead are supposed to meet us there. GIKD follows me over there, and E rides with me. We arrive at the apartment complex where this party is, but the buildings are seemingly unmarked. After wandering around in the cold for about 15 minutes, we finally find the "party".

We walk in, and E turns to me and goes "Can we leave?"

The guy throwing the party is a really nice guy, and I'm sure it was a great party if you actually knew someone there, but as pimped out as I felt walking in with 2 very attractive girls, it wasn't working for me either. We found ourselves a corner, monopolized some of the only chairs in the place, and basically kept to ourselves for about 20 minutes while people we didn't know played Beer Pong and made drinks in the kitchen. Somewhere in there, Puddinhead arrived, and seemed like he was ready to really throw down. I promised myself to treat the guy to a better time than this though. He'd had a rough week.

After about 20 minutes, GIKD made her excuses and bounced. She'd worked all day, but some part of me still saw this as the final note in the sad little song we've been almost playing. The simple fact is folks, I'm not willing to work all that hard. Either you're interested, or you're not. I don't chase.

Anyway, not long after this, Jordan calls, and tells us he's wandering around in the parking lot, and can't find us. E gives me the high sign, and I tell him to just wait outside for us. We try to slip out quietly, but got kinda cornered by the host, and said something about going to find Jordan (true) and maybe meeting up later at a bar (Could've been true).

We run outside, giggling a little bit because E carried out the same case of beer we carried in with us (Oh we're classy) and proceed to look for Jordan. We make it all the way back to my truck without spotting him, but don't really care. I jump inside and start the heater before calling him. Did I mention it was cold outside? He heads back over to us, and we discuss our plans.

Jordan suggests another party that he knows of, and E suggests the bar scene. I take care of my man, and remind her that Puddinhead is not "of age" and doesn't have a plastic card saying otherwise either. Tangent- If I had the equipment, I'd sell some serious fake IDs at UNC, and make a ton of cash. Any venture-capitalists out there? It is eventually decided that we will meander back to E's house, drink there for a while, and then head to this other party.

We make it back to the crib, (She has a moat around her house. No lie) and watch some quality Olympic coverage. I make fun of Apolo Anton Ohno's facial hair, and E doesn't appreciate it because she's a fan. I take this as a sign, and proceed to make fun of anyone who goes by 3 names. She suggests that it's something like Sarah Jessica Parker's (PS, hate her too) situation, where there was another famous woman named Sarah Parker. I dare E to find me one other Apolo Ohno. She takes my point.

Shortly thereafter, Jordan announces he "needs some bread or something" as he had a couple of beverages at Yeates' when he stopped in to say hello to friends, and is now feeling a little lightheaded. It is quickly decided that a trip to Time Out is in order. E squeals with delight. She's a fan of Time Out.

Let me caution you against ever eating at Time Out while sober. It's not a good experience at all. However, when you've had a few beverages of the alcoholic variety, there are very few things as nice as a chicken biscuit that a nice hispanic man wraps in aluminum foil for you. Jordan looks steadier after some Okra and Mac n' cheese, and we're joined by his little sister, whose company I really enjoy. E asked me tonight why I hadn't tried to hook up with her, and I was kinda taken aback. I mean, you just don't hook up with your friend's sister. That's required for being a halfway decent person. Additionally, Jordan is smart enough to just tell his sister what kind of person I really am. She'd have nothing to do with me.

We leave from Time Out, and head to the next party. I'm assaulted at the door by a large black man with the biggest mouth I've ever seen, and a very pronounced lisp. He spent most of the night proclaiming "Ashley Something-or-other is a ho! She got a dick in her mouf!" But did take a break for 2 minutes to introduce himself to all of us. Turns out he's a politician, and just won some campus office. I'd vote for him.

We head inside the party, and while not great, it does outstrip the last one by a good bit. There are women here, and actual music playing. Our little crew heads for the beer pong table, and watches a couple of matches before Jordan and E get destroyed, followed closely by Puddinhead and me. I'm a miserable failure.

At 2am we finally realize that we're out well past when we should've gone home, and make our way back to our cars. Along this path, we decide we're not really done in, and are all craving a burrito. Qdoba it is!

We walk into Qdoba, which was apparently named the official afterparty location for every frat and sorority on campus when I wasn't looking, and I'm immediately assualted with a hug from someone who smells more like beer than I do. My partner, SweetCheeks is here, along with Cancro, and a couple of the cute girls from Lucy's last week.(See: 80's music and me) Hugs are shared, introductions are made, and burritos are ordered. SweetCheeks thinks it is the funniest thing ever when I tell the girl to make my burrito however she wants, as long as it tastes good. He proceeds to tell her to make it as spicy as possible, but she thinks I'm cuter than he is, and doesn't listen. I warn him to stay off the sneeze-guard when I see the Chapel Hill police officer eyeing us.

We get our burritos, sit down, and immediately become "That Table". Loud, obnoxious, and incredibly fun to be a part of. SweetCheeks gives E an impromptu lesson on the geography of Orange County, Cancro flirts with any attractive woman he doesn't know, and I throw things at Jordan and remind Puddinhead that he has to be at work in 3 and a half hours. Eventually one of the other incredibly attractive girls (She might have the prettiest smile of all time) from the class arrives, and sits and talks with me for a while. I enjoy trying to flirt, but knowing that it's a futile effort puts a slight damper on my usually charming (not to mention modest) persona. She's older and wiser than me, and that eliminates me from romantic contention. At least I think so anyway.

We call it an evening after SweetCheeks finishes everyone's food, and head home. Puddinhead starts work at 6am, and I dropped him off at the door to his dorm at 2:56am. Before tonight, I don't know if the guy had ever had a serious night of out on the town ridiculousness. While we were sitting at the table, he literally mumbled to himself "Just eat the burrito [Puddinhead]"

That is why I'm a bad influence, and it's also why I'm proud of myself.

Goodnight (morning)

Psycho Jesus- Part 1

2006-02-18T17:13:00.000-05:00

This merits a "Part 1" designation because there have been multiple Psycho Jesus-es in my career, and there's little or no chance I'll go without seeing another one. Psycho Jesus calls are some of my favorite calls to run. Honestly any kind of psychiatric call is great, there's always the possibility of serious hilarity, and crazy people are fun to listen to.

One of my first Psycho Jesus calls came in Cary shortly after I'd started working there. It was early on a Friday morning, and while most people were driving to work, our patient decided that today would be the day that he would reveal his true identity to the messiah-seeking world, and he'd begin his ministry.

PJ is in his early twenties, hispanic, about 5' 6" tall, and is standing in the middle of a lake in his tightie-whities screaming at the Cary Fire Department. I didn't know Jesus was allowed to curse, but this version was not only inventive in his invectives, he had bilingualism working in his favor.

CFD- Sir! Come to the shore or we will come and get you!
PJ- Cierre tu boca! (close your mouth) Cockgobbling whore. Your hat looks stupid and you are disrespecting the LORD.

Right around now is when I expect one of the guys off of Rescue 4 to wade out there and knock the bejeezus out of this guy. In case your mom never told you, it's a bad idea to make fun of a firefighters helmet. At least to his face. Instead of biting the bullet and getting their feet wet though, I hear the lieutenant from the engine calling for a boat. A freaking boat.

In case you missed it, Psycho Jesus is STANDING in the MIDDLE of the "lake". With water barely reaching his knees. There is no need for a boat, in any way, shape, or form. These guys even have waterproof boots on, that would probably keep them totally dry. Never underestimate the desire of a firefighter to play with their toys. Thanks Department of Homeland Security.

PJ- I am not afraid of you tall man! Pendejo!

I threw that in about where PJ said it chronologically to the story. A lot of crazy people absolutely hate me, and they usually throw my height into their explanation of why.

When we're told that there's a 30 minute ETA for the boat and its crew to arrive, my partner starts to get this crazy look in his eye. I've known this guy for about a year at this point, and his sense of "things I should and should not do" has been skewed by working in this field for many, many years. I see this look in his eye, and our next exchange went something like this:

Me- No.
Partner- Yes. Come on, do you want to wait 30 minutes? I'm hungry.
Me-No. (Still meaning "No, don't do this dumbass")
Partner-(Taking my "no" to be a reply to his question about waiting) Alright! I'm going in!
Me- Fuck.

My partner plops down on the ground like a three year old, and begins to take off his boots, and socks, and then rolls his pants up above his knees. The whole effect looked like a mildly-retarded Huck Finn with a mustache and a stethoscope around his neck.

My partner starts wading out into the lake, ignoring the firefighters cries of "Hey man, we got a boat comin'!" I have to admit it, he cut a dashing figure slogging through the mud and shallow water out in the middle of this suburban lake. Of course, my vision might've been clouded by the tears that are now pouring down my face from laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

The entire time he's wading out there, PJ has his arms raised in benediction, and is praying for his father, who he calls "Dad" to deliver him from this "Evil-ass motherfucker" who's coming to "get him".

PJ- Dad! The bad man is coming and I told you to smite him! If you won't do it I will!
Partner- Easy guy. I'm not here to hurt you; we're here to help you.
PJ- *Spanish above and beyond what I can understand*... and I fucked your mom.
Partner- Listen man, this can be real easy. I just need you to walk back to shore with me.
PJ- I am not a man! I'm the son of God! Dad, smite this fool, or I swear I'm going to!
Partner- (Taking a step towards PJ, and putting his hand on his shoulder) Let's just go get dry and-

He was cut off because that's when PJ decided to "smite" him. Smiting involved making a diving tackle at his waist, and knocking them both into the water. My partner came up spluttering, and immediately used his greater size to throw PJ into a headlock and begin dragging him to shore. 2 Cary police officers, myself, and engine company, and a rescue truck company all watched in stunned silence. I snapped out of my reverie long enough to call our Chief on the radio and have him come to the scene in his vehicle, since I was going to need a dry partner to help me transport this patient to the hospital.

My partner got the guy to shore, and promptly delivered him to the loving arms of the Cary police officers, who threw the guy on the ground, cuffed him, and searched him. The guy was wearing (now see-thru) tightie whities, and nothing else, but they searched him.

We tied the guy to our stretcher, and put him in the truck just as our Chief was pulling up. He took one look at my partner, and just shook his head. We'd receive 3 different emails over the next week carefully defining the role of EMS personnel on scenes like this.

The Chief went around to the front of the truck to drive, my partner toweled off and drove the Chief's vehicle back to the station. I talked to PJ in the back, and continued to tell him that even though he wasn't afraid of me (Tall Man) I still had to check his blood pressure.

As we were pulling out of the scene, I saw the CFD boat team pulling up. They just started laughing when they looked at my partner.

Real Quick

2006-02-18T01:36:00.000-05:00

Keith Urban puts on a great show, especially when your "job" lets you stand 10 feet from the stage and sing loudly with all the songs.

I plan on getting inappropriately drunk, very soon.

I'm exhausted.

So In Review

2006-02-17T07:30:00.000-05:00

It wasn't really a long night, but everything I had to do was spaced in the most inconvenient way.

I was on my way to Chapel Hill anyway when I got a call from my semi-permanent partner, hereafter referred to as SweetCheeks , asking me where I was. I told him I was on my way into town and that I was about 15minutes out, and he replied "Good, the chiller plant on campus is burning down, and we're doing rehab. Get here ASAP."

Brilliant. My plans for getting my paycheck, and thus increasing my available funds from $0.00 were just officially shot to shit. I respond to the station, and pick up the squad truck, because the ambulance had already responded to the scene. From the way it sounded on the radio I was expecting to arrive onscene and see rolling flames, and a building in danger of collapse.

Instead I got a few stray wisps of smoke, and that nasty burned plastic smell. Apparently early on it was an impressive fire, but by the time we made it there and managed to set up rehab, CHFD had it essentially out. There were plenty of news cameras still around though, and I think my ass might've made Channel 13's coverage when I was reaching in the truck for the O2 cylinder. My fifteen minutes of fame aren't doing much for me.

We did get some pretty decent pictures though, and if I get hold of them, and can figure out how to post them on here, I'll do just that.

Anyway, once the FD cleared us from the scene, we grabbed some dinner at the Chinese Super Buffet, and headed over to the EMT class. 2 solid hours of acting like I know what I'm talking about later, and SweetCheeks is off the truck to go have fun and get drunk at a charity benefit, and Jordan and I get to work together for the rest of the night.

We head over to station 2 briefly to harass KillerMiller who's working there for the evening, and then drive up to Franklin St. to sit and watch girls walk by with one of the medics. There are certain advantages to this job. I'll also point out that we were joined by 3 CHPD officers, and a fire truck, and all of us were there for the same reason. God bless the women of Chapel Hill.

After about 30 minutes of solid salivatory goodness, we're called to an assault near the county line where some 16 year old got his ass beat.

Supposedly this was an arranged fight, and our boy definitely got the worst of it. He's a little shaky on where he is, and how he got there, and can't remember what holiday we had this past week.

Here's the best part though: After I get out of the truck, I hear one of this idiot's friends go "Hey man! Remember me?"

This kid recognizes me because not even two weeks ago he'd stood by the side of Seawell School Rd. with me, and watched the FD cut that kid out of the car. I quickly tell this guy that we've got to stop meeting like this.

We take our wannabe Muhammad Ali into UNC, and manage to clear up relatively quickly after we're told in no uncertain terms to dump him in the waiting room, and they'll deal with him when they can.

We make it back to the apartment, and I head to bed. I don't know what the problem is, but lately I can't sleep at all when I'm on duty. Usually I'm out like a light as soon as my head hits the pillow. My body used to recognize that sleep while working was precious, and meant to be treasured, but as smart as it used to be, my body's looking to compete for gold at the Special Olympics now.

I lie in bed and look at the ceiling for about an hour and a half, before 3 calls go out back to back in the county, thus leaving us the only truck available for a population of about 170,000 people. At that point I stopped trying to fall asleep and just waited. Like a tiger.

Sure enough, about 10 minutes later we're dispatched to a seizure call just up the street, in the not so nice area that sits between N. Columbia St. and Carrboro. It's always nice to walk into a house and have your nostrils greeted with some combination of human excrement, B.O., cheap cigarettes, and the dregs of about 10 Forties of King Cobra.

Our medic is talking to the girl who had the seizure, so being the proactive EMT that I am, I decide I'll get his demographic information for him. I turn to the guy sitting next to her on the couch, and ask him if I can get some information from him.

He looks at me like I'm crazy. I take this as my sign to proceed.

Me- What's her name?
Guy- Mumble
Me- (Thinking I'm really smart) How does she spell that?
Guy- (Suddenly very agitated, and now obviously drunk and high) Man! You don't know how to spell "Crista"?!?

Note that I spelled "Crista" without an "h". Crista wasn't this girl's real name (HIPPA remember?) But she had a name that I would've spelled with and "h" that she didn't. That's why I ask asshole, not because I'm stupid. Jesus. The next time some dumbass who spent his night drinking forties and smoking crack acts like I'm stupid, I'm gonna hurt somebody.

*note- the girl herself actually spelled her name for me. I really don't think homeboy could've done it himself*

Guy- Man, ya'll mothafuckas is stupid.

I give up on information, after dutifully writing down "Crista" on my handy notebook and we help the girl to our stretcher outside. After we load her in the truck, here comes the asshole again.

Guy- 'Ey, 'Ey-yo Crista? You wants me to go wit you to tha hospital?
Crista- If you want to, I mean, I don't know
Guy- (Agitated) Dammit ho, does you wants me to go or not?
Crista- Yeah, I want you to go.
Guy- Aight den.

No lie, that was the exhange. I close the back doors, and tell Guy that we'll be going to UNC.

Guy- Yeah, I know how ya'll muthafuckas be operatin'. You all some sorry bitches.
Me- Alright! Well you have a great night!

Lesson learned. Don't ask people to spell shit when they're drunk, high, and live in the hood.

We cleared from the hospital just in time to get up, gather our stuff, and go back to the station for the end of our shift.

On the bright side, I get to go to the Keith Urban concert for free tonight. There's a few perks.

For now, goodnight.

Working Tonight

2006-02-16T14:01:00.000-05:00

This time with Jordan, which should make for an interesting night. The last time we worked together we found ourselves in some questionable situations to say the least. Like when we went down North Graham St. at 1:30 in the morning and found it packed with people who looked to be up to no good.

It seems to be a running theme in my continuing pursuit of this career that I'll be placed in situations that would make any normal person uncomfortable, but that leave me scratching my head and wondering just what the hell is going on.

One such case is "Chris Goes to the Spooky Spider House"

I'm working in Cary with a medic, who for a little bit of a backstory is absolutely terrified of arachnids. He will literally freak out and run away if he comes in contact with a spider.

We're dispatched to a "medical nature unknown" which immediately makes me think cardiac arrest, because that's just what seems to happen when I go on these calls. We don't get any first responders on the call, but Wake Co. Sherriff's Office is dispatched to check in with us. When we pull up, there's literally 1o SO cars parked out in front of this house, lit up like the 4th of July.

This house is huge, and dark, and set well back from the road in the middle of some creepy looking pine trees. It's dark, and cloudy, and there's no moon. Literally the only light is coming from all the strobes on these various vehicles.

As we start to walk up to the house, we're met by a deputy who tells me to take the stretcher to the front door, and my partner to follow him. He says that the stretcher won't fit through the way they're going, and that our patient is closer to the other door. My partner shoots me a "What the fuck?" look, but follows the deputy, leaving me to lug all our equipment to the front door of this house. In the dark. Across a spooky wooded area.

I finally manage to lug all the stuff over to the front porch, and go to open the door. Turns out, it's locked. I spend a minute or two banging on the door before I get pissed, and a little bit freaked out. There is absolutely no one around, and I have no idea what's going on. I start to walk back towards the door my partner went in, and after making it about halfway, I hear the front door open. I turn around and start to head back.

Unfortunately the deputy opening the door decided no one was there, and closed and re-locked the door. I hung my head for a moment, before resuming my physical assault on the door. A minute later a frazzled looking deputy opened the door and let me in.

Let me re-emphasize how huge this house is. I entered into a hallway that wouldn't look out of place in a hotel. There were tons of doors leading off either side of the hallway, all of which were half-open, and looked in on equally creepy, darkened rooms. Way down at the end of the hall there's one light burning, and I hear my partner yell for me to just bring the heart monitor down there.

I turn to the deputy and ask if it's safe, and he just nods his assent. I'm pretty sure he had a such a large wad of Skoal in his mouth that would've made it hard to use words. I grab the monitor off the stretcher, and walk down this hallway, all the while imagining something terrible is going to jump out and grab me. Mind you, this is before I have any idea what's actually going on.

I get down to the lone lit room, and turn the corner, and almost shit my pants.

There's a woman, or what used to be a woman, sitting in a kitchen chair. There is blood everywhere and I can't even tell where it came from, because she's covered in it. Creepier than all that, are the paw prints all over the room where her many cats apparently walked in her blood, and then walked around the room.

I freeze, and avoid touching anything. This has "Crime scene" and "Chris goes to court" written all over it. My partner shoots me another "What the hell?" look, and proceeds to put the monitor on the lady, confirming what we already know. She's dead as your first goldfish that got sucked into the tank filter.

About now is when it hits me that this woman was probably killed. Murdered. By another person. Who could be anywhere. Including INSIDE THE SPOOKY SPIDER HOUSE THAT I JUST WALKED THROUGH AND STOOD ALONE OUTSIDE OF!

Needless to say, I was not happy with the deputy who'd told me to go hang out in front of the house by myself, or the deputy who let me walk along the dark, scary, and obviously unsecured hallway.

My partner and I both walked out to the truck without saying a word, and then proceeded to freak out as we pulled away. The story was even worse for my partner, because as soon as he turned and saw the dead lady in the room, he ran straight into a spiderweb. Thus it did become the Spooky Spider House.

I never found out what happened to the lady, but since I didn't have to go to court, I'm going to assume it wasn't murder. This is the kind of thing I have floating around in my head though, so if you ever think I'm acting funny, make allowances.

Don't Call It Optimism

2006-02-16T01:59:00.000-05:00

But while eating (Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Deli Turkey. Seperate of course) a few minutes ago, I suddenly realized that none of this matters.

If GIKD decided tomorrow that I'm not worth her time, so what? There might not be a million other girls interested in me, but last time I checked there were slightly more women than men on Earth. I like those odds.

In short, I pledge to devote my time to having as much fun as humanly possible. I plan to drink, flirt, break things, and cause all sorts of trouble in my reckless pursuit of meaningless bacchanalia. (Special thanks to Powerhawk for a great word.)

In other news, I'm sick as all hell, but that won't stop me from working tomorrow night. I always worry a little bit that I'm going to cough while I'm in a nursing home and give someone's grandma her last case of pneumonia. Does that make me a bad person, or a good person?

I really hate nursing homes too. I want to emphasize very clearly just how much they suck. These people's family just literally throw them in a home, and forget about them, and it's sad. Most of the time they just pedal around in their wheelchairs and block up the hallways. Every now and then you get one guy who just yells "help!" incessantly. I used to go and see what was wrong, until I figured out it was always the same thing, and that's the fact that his mind is turning into pudding.

Only one guy has ever made me legitimately sad. I was taking him back to his nursing home from the hospital with a transport company I worked for, and the guy was totally coherent, and very sharp, just physically old. He'd been a journalist for years, and had all kinds of incredible stories about the places he'd been, and the things he'd seen. When we got to his apartment at the nursing home, it was amazing. It was filled with all sorts of things he'd picked up on his travels, carved figurines from Africa, a handmade blanket (he said it was for Yak, but I'dve slept under it.) from Mongolia, just unbelievable things. And TONS of pictures. This guy had real photographic talent. One of his pictures was on the cover of Time in the 70s, and he'd been published in National Geographic too.

All the same, he quietly, and without really complaining, mentioned that his family never visits, and the only people he gets to tell his stories to are the nurse's aides at the home, and they don't really care. I truly felt bad for the guy.

I'm working 3 weeks later, and we're paged to the nursing home for a cardiac arrest.

You guessed it.

We didn't even work the code. He'd died in his sleep, and was dead-dead when we got there. All I could think about was his good-for-nothing family taking all of his treasures and either packing them away in a box, or selling them on eBay.

Man, this piece on optimism turned into a real downer. See what happens when you let me ramble? I'll be funny next time.

Repetition Breeds Familiarity

2006-02-15T03:11:00.000-05:00

3am and I'm wide awake, even after self medicating with a beer and 2 Nyquil. Story time? Sure kids.

Here for your reading pleasure, is "Chris Gets Hit On By The Crazy Girl"

Paged to an unconscious person in Cary. I'm working with a paramedic and an intermediate, and at this point I'm still an explorer. Our chief checks enroute behind us, and the fire department is coming too. Long story short, when we get to this tiny house at the north end of Academy St. there's about a million people inside, and I just stay outside talking to the mother to get the information we need.

Our patient is a 40 year old woman who is develomentally delayed, has a history of multiple psychiatric disorders, and lives at home with her 65 year old mother who can't seem to make sure that her daughter takes her meds. I finish getting the demographics we need, and head inside.

After pushing my way through 4 or 5 burly firemen, I finally make it to the back bedroom of the house where our patient is. Our chief is yelling at this girl, trying to get her to wake up. (He likes to yell at unconscious patients. If they can't hear, dammit he's going to MAKE them hear.) Apparently they've been trying everything they can for the last 5 minutes to get some sort of response from her, but nothing's worked. This girl has been through the system and knows how the game is played. She held her breath for the ammonia cap, gritted her teeth through the sternal rub, and smacked herself in the face with the hand-drop test. Championship work in my book.

Unfortunately, the minute I walk into the room she sits bolt upright, looks me right in the eye and says "Heeeeyyyy" in what I can only assume she thought was a seductive tone. According to my partners, I immediately went pale.

Me- Umm hi. What's going on?
Crazy Girl- I don't know who all these people are. I was just sleeping. What's going on?
Chief- We were called her because your mom couldn't wake you up.

CG makes no notice of Chief, and continues looking right at me. She then repeats her question:
CG- What's going on?

I repeat word for word what the Chief said, difference being, it came from me. This time she responds with:
CG- Oh... that's really weird. Don't you think?
Me- Yeah, pretty strange. So what's say we go to the hospital and get you checked out, does that sound like a good idea?
CG- Can't you just check me out here? I just want to go back to sleep. You can stay for that too if you want.

I think about here is where I want to describe this woman. She's probably around 4' 11", and 150lbs. Stringy black hair, bug eyed, buck teeth, and smells like 4 week old yeti milk. If there's something I'd like less than to sleep with her, I can't figure out what it is.

Me- Let's just go to the hospital. I'll check you out in the back of the truck.
CG- Okay big fella.
I wish I was kidding. She called me big fella. In front of my chief, and a CFD engine company. I wanted to die.

We get her in the back of the truck, and my partner goes to start an IV. She FLIPS. Goes absolutely batshit. Tells him to keep his rapist hands off of her, and that's she's a one man woman. When my partner, who is by now choking back laughter asks her which man she's holding out for, she doesn't say anything, but just turns and stared at me with her bug eyed, buck toothed face.

I can see that it's coming down to me to get anything accomplished, so I swallow my pride (The little bit I have left at this point) and say:

Me- Sweetheart (gulp) we've got to start an IV, and I'm not allowed to do it. It has to be my partner, but I promise it's okay with me. Can he go ahead and do that?
CG- Are you sure you won't get jealous?
Me- Oh yes. I'm positive.

At this point, I can actually hear loud peals of laughter from the front of the truck where my other partner is listening to all of this.

She agrees to the IV, but tells me that I have to hold her hand while he does it. I quickly pull on a pair of gloves, and offer my hand. She proceeds to slowly stroke my palm while my partner starts the IV. I can only assume she though this was sexy, really it made me want to retch when I remembered something about certain bacteria being able to penetrate small holes in latex gloves.

My partner finishes the IV, (after making smoochie faces at me from behind CG's back while she's not looking) and I quickly pull my hand away. She casually lets her hand drop to my thigh, and then quickly begins progressing up to my crotch. I bolt up, and begin to move to the airway seat that's right behind the patient, but my asshole partner beats me there, and says "Sorry man, gotta do the call in. You understand?" and proceeds to laugh his ass off.

The two remaining seats in the back are both well withing arms (and grabbing) reach of CG, and I want to avoid being molested at all costs. I'm going to be honest here, and let all of you know that at 17, I was a relatively sexually inexperienced individual, and I didn't want the first female contact my genitals had to be with this offspring of Bigfoot and a wolverine.

I ended up standing above and behind her for the rest of the 7 mile ride to the hospital. With traffic and other delays, this meant 15 minutes of folding my 6 and a half foot tall frame into the 5 feet of standing room in the back of the truck. In short (pun intended) I was wedged, incredibly uncomfortably between the floor and ceiling of a moving vehicle while my worst nightmare come to life in "female" form tried to play grab-ass.

We finally arrived at the hospital, and I had to spend another 15 minutes convincing my new romance that I had to go back to work, but sure I'd come visit real soon, and she just needed to take the medicine that the nice nurses were giving her.

I walked out of that room knowing that the rest of my day was going to be miserable, and I was right. I caught hell for the rest of the night about hitting on patients, whether or not I'd made good use of the bed in the back of the truck, and how I liked getting felt up by someone old enough to be my mother. Nothing says "we care" like your coworkers making you want to crawl in a hole in the ground.

The best part of the story? At work the next week, she called again. This time from the police station. When central came back with our extra informatin about the call they said: (on a recorded radio frequency)

"Patient states that she feels the same way she did last week when the cute EMT came and helped her. Patient requests the same personnel"

Now there's no way for the girl to have known that I was working again, but I was, and one of my partners was even the same. I didn't know it was her for sure until we pulled up onscene, and she came running out of the bushes like a hippo to water as soon as I stepped out of the truck.

My partner had to lean against the hood of the truck to keep from collapsing in peals of laughter.

You Shouldn't Read This

2006-02-14T23:59:00.000-05:00

This will likely be a rambling, uneven, unfunny, and generally worthless collection of words bemoaning the evils of the world. Consider yourselves forewarned.

I taught the class tonight. They took a test, and then we practiced their CPR skills for a while. Infant, child, and adult CPR, plus airway obstruction stuff. Almost mind-numbingly boring. On top of that, the one person I really wouldn'tve minded spending some portion of my Valentine's evening with was already engaged, and unavailable.

During the test I spent some time watching one of the girls in the class, who I really enjoy watching almost all the time. Not because she's attractive (She is, don't get me wrong) but because her facial expressions are the single funniest thing I've ever seen. She just reacts to everything going on around her with the most ridiculous expressions. Tonight while she was taking the test, I almost burst out laughing several times when I looked over and caught her furrowing her eyebrows and blowing her lips out. Maybe it's just funny to me, I don't know.

I just erased 2 paragraphs about nothing but relationship bullshit. I refuse to put my hypothetical reader through the gauntlet of my romantic inadequacies. Sorry.

Do you remember the first time you woke up next to someone? For me it's the smell of her shampoo. That's what stands out for me in the memory of every woman I've known. (Ladies take note). Then you slowly regain consciousness, and recognize that there's something warm in your bed, and it's attractive simply for its warmth. So you snuggle up close, and lo and behold, this warm thing is soft, and female, and she makes the most beautiful noise you've ever heard when you wrap your arms around her. That really nice, contented sigh.

That is something I don't like living without.

So much for not putting my inadequacies out there.

Haha. I forgot. I made the entire class perform the Heimlich maneuver on one another tonight. Maybe one of the most brilliant things I've ever done. One girl actually squeaked when the guy squeezed her. Hilarious.

I'm considering going downstairs and popping a beer while I watch whatever bad late-night TV is on, but as long as the gorgeous girl with whom I might be making a mistake will talk to me, (Hereafter: GG) I can't tear myself away. That story is too long to put up on here, but just trust me when I say I might be making a big mistake. She just signed off though, so beer it is. I hope Cops is on. There's no better late-night TV than Cops.

I promise that whatever goes up here next won't be this uninteresting, and will actually have something worth reading in it.

But I did warn you.

Valentine's Day Can Kiss My Ass.

2006-02-14T15:42:00.000-05:00

Thanks all you happy well-wishers who wanted to make sure that I knew it was Valentine's day, and that you were happy about it. Honestly though, I hate this damn holiday. I hate it this year, because I don't have anyone to spend it with. In years past, there've been other reasons to hate it, but this year I join millions of other single people in bemoaning the fact that we are indeed, single people.

The simple fact is, I, Chris Dye, am a hopeless romantic. Not in the flit through the fields of flowers and kiss the big eyed deer on the nose kind of way, but in the I want everything to work out for the best, and everyone be happy kind of way. If I see a movie with a sad ending, I actually walk out of the theater pissed off, regardless of how "good" the movie was. (Million Dollar Baby anyone?)

I'm too mad at this day to make this post go anywhere. Maybe I'll have something to say later. Before you even ask though, GIKD had other plans already. I will be alone this evening after the EMT class. Beautiful.

My Brain Has Issues

2006-02-14T01:32:00.000-05:00

It's 1:30 in the morning, and I should be asleep. After the weekend I had, and the relatively low amount of catching up I managed today, not to mention the fact that I feel like mongrel dog-ass, should all combine to create an opportunity for sleep that doesn't end for at least 12 hours. Instead, I'm laying in my bed staring at the ceiling while my various insanities run through my head in an endless line.

The trouble is that I don't have someone that I verbalize all of those things with anymore. For a long time, my ex-girlfriend got to hear all of it. The various inadequacies I posess, problems relating to the people around me, all the little injustices of the world that everyone sees, but for some reason seem worse to me. Then she dumped me.

For a while after that I found substitutes, including one person who I believe may legitimately be the most wonderful person I've ever met. She messed with my head in other ways, but for pure caring and empathy she's going to be nearly impossible to top. Recently though, I'm just lacking that person that I can a.) trust, and b.) relate to well enough to talk these things through.

I'm a deep thinker, and for once, I don't mean that in a cocky way. I mean that I consider things, and I roll them around in my head, and it lets things get to me. I almost took off for Haiti in January. I was ready to go to the airport, drop all the money I had on a plane ticket, and take off. All that stopped me was the fact that if I did that, I'd be leaving behind people that were counting on me. If you really want something out of me, don't offer me money, adoration, undying love, or even power. Just make sure someone I care about, and feel responsibility for won't be taken care of.

One of the things that popped into my head while I was lying here in bed was the mother of a former patient. Her son was the first cardiac arrest I ever worked. He was 7 years old.

I was working in Cary, and it was sometime right around 7o'clock. Shift change happens at 7 at Cary, which means that the building was really full. I was a newly christened and blessed EMT, but I'd been riding as an Explorer (A sort of ridealong program for high school students. I basically functioned at the EMT level, just under supervision, and I didn't drive) for about a year. I was riding with a paramedic and an intermediate that day.

We hadn't even checked the trucks off when the tones went off. They actually dispatched it as a cardiac arrest, which is rare. Usually it goes out as an unconscious person, or a medical nature unknown unless it's at a nursing home. I was totally okay until they came back with more information and told us it was a 7 year old.

In EMS, we don't deal with kids a whole lot, and when we do one of two things is nearly always true. Either the kid is fine, or they're in a whole lot of trouble. Needless to say, this guy was in the latter category. Another paramedic who had worked the day before heard this on the radio, and jumped on the suburban we use for special events and responded to help.

We got onscene about 2 minutes after Rescue 4, and I'd already thrown all the equipment we'd need to work a code on the stretcher so we could get it in the house. A code requires an incredible amount of stuff, and is challenging, especially if you're new, but it's nothing like what they show on TV. There is no yelling, in fact it's eerily quiet. Sometimes I think it's out of that innate respect for the dead that all cultures seem to have. No one says "stat", no one tells the patient to "Breathe dammit!". When it's done right, and runs smoothly, it's a thing of beauty. When it isn't, it's a clusterfuck.

We made it inside, and watched Rescue 4 deliver a second shock with their AED. That told us pretty quickly that he was in fact clinically dead, but that he had a chance. We connected their pads to our monitor, and saw that the kid had actually converted into a half decent rhythm. I had taken over bagging the kid (breathing for him with a bag-valve mask) and reached down to his neck and felt a pulse.

This officially made it go time. There was no more messing around. We literally threw the kid on a backboard, put him on the stretcher, and hauled ass, trying all the while to get some information about the kid from his parents.

Once we were in the back of the truck (All 4 of us. Me, bagging the kid, one medic on the bench trying for an IV, the intermediate on the CPR seat on the other side looking for an IV too, and another medic getting ready to try to intubate him) and the firefighter put us on the road to the hospital, things just got so easy. It was surreal. We were asking one another to pass things back and forth like we were at the dinner table.

It ended up being impossible to get an IV on this kid, and for reasons I learned later, his anatomy made intubating him impossible too. Realistically, this was a BLS code and my skills as an EMT were pretty much the highest level of care this kid could receive. When we were about 2 minutes out from the hospital, his pulse dropped too far, and we started compressions. I heard one of his ribs break and considered puking, but thought better of it.

Inside the ER, we moved him over to their bed, and Jan gave her report. Through this process, I ended up next to the kid, and had to take over compressions for a bit while a nurse bagged him. I could feel his heart underneath his ribs, and his eyes we half open and staring at me. Weirded me out. Eventually I get the opportunity to hand off my duties, and I shuffle out of the room, and watch as they continue to work on him. They cut off his underwear for one reason or another, and the kid had shit his pants. I can actually remember sitting there and thinking to myself "Please don't let me shit myself when I die."

In the end, they tried a few rounds of drugs, but nothing was going to keep this kid's heart going. From the information we got, we knew he had some congenital defects, and other problems and his body had just given out. Even so, there are just no words to describe what it's like to watch a kid die in front of you. I watched his heart stop as I was putting new linens on the stretcher for the next person we'd put on it that day.

My mind was just racing as I cleaned the truck and got everything put back in order. I couldn't figure out how I was supposed to react to this. Something was really bothering me. This was my patient, and they're not supposed to die. I couldn't understand it.

I walked back inside the hospital, and as I turned a corner, the kid's mom came out of the room he was in, literally right in front of me. I looked at her, and suddenly, everything just broke. Tears started literally streaming down my face. This lady didn't even miss a beat. She walked straight up and wrapped me in a hug. Held the back of my head and everything. Classic mom move. I just sobbed against her. Totally embarassing, but the ER was relatively deserted that day, and thinking back, this probably didn't last all that long.

Finally she just kinda leaned her head up, and whispered "Thank you" in my ear, and we both went back to what we'd been on our way to do. I don't remember her son's name, and I never knew hers, but that lady may be the one reason I didn't really lose it later on. She made me realize that no matter what, there's only so much I can do, and in the end the decision of who makes it and who doesn't isn't up to me.

Every year at the annual Christmas party, they hand out sweatshirts to everyone that has a successful field resuscitation in the year before. By our criteria, a successful resusciation means getting someone to the hospital with pulse and a blood pressure, which we'd done with this kid. I've never been able to bring myself to wear that sweatshirt.

I'm Finished

2006-02-13T21:42:00.000-05:00

So after the little mini review session with my crew, we checked the truck available, and were immediately dispatched to another call. This one for and overdose at an apartment complex off of Estes Dr. in Chapel Hill. I called communications back for an apartment number right before I turned the corner and saw 5 cops, an engine company, and our medic standing by with the patient. They came back with an apartment number five minutes later as we were literally loading the patient into the truck. Incredible.

As we walk over to where everyone's standing around I see our patient. This guy is huge. Has to be close to 250lbs, but not in the fat way. In the "I could kill you with my little finger" kind of way. For probably the 4th time in my life, I'm legitimately happy to be surrounded by police officers. Turns out this guy has been on a month long bender, and tonight finished off 2 cases of cheap beer, and then smoked an 8 ball. (1/8th of an ounce of crack cocaine. Doesn't sound like a lot, but ask the nearest cokehead about smoking one, and they'll tell you it's a pretty decent bit of smack.)

I'm sitting here thinking to myself, "Okay, so this guy's drunk and high, but that's been pretty much the norm for the entire month. Why did he call 911?" Well you see, he didn't. His friend did, and he decided he needed help when his friend started voicing homicidal thoughts. Remember, this guy is huge, and I'm about to be placed in an enclosed space with him. There are times when I really question my decision to work in this field.

As far as I can tell, this guy is beyond chilled out now. He's sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, totally relaxed as all of these people talk around him. Once the stretcher's ready, we help him stand and move over to the bed, and he just flops down and allows us to put the belts on him. Well, we almost put the belts on him.

The belt that should've gone across his chest managed to get twisted, and then the Chapel Hill firefighter pulled the twist into the buckle.

Now I love firefighters. They're generally great guys, and on a bad call, they make all the difference in the world. But don't hire one to do your logical thinking for you. This guy sees that the buckle is caught, and in his world when something won't move, then dammit you make it move. He proceeds to pull with all his might on this poor buckle that never did a single thing to him. I eventually convince him that it's not important, and we can just tuck the buckle away and move on. Hey, it was cold outside.

We manage to get the patient in the back of the truck, and the medic jumps on board. Jordan is riding clinicals tonight, so he gets in the back too. This leaves me standing outside with the dream team that is my crew for the evening. Our cadet can't drive, but I also don't want her in the back of our relatively small truck with 2 other people, and her ineptitude. I tell her to go to the passenger seat of the truck, and she can learn about "radio communications" enroute to the hospital. Bullshit is a specialty of mine.

I go to the front of the truck, and hop into the driver's seat to get us on the road to the hospital, and my partner stands next to the door looking at me. I roll down the window, and look back at him with a "Yes?" expression on my face.

Finally, he says "So I guees I should drive the IRV?"

Jesus.

There's two vehicles onscene, and two people that can drive them. I'm driving the ambulance, mostly so he can't piss off the already angry medic in the back of the truck. That leaves precisely one job for him, but he still needs some confirmation. All I can do is nod. By the way, if you'd like an explanation of the term IRV, and an explanation of the oh so strange EMS system in Orange County, email me. I don't have space to put it here. CDye@email.unc.edu

Anyway, we make it to the hospital, and this time the reporting duties fall to the medic and my partner is off the hook. Unfortunately, he chooses this as the time to look down at our semi-lucid patient and say, loudly, "Oh look. He looks very peaceful."

Our patient responds with a somewhat garbled "Fuck you man"

Even though I agreed with both assessments, I still felt the strong urge to take the mag-lite off of the medic's belt and thwock my partner over the head. What kind of person do you have to be to think that saying something like that is a good idea? To a patient!

Jesus.

So we're finally assigned a bed, and while we're getting ready to move the (again, huge) patient over to his new bed, the medic notices our cadet isn't (and hasn't) done anything, and asks her to come over and help move him. I kid you not, she looked like she was ready to shit her pants at the thought of sliding this guy's feet over to a new bed. Sometimes I really like our medics.

We clean up, and clear up, and it's back to the apartment for an hour's worth of sleep. This time, I finally manage to sleep, but I'm plagued with dreams of the most beautiful woman I've ever known with whom I might be making a huge mistake. Nothing like uncertainty to really make a fella's night go great.

So when we wake up in the morning and head back to the station, I'm now working on 5 1/2 hours of sleep since Friday morning, with one night of hard drinking thrown in for good measure. Unfortunately, the cheerleading competition that the squad has agreed to cover at the Dean Dome is understaffed to say the least, and I've agreed to help.

The coverage is split into two shifts, with the first lasting from 7-11. Not too bad, I'm figuring the whole day's events will finish about 3, and I can go home, crash for a while, and catch Grey's Anatomy. I'm working with Jordan, TheAsstChief, Puddinhead, KillerMiller, and DaveO. Already I can see the potential for hilarity to ensue. My mood however, is severely dampened when we find out that the event is scheduled to end at 9:30 that night. Scheduled to end. Like with an asterisk next to the word scheduled. I almost shit my pants.

We unload our stuff, plant camp chairs in front of our treatment room, and "Go to work". At special events, this generally means looking for attractive women and making fun of silly people who walk by. Unfortunately as today's cheerleading competition seems mostly for the middle school aged teams,(I'm only a little creepy) the latter activity got a little more attention.

Highlights of the day:
A woman in a full body zebra suit. She was a mascot for a cheerleading team. Seriously.

A woman in a full body star suit, (but with jeans sticking out of the bottom) See above.

A man with his hair cut in a military style medium fade, wearing a red, sparkly cape.

A man in a full Uncle Sam costume, including wig, beard, and comedically oversized bow-tie. At first I thought Tucker Carlson had come to Chapel Hill

A guy wearing a white Roca Wear cap, (brim unbent, tag still on) a white and pink striped polo (collar popped) jeans 12 sizes too big, and basketball shoes of one variety or another with only the first two pairs of eyelets laced, and the tongues of the shoes popped out in front of his pants.

A guy wearing two polo shirts, both collars popped. I tried to get Jordan to kick him in the nuts.

A guy wearing a brown Yankees cap, (brin unbent, tag still on) a brown sport coat, white button down with brown stripes, designer jeans, and brown shoes. Everything matched, but the whole effect was one of a total tool with an identity crisis. Even worse, he was apparently dating one of the relatively cute girls from the UNC club cheerleading team. Made me want to cry. (Told you I'm a big girl)

Anyway, as far as patients that day are concerned, you only need to know 2 things. Middle school girls like to hyperventilate, and then laugh about how silly they are with EMS still onscene, and that the cutest cheerleader I saw all day went to Broughton in Raleigh. I'm not even being seedy, she was 18. We only transported one patient, a 16 year old who landed wrong in a catch, and heard a pop, followed by a lot of pain in her neck. When she first walked up, she was just rubbing the side of her neck, and lateral neck pain isn't all that concerning, at least for backboarding purposes, but then she said she heard a pop, and raised everybody's pucker factor (that's another thing you'll have to email about for an explanation) by about 10. I think we really freaked her mom out when we started to strap her daughter to the board. Understandable.

I finally made it home at about 11pm, just in time to have missed Grey's Anatomy (If anyone reading this has it on DVR and wants to let me come over and watch it, let me know.) After that, I decided it would be a great idea to talk to GIII. You haven't heard a lot about her lately because there hasn't been much to say, I haven't seen her. I was starting to think she was really trying to avoid me, but I couldn't figure out a good reason for her to do that.

I finally talked to her last night, and because I'm neurotic, decided that it would be a good time to "define our relationship" or lack-thereof. I think I really started out with something to the effect of "So, about us. Is there an "us"?"

The gist was something like, she really likes me, but doesn't know if she wants to be in a relationship. Those of you that know me are now shaking your heads with pity. I continue to travel in circles. For now it looks like we're going to keep seeing each other, just without definition. Totally okay with me, provided I'm the only guy in the picture. I can't do the dating multiple people at a time thing, and I can't date someone who can either. Just messes with my head. Anyway, GIII will now be referred to as "Girl I'm Kinda Dating" or GIKD.

After that ending, and a solid 67 hours (it was now 3am) with only 5.5 hours of sleep, I was exhausted, and crashed. Slept all freaking day and went to my medic class, only to turn around after 45 minutes when my instructor saw I looked like shit, and we were doing math problems I could've figured out in the 7th grade.

Weekends are not relaxing times for me.

Continued

2006-02-12T23:26:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I agree to work the truck shift. This means I get a grand total of 30 minutes at home to shower off the lingering campfire and beer smells from the night before, and throw myself into a uniform before I need to be at the station to put the truck online. My partner for the evening is newly "cut-loose" (Squad term for capable of functioning with just one other person on the truck) and our cadet is someone whose abilities I have deep, deep doubts about. Misgivings aside, we check the truck online, and go to work.

I manage to piss off my partner (I think, he's a weird dude) by quizzing him very briefly on how he would get to a hospital from where we are. I back off when he gets mad, but at the same time, I'm not sure homeboy is gonna be someone I can count on. We make it back to the apartment, and I crash. I just hit one of the beds and try to sleep.

Note: try

Because you see, God hates me. I laid in that bed for 4 hours and didn't sleep a wink. I tossed, turned, sniffled, yawned, counted sheep (seriously) and prayed for sleep. Nothing worked. Finally at about 1:40 we were paged to Granville East for a drunk girl who was capital D-Drunk. She'd had an incredible amount of alcohol over a very short period of time, and had puked in such a way that had she been Scarlett Johannson, she would've been ugly. Since she wasn't Scarlett, she was hideous. Her sister on the other hand was kinda cute, and flirted back and forth with me all the way to the hospital. Anyway, back to the action. This girl is in the "I just want to die!" phase of true drunkeness and absolutely refuses to help us in our efforts to get her on our stretcher. We stand her up, and she collapses to the ground. Landed her bony ass right on my foot actually. After about a minute of attempted coaxing, I say fuck it, we're doing this the hard way, and I grab her under her arms while my partner grabs her feet, and we carry her bodily across the room to the stretcher. All the while this girl is begging, loudly, for me to kill her.

Here's the truth folks- if it was legal, I might've. She was loud, obnoxious, and the alcohol on her breath alone was strong enough to give me a pretty good buzz while she was shouting. After strapping her to the bed, we go down to the lobby in the elevators, and on the way out the door I'm accosted by this gray-haired old lady behind the desk who says (in a voice that clearly says "You should bow and scrape before me peon, for this is my domain) "Excuse me. Can I get some information from you please?" I don't know how to adequately describe the derision in this woman's voice, but it was there, and it pissed me off. Luckily, the federal government has provided me with a weapon for just this sort of asshole. HIPPA. This says that I can't give any sort of identifying information about a patient to anyone not involved in caring for said patient. This lady got a very quick "No ma'am, I can't." and I was out the door without looking back again.

We get to the truck, pitch Drunky McDrunkstein in, and I'm ready to be off. I push my partner and the cadet inside the back to take care of the girl, while I go drive to the hospital and talk to the cute sister. The ride to the hospital is pretty uneventful, and short of having to remind him to do a call-in to the hospital, my partner doesn't screw anything up too badly... or so I think.

Once you walk through the doors with a patient at UNC, you're expected to walk to the charge desk and give your report. In a normal partner relationship, the report is handled by the person who was in the back of the truck, since they'd theoretically know more about the patient. Apparently, my partner never understood this, because once we were inside the doors, he grabbed the clipboard and was off doing paperwork before I could blink. Meanwhile Jim the RN is looking at me like "Well...?" There are very few ways to make me madder faster than you will if you make me look stupid through your own stupidity.

I walk over to my idiot partner, and steal his info sheet so I can at least give Jim some information, while I try to figure out what should already be known. We finally move drunk girl over to her new bed, and I get some new linens for our stretcher, and start to clean the trunk. About now I remember that our cadet has been around the whole time, and has done basically nothing. Now I'm a big proponent of self-motivated training. If you don't want to learn, you won't. But at the same time, I'll push people in the right direction.

So I take the cadet aside and ask "What questions did you ask in the back of the truck"
She replied "Ummmmm... (Seriously, I've never known anyone who 'umms' like this girl) how she was feeling, and if she was going to throw up."
Now don't get me wrong, those are valid questions, but not exactly the most important right now. So I say "What sort of things might we have wanted to ask, that didn't get asked in this case?"

What followed was the longest umm in recorded history.

I finally cut her off and explained the need to actually find out a little bit about our patient's medical history, what medications they might be taking, any allergies... really basic EMT stuff. About 2 minutes into the spiel, she goes "Oh yeah! SAMPLE" (SAMPLE is an acronym to help you remember all the parts of a medical history. Comes in somewhere around day 3 of an EMT class) I just shook my head.

So on to my partner. The one who's supposed to know all this. The one who's supposed to be training her. Uggh. I go over the same things with him, and again, it's like he's hearing them for the first time! You can't show up to the hospital not knowing a damn thing about your patient. It's unprofessional, unsafe, and more than anything else, just stupid.

On a positive note, I found the sister on Facebook, (Creepy, sure, but why do you look surprised?) and I'm trying to figure out if I should send her a message.

I'm tired as hell now, and I'm ready for bed. I'll finish the night's events, and give the promised cheerleader stories tomorrow.

You Saw This Coming

2006-02-12T06:32:00.000-05:00

I'm not going to say anything about swearing off alcohol, because that's just too cliche, but the thought did cross my mind.

Blair's party friday night was perhaps the most ridiculous I've ever been. I got there at about 9:30, and the events thereafter are just kinda fuzzy. Highlights of the evening include slowly sliding off the car hood I was sitting on, laughing at the outfits the olympic athletes were wearing, laughing my ass off when Julie got hit with a dodgeball spilling her beer all over her, Blair's keg-stand, the list goes on and on.

However, I think it's fair to say that the not-so-brilliantly-shining example of "What not to do" came in the form of me. I don't really remember everything I said, but as those who know me will attest, I don't have much of a problem with being quiet at the best of times. Jordan proved to be an exceptionally good friend when he let me crash at his apartment at the end of the night (beginning of the morning). He even turned on the heat in his apartment for me. Class act that guy.

Here's the bad news. I woke up at 8am (4 1/2 hours after passing out) because I had an all-day paramedic class. I had to go to the far side of Durham at 8 in the morning to listen to 3 hours worth of neurology lecture, all but 15mins of which was review, then spent another 3 hours doing skills we'd done before. I swear to you, if they built any more redundancy into that class they'd be able to open it up to Special-Ed students.

Anyway, about halfway through the day Alex (Guy who woke up naked in Hillsboro) got a call from T-Wad asking him to work on the campus truck. Alex can't, Jordan can't, and I probably can. Like the fool that I am, I say sure I'll work it, and add to my growing list of reasons my body is about to fall apart.

More later, and I promise the story gets better. I have to go watch cheerleaders for 11 hours.

Uh oh

2006-02-10T13:40:00.000-05:00

Partying again tonight. Birthday for one of the coolest girls I know, which should be a good time. GIII turned me down for a date, though with good reason; she's got two birthdays in her own crowd to celebrate. Still, I'd like a date, and I'd like it to be her. Sometimes I really think I'm the biggest girl on Earth.

I'd also like to just go ahead and thank my friend Alex for starting my day out right. Nothing puts me in a good mood faster than waking up to a message from a friend that says "I just woke up naked in Hillsborough." I wasn't the only one having a good time last night.

Now, to keep this thing relatively on topic, I think I've decided it's time for one of the famous stories. Here, in all it's glory, is "Chris gets his ass kicked by a 15 year old girl"

I'm working in Cary, and it's a nice, slow Sunday. Normally, I'm not a fan of slow days, but I'd worked the night before too, and it had been a long week. For once, I'm totally content to lie around on the couch and relax. Turns out, this is just what the irony gods who rule all portions of EMS were looking for. The tones go off, and we're dispatched to an unconscious person just down the road.

3 minutes later, we arrive on scene to find this mom standing at the front door. She tells me that she can't get her daughter to answer her questions correctly and can't figure out what's going on. She doesn't have any kind of medical history, and there's no reason for her to be acting this way.

When we get back to the girl's bedroom, she's lying on her bed with a really strange look on her face, and a friend is sitting down at the foot of the bed. My partner starts talking to mom out in the hallway, and I try to get this girl to talk to me. She's awake, and she'll respond to me, but there's definintely something weird about the way she's talking, and the way she's acting. Everytime she looks at me it's like she's looking at something purple with 3 horns. Now I'm not the most attractive guy on Earth, but I rarely get that kind of reaction from people.

I try talking to the friend, but she's not able (or willing) to tell me anything. We check out all the usual causes for this kind of behavior, but nothing's checking out. The friend and mom both deny any drug use, and there's no alcohol smell to her. (Trust me. Do this job for a while, and you can smell booze. If you've sipped a beer in the last 3 hours, I'll know.) Her blood sugar is fine, and I'm beginning to think this girl is just weird, or full of it.

So we load her in the truck, and head down the road to the hospital. I'm in the back with this girl, and my partner is driving. While we're on the way, I ask the girl if she's hurting anywhere. This is a pretty standard, bullshit way of reassessing someone, and acting like you're doing something for them when you really aren't.

Unfortunately, this triggers this girl into ass-kicking mode. She screeches (literally screeches) "I'm hurting YOU!" and lunges off the stretcher at me. I still don't know how she got the seatbelt undone.

Now the rule when you're fighting a patient is that you don't want to hurt them. You're to use necessary force to restrain them to keep them from hurting themselves, or you. So I'm thinking "Okay, grab her arms, and hold her down until your partner can get back her and help you tie her down."

Ha.

This girl is 15 years old, maybe 5'4", a buck ten, maybe. I'm 6'6", 205. I grab this girl's arms, and realize that I'm in trouble. The worst kind. She immediately pulls away, and manages to leave 4 scratches down the side of my neck. Continuing along my plan of how best to handle this, I put my knee in her chest and try to hold her down. She, no lie, put her hands on my hips and pushed, and I went flying. Nailed the back doors, and saw stars. When I can see straight again, she's after me in a big way, and I'm now scared.

I manage to basically pitch myself on top of her, and at least keep her contained in the back of the truck until my partner manages to make it around back. While he grabs the restraints (and tries not to laugh at my predicament) this girl is literally bucking up and down, yelling things in a language neither of us understands, and generally making my life miserable. We finally manage to tie her down, and the second the last restraint is in place, the police finally arrive. Nothing like Cary's finest to really make me feel safe.

While we're still at the hospital this sweet-young-girl-turned-raving-lunatic's toxicology screen comes back, and we find out the truth: PCP. Remember when I said she was looking at me like I was purple and had 3 horns? Turns out I really did look that way to her.

Mommy's little angel decided to try a little angel dust, and was feeling NO pain in the middle of our little apocalyptic battle in the back of the truck. Wish I could say the same thing. I was sore for days.

80's Music and Me

2006-02-10T02:55:00.000-05:00

Is about like mixing fire and gasoline. Holy shit man, my head will hurt in the morning. As I sit here typing this my ears are actually still ringing. Lucy's (Rosemary and Henderson if you're in my neck of the woods) gets the nod for causing tonight's trouble. And what trouble it was.

Made it to my class tonight (The EMT class I teach.) 45 minutes there, with a good bit of it spent wondering what the really cute girl I have a thing for was thinking, and I was out. Off to the squad meeting. Wonderful presentation about us starting heavy rescue services in Orange Co. and Chief Jones shot it down so fasts I wondered the plan was flying in an Iraqi jet. That wouldn't be funny if I wasn't still a little tipsy, but I am, and it is.

2 more hours, I hand out a lot of T-shirts (Schwag for squad members. Volunteers need cool stuff too) and I managed to walk with a new pair of pants and a nifty backpack too. So now, a bit of socializing seems in order.

Lucy's comes into the story here. I decide I'm gonna ride up there with my buddy Jordan, since I'm not going to drink. If he gets bad off, I'll drive his car back to the station, and then drive him home. Good plan, right? Ha.

So we park on Rosemary, and Jordan needs to hit an ATM, because Lucy's charges a cover. (Lame.) Turns out, there's an EMS call on Franklin St. at the time, and I can't help but pay attention. I didn't really see much, but the patient obviously wasn't happy, and when our truck got onscene, it was kinda fun to wave at them and be a bystander. Anyway, on to the debauchery.

Finally arrive at Lucy's, and $2 cover later, I'm in. Officially, I'm not drinking. Riiight. So I try calling girl I'm interested in, (Hereafter referred to as GIII) only to receive no answer. I leave a voicemail saying even though I know she had some work to get done, we're out at Lucy's, and I'd love to have her join us. Great move right? Just give me time.

So now I'm not so happy with not getting an answer, and I decide a beer will help matters. So one Blue Moon later, I sign onto AIM with my phone. (yes, I'm that badass) Turns out, when I message GIII, her message says something about going out. Hmmm... I mention this to Jordan, and he asks for her number. At this point, I'm still sober enough to see this for the bad move it is, and the desperation it reeks of, so I refuse. I send a quick message about how I hope if she makes it out she too will choose Lucy's. Bleh.

Now, really kinda worried about my status with GIII, I order another drink. This is bad, because I have nearly no money, and I'm literally drinking away my gas money for the ride home. However, I no longer care. I'm getting into the swing of things now, and people start to buy me drinks. Another 2 beers later, and I'm totally okay with giving Jordan GIII's phone number. He calls, and lo and behold, she picks up!. Ego blow. Huge ego blow. To this point, I really haven't been clingy at all, though it's in my nature a bit. I really have some trouble believing this. She also shuts down Jordan (Who's so obviously playing wingman for me) and says she's headed out with friends elsewhere. Wow. I think I might be crushed. Oh wait! Here's another beer!

Turns out, this is 80s night at Lucy's, and the DJ is spinning my favorites. Several beers that I didn't pay for later, I'm on the dance floor.

Let me pause for a second, and describe myself for those of you who don't know me. I'm 6' 6" tall, about 200-205lbs, with light brown hair, and blue eyes. A tall, white guy. Dancing. Shake your heads with me now. Turns out though, I'm not doing all that bad. There are several very cute girls, all of whom seem to enjoy my company and are, no kidding, dancing with me. Ego BOOST. GIII can do whatever she wants, and I will still have a good time. This is the best news I've received in a long time. I sang to every great 80's song ever written, danced, flirted, found out one girl was engaged, found out I didn't care, and in summation, made a total fool of myself, but in the best kind of way.

Late in the evening, I realize that I still have to drive home, and stop drinking, but don't stop dancing. The lights come up, the music stops, and my night slides towards a close. A quick drive back to my vehicle, and I'm on the road home, alone. I arrive at my PC, and do what any naiiive young man (read: Me) would do. I immediately send a message to GIII inviting her to a friend's party the next night. Who's a desperate sap? Me. But who really falls fast for people, including GIII? Also me. I just want to be told one of two things. Either "Yes, I want to be with you too" or "Bug off". Either one is okay, but I want to hear it.

And ladies, here's a request. If a guy is obviously interested in you, and with me it's always obvious, be obvious back! Don't be one way when I'm around, and a different way when we're apart. You don't have to play it cool, I promise.

That's it, I'm freaking tired. Hope she'll see me tomorrow. I smell like desperation.

Continuing the Night's Debauchery

2006-02-09T02:40:00.000-05:00

Forgot about this.

So from minute one in the classes I teach, we pound into the student's heads that "Scene Safety" is the most important thing in the world. If you're dead, you aren't helping anyone, or so the theory goes anyway.

So Saturday night (pre- big wreck) we got called to Rosemary St. for a 25 year old male, struck in the head, unconscious. I rounded the corner onto Rosemary St. and met the Chapel Hill Police Department. I swear to you, they were all there. At least 12 cars. Plus an engine company from station 1, plus us, plus a medic. A HUGE crowd outside. What do I do? I pull on my gloves, and proceed to wade through the crowd looking for my patient.

Now, that's a lesson in what not to do. I mean, who knows who hit this guy, who knows who else he'd like to hit, who knows who else is in the crowd, and who knows what's really going on? The answer? Not me.

I think it was when the cop right in front of me pulled his taser and threatened to use it on a (loud) drunk girl, that I figured out maybe this wasn't the place for me. Still, I felt strangely okay. A.) People usually don't like to mess with me, I'm a decent sized dude, and B.) I rely on the general goodness of humanity. Surprising considering the people I deal with on an all too regular basis, but truthfully, some of the nicest people I've ever met are drug dealers the police have in custody.

If you go to work for the EMS agency in Durham, they give you body armor. I don't think I'd wear it. I think if I managed to get shot doing this job, either I did something to deserve it (all too likely), or that this world really is going to hell in a handbasket, and I don't want to be in it anymore.

Anyway, scene safety kids. Don't forget it.

Here goes nothing:

2006-02-09T02:02:00.000-05:00

After much counseling, and many requests, here it is: insight into my head. The question is, will I tell anyone it's here?

I think the stimulus here was the wreck I went to this weekend. A Saturday night in Chapel Hill, and this kid decided to go out drinking with his buddies and ran his car off the road. (Seawell School Road just past the railroad tracks if you're on the Hill) Long story short, he managed to totally destroy his car, and pin himself in so effectively that it took the FD 2 hours to cut him out of the car. Strong work junior. Amazingly enough, he ended up with nothing more than a broken arm. God watches out for drunks and idiots.

So how did I go from standing on the side of the road (It was cold too.) to deciding to write a blog that likely no one will ever read? The honest truth is, I'm sick of seeing what I see, and knowing what I know, and being in the places I am, and not sharing it with anyone. I talk, and people listen, but the first question is nearly always "What's the most messed up thing you've ever seen?" (Grace Webster get's the nod for being the exception to the rule. I was blown away)

Let me be honest here, I like talking about my job. I like talking about everything really. It doesn't take a whole lot to make me open my mouth. But every time you relive something in your head, it makes the same impact on you again, and again, and again. Remember your first kiss, and you go warm and fuzzy inside. Remember your first funeral, and that sorrow just wells back up inside you. The same is true for every messed up thing I've ever been involved with. This will maybe be a little cathartic. One can hope anyway.

There's a house on Walnut St. in Cary. I drive by it about once a week. More often when I'm working in Cary because it's near the station. There was a 40 year old man who lived there, and his wife found him in the bathroom lying in his own vomit. (You wouldn't believe how many people we find in bathrooms) This guy was so bad off. Puking everywhere, totally unaware of his surroundings, combative, the whole nine yards. I was new at the time, but not so new that I didn't recognize that this guy was in a lot of trouble. When we got to the hospital we found out he'd had a massive stroke. (Sub-arachnoid hemorrhage for the folks who care. Actually displaced his left hemisphere by 3cm) This guy was young. Had 3 young kids and a wife, and was likely either killed, or totally debilitated by this stroke. The reason this house stands out for me, and the reason I tell this story, is that I have no idea what really happened to him. He might've made a full recovery. He might be dead. He might be a vegetable and a total drain on his family. I'll never know, and that bothers me.