I'm sleeping happily at the station when the call comes in. It is Terminally Anxious Dispatcher.
"Hey, MedicMarch. Priority To Mosquito Bayou for an Unknown. 54 yo male rolling around in bed."
"Maybe he's trying to get comfortable?"
"Ha. Just get in the unit and run the call."
My partner is hauling ass. I believe we've gone plaid.
"Where do I turn? Where do I turn? I don't know where I'm going!"
I'm trying to coach her.
"Slow down, slow down, slow down, CAR CAR CAR! CAR! CAR! Turn Left! LEFT! LEFT LE-shit."
"Where, up there?"
"No, the road you passed."
She is not applying the brakes yet. "Huh?"
"The road was back there. Turn around."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier to turn?"
"If we weren't traveling at ludicrous speed, we would've been OK."
"Nothing. Turn Around."
We make the turn and head back towards the scene.
"This is the house. The House. HOUSE. THIS IS THE HOUSE. STOP, STOP, THIS IS IT."
We have issues.
A man in a wheelchair is worriedly waving us in from the drive way. "In heah, In heah. He sick."
We roll our equipment inside to find a man rolling around in his bed, back and forth. His wife is holding his hand, kneeling by his bedside, crying. Pages are ripped out from a bible, scattered all over the room. I'm trying to remember our protocol for demonic possession as I introduce myself.
"I'm MedicMarch with XXXX EMS. How long has he been like this?"
She looks up. "He like this since I got home!"
My boot kicks over an empty bottle of SoCo.
"He have any medical problems?" I ask. "Or has he been reading the Necronomicon?"
"He has back problems, and he's got the pressure. Oh, and he got the sugar."
Aha. Most likely our culprit. His CBG is 28.
The man in the wheelchair has managed to wheel to the threshold of the door. "My daddy! My daddy! What's wrong with my daddy? Oh Jesus, help us! My Lord and Savior God, who protects us from all evil, protect us from the devil in my daddy!"
The wife kneeling by his side is chanting in tongues. I tell my partner to assemble my D50 as I set up my IV equipment. The man in bed is hooting- Hooo! Hooo! Hooo! Just like a white winged dove...I start humming.
"The devil's in him!" The man's wife is frantic. "He was reading the bible but then he started tearing out the pages and eating them."
"Not very nutritious, those bible pages. I hear the Diamond Sutra's a little more sugary. Probably would've been better."
"Nothing, ma'am. Is he allergic to anything?"
The chanting is increasing in volume, and it's at least 100 degrees in the room. It's a circus. My partner drops the D50 and it shatters on the tile floor. "Grab another from the box in the unit," I tell her. Under my breath, I say to myself "This could not get any worse."
This is what we refer to in the business as a "Mistake."
You see, fate has a hard-on for jinxing health care workers.
At this moment, the family's daughter runs in. She sees me kneeling over her gyrating father, the son yelling, and the mom crying, and does the only thing she can - runs up to me, and grabs my hands, which are currently uncapping an 18g IV.
"What are you doin' to my daddy?!"
I don't answer immediately, as she stares down at my hand, which now has an 18g hole in the meaty part of the palm. I look down at my hand as well. "I was going to start an IV on him, but it's going to wait for a second now."
I take off my glove, put a 4x4 on my hand, and put another glove on, grab another needle.
"Ok, ma'am, I need your help to start this IV on him, so I can fix his sugar."
My partner, meanwhile, has come back. The man is rolling around. "Keep his arm still for me, guys."
I sink the IV and manage to get it secured. I push the sugar in. The son and mother are continuing their litany. Hallelujahs and Our Fathers bounce around the room, and any moment I expect a tambourine player to bust out of the closet, sweaty, messing around with a rattle snake.
The man comes around.
"Oh Jesus! Jesus Healed my father! Oh thank you! Jesus, Thank you! Jesus be praised, my lord and savior be praised."
Damn it, I hate it when someone else gets the credit for my work.
We start to get the man loaded up. Just as we are leaving the residence the man's pastor pulls up in a brand new caddy, he is dressed impeccably in a black suit, and his hair has been laid out, parted down the middle of his head.
He stops us. "A prayer for our brother."
He goes into another chorus of Hail Marys and Thank you Jees-us-uhs. I look at my watch.
We get it wrapped up, finally, and bring the man to the Catholic Hospital down the road. We are informed that it will be a 2 or 3 hour wait for a room.
Guess Jesus couldn't help us out with that one.