wThe sun shines down in Backwater Parish as Dirty D and I hop into the unit. Quick behind us are the other crew at our station - we've gotten two calls at the same place, which to me says that they're probably the same call, but hey, what do I know?
Sure enough, as we pull up to the Public Services building, I see a deputy wave to us, and then give the other truck a confused look. "Why they here?"
"We got two calls. Just one patient, right?"
"Ayuh." (This deputy is a transplant to Backwater Parish from one of the Great Lakes states) "Seems this young man in there had a bit too much too drink today....and, you know, every day this week before today. Seems he's making his inspection on the PS Building today and decided this would be a good place to take a nap. "
"Well, shit. Ight."
We drag our gear into the building, wear a ring of public servants are gathered around, eyeing our patient. It looks like FD has already spinaled him, and there he lies in all his glory, babbling obscenities. When I kneel down next to him, he tries to swing at me. Luckily he's neglected to remember his arm has been placed in between the top and bottom of the the spineboard strap , and actually end up losing control of his arm and punching himself on his chest. His arm then flops back down, and I make the mistake of getting within a three foot radius of his mouth. His breath is...tough. I mean, I've smelt some rough stuff in my time, but this guy could probably contract his halitosis to the Department of Defense. I can't imagine a prisoner at Guantanamo would be able to stand to more then 30 or 45 seconds of direct exposure before succumbing and telling us where Osama really is (oh man, just now I typed Obama instead of Osama. Wow. That could've raised some hell).
The answers all of my inquires with obscenities. He's about as drunk as I've seen someone be and still be conscious. I know long term alcoholics can usually tolerate pretty high Blood Alcohol levels, and I'm almost sure the will have a pool running after they draw labs at the ER.
We load him up. He's not going to like this IV much, and I ask Dirty to hold the patient's arm while I mess with it. I thread a 16 into the guy's hand (honestly, I could've started this IV with an Ink Pen if I had needed too - it always blows my mind that the hardworking mother-of-three, member-of-the-Ladies' Aux, productive member of society, who just got T-boned by some drunken jackass and can't hold a pressure, will have tiny, rolling veins, and that the other other driver who will be fine except for being drunk, will have pipes. Sometimes it's not fair) and do a quick blood draw. This is when it happens.
Apparently Dirty had undone the top strap when I asked him to hold the guys arm. Drunky realizes he's got mobility again, reaches across his body, and takes another swing at me. I see it coming out of the corner of my eye and manage to take it on my shoulder instead of my face. The cop reaches in and, pretty forcefully, drags the guys arm back down. Luckily I've managed to hold onto my IV, and finish taping it down. Time to go. I do not want to have fisticuffs with Drunky.
Dirty gets us to the hospital pretty fast, and after calling a report I try to get some information from the guy. He responds only with curses and petty vulgarities, which I will not sully my blog with (yeah, right.).
We wheel him into the ER and the Charge Nurse comes over to me. "What's his name?"
"Heh, yeah, I know, right? No, really what's his name?"
"I'm serious, he told me his name is Motherfucker. Ask him."
"Sir, what's your name?"
The man eyes her speculatively, then back at me. He lets out a small belch.
"My name ish...motherfucker!"
Impressed by his own rapier like wit, he dissolves into cackles.
"Allright, I'll get the rest from you," Charge says. "Hmm. What's his DOB?"
"He said it was the 1st of Bitch, Nineteen-Sixty-Fuck-You. And before you ask, his social is Kill Whitey."
Charge nurse looks at him dubiously. "What's that smell?"
"A new weapon for the War on Terror. "