Tuesday, April 29, 2008

- Second Verse, Same at The First

I wasn't going to post about it. I swore up and down I wouldn't, that I wouldn't drag y'all down with me into this murky, rotten abyss. But as they say, misery loves company. I need to vent.

Since coming back to work and getting assigned to my new truck I've been assigned to the partner FROM HELL. She makes Lazy Partner look like Basic of the Year.

I'm not sure how often she bathes, but it is not often.

I'm not sure how much deodorant she uses, but it is not much.

I do not believe she washes her uniforms more than once a week - ie, Monday's Pot Roast stain will still be there on Thursday.

She apologizes when I coach her - at first I thought it might've been my tone or my delivery, but it wasn't. She just cringes like a beaten puppy.

She's handsy - she reached to get my pager one time, and the hand lingered on my crotch. I told her never to do it again, and to her (dubious) credit she has not.

But the worst part is her face - the bovine, mouth breathing look on her face, as she watches me lecture again about not running red lights while going code - twice she has nearly killed me. The vacant gaze as I remove the empty oxygen container and remind her the importance of changing it out when it gets low. The mind numbing, brain dead zombie stare, follow by the reflexive "IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" as I ask her why we have no spineboards.

I sat down with our supervisor, intent on having a serious talk with him. Before I opened my mouth, he says "I know. I know. It's PFH."

I nod.

"Well, I've got to hand it to you. You went the longest."

I have been working with Partner From Hell for 2 months.

"Look, we're changing some things around. You won't have to work with her anymore."

I nod again.

* * *

I tried a different approach this time, than I did with lazy partner. I learned from that I need to more of a coaching role than an authoritarian one.

I actually pity her. I tell you, I think she's just so gunshy after being split and replaced from so many partners she doesn't even know what to do anymore. I really don't know what to do. I feel it's a cop out that I'm going to a different truck, but I absolutely can no longer expend my time or energy.

On a lighter note, she did ask me what a falafel was the other day.

"I don't know...it's...it's like a terrorist hotdog."

And with that, friends, good night.


Saturday, April 26, 2008

- Hey Kids, Remember - it's Down the Block, Not Across the Street

The man, finally letting his sister in the door, says, "It's all over. Sorry about the mess."

I arrive at the home about 12 minutes later, slipping through fire fighters. The man is curled up on the floor, not responsive. The man's sister thrusts an armload of empty bottles to me.

"He took these!"

Oh. You're kidding.

I do the paramedic thing - the usual stuff with all the initials - BSI, CBG, EKG, ET, IV - and as we're rolling to the hospital and I'm calling in my report I suddenly feel like I'm having an out of body experience.

When did this become comfortable for me? I remember starting out last June I thought I was going to feel brand new everyday. I'm glad I've finally gotten use to this nonsense.

Of course, by saying this, I'm now tempting fate.



PS - If you're going to kill yourself it's really hard to screw up jumping off something tall.

EDIT - Ok, now on the newswire some guy survived a 500 foot fall, so I guess that's out too. God damnit.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

- B(M)SI

It is a typical night in Major Metropolitan Area. The young college students are out in force, and the freshman are really making a showing of themselves before the summer semester begins and the new students begin streaming in.

"Wow," I say. "She's pretty drunk."

A young lady is sitting on the concrete outside of a bar, in her own vomit, trying to text her friends to pick her up. I lean over her shoulder, and look down at the words on the screen, which consist of this:

H3fo gsad I nee ri pick me 4j0 9.


I step back as she begins to retch once more but luckily she has emptied everything in her stomach and only a few lines of drool spill from her lips. I look down, and realize that her little sundress is hiked up far enough for me to see...well, it's not important, but suffice it to say that she decided to avoid that whole "Always wear clean underwear in case you get in a wreck" issue by not dealing with underwear at all, this evening. A puddle of something has formed underneath her.

Her friend stands next to her, a concerned look flashes across her vapid features. "I think someone might have put something in her drink!"

"I agree!" I chime in. "They put alcohol in it."

The young lady reaches out with her other hand and gives the campus officer next to her something that looks like fishing line with a bit of fabric attached to part of it. Aha! Her underwear! She followed directions after all. The officer absentmindedly takes the underoos and helps the young lady to her feet. When she stands, the officer, myself, my partner, and the 50 people gathered around us realize something: they young lady has, at some point, shat herself.

Slowly, agonizingly, the officer opens his hand with the young lady's undergarments in it, and pure, unbridled horror registers on his face.

The young rookie suddenly realizes what he is holding in his hands:

Poo Drawers.


Another day in paradise, folks. God Bless the USA.