Saturday, August 30, 2008

- Please Stand By

Hey guys, going off the air for a moment while Hurricane Overtime chugs its way over here. Wish my ass luck! And to all my broskis down here, see you in the field!


-MM


EDIT - If you guys check out AD I'm sure you saw his VP Palin post. Anyway, check this out, from Vpilf.com

I mean, c'mon, was anybody really surprised that an old, ailing, white man picked some young foxy thing to stay at his big mansion? Really?

Sunday, August 24, 2008

- A Love Song for Izz

First off, a bit of blog maintainin'-cleared some deadwood from the links column that were no longer active or deleted (relax, AD, you're still number one, on my blog and in my heart).

I haven't really posted about my new partner, Izzy - afraid I'd jinx myself, and they'd stick me with some mouth-breather with no sense of humor or personal hygiene. All good things come to an end, however, and she's leaving me anyway, to go back to finish school.

It's been an unusual experience for me, not having to worry about WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING doing while I'm trying to provide patient care. I know that sounds pretty stuck-up and egotistical, maybe even para-godish, if you will-that I can't trust someone else to function without micromanaging them- but I've seemed to have been paired with a string of idiots who barely know their way around a stethoscope and apparently think that the best way to operate the ambulance is to hit every pothole on the way to the hospital. I thought maybe, after one particular string of stupid, that maybe my standards were too high or that I expected too much from someone barely making 10.00/hr. I consider myself a patient person, and after crappy partner #3 resolved I needed to take more of a coaching approach. Cause, maybe it is possible I'm overly hard to please.

Then I got Izzy.

I was worried initially, because she was BRAND NEW to the company and to EMS in general. I had formulated plans based on my past experience of what we were going to work on. Imagine my sup rise when she showed up on the first day on time and knocked out her inventory, and then came to me what we needed and we were missing. I know that sounds like, Hey March, the only reason you like it is because she's stroking your ego, but I mean, shit. Us not having a stair chair is shit that I need to know, son.

Let me Tell you:

She drives like magic - unless it's 4 AM and we've been getting our asses kicked, then she can be a little rough, but shit, so am I -

She does her inventory.

She learns from call to call and anticipates what I'm going to ask for. Or, when I give a string of orders, does them quickly and efficiently.

She bought me lunch a couple of times.

She has no fear or hesitation - if I ask her to stick her hand in something gross, or do something that involves nastiness, she ovaries up and fucking handles it. No pause, no bullshit. I know I can count on her to handle her bidness when the shit hits the fan.

She asks questions.

She has a sense of humor.

She's not afraid to call me on my shit.

She can actually lift (she's maybe 5'7 or '8 and weighs like 115? If that much? She's tough!).

She handles all the mundane shit most people don't think about when they get into EMS - station duties, washing the truck, etc - with the same enthusiasm of running an emergency call.

I think that last one says it all - that's the hurdle, I think, for a lot of new employees - when they realize it ain't all cardiac arrests and catching babies, that 90 percent of our call volume is routine bullshit. That we have to wash and clean and be maids in addition to being lifesavers and heartbreakers.

Yeah, it doesn't hurt that she can handle her beer like a pro, either.


But, like I said, all good things come to an end. So tomorrow when I show up to work, she will be reporting to class. As I'm tucking in a dialysis patient, she will be studying the microbiology of organisms. As I run a code she will be running from one class to the next. As I return from yet another BS call she will be doing homework.


So Izzy, my hat's off to you. It's been an incredible two months and I wish you luck in your future endeavors. You've restored my faith in new people to the company, and you've taught me a lot about myself. I'm going to miss you.

-MM

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

- The Intoxicated Avenger

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?"

"Motherfucker."

"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. "



-MM