Rocket science

“I don’t really know what’s going on. They are all speaking some sort of foreign language, but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s probably French.”

“Oh, you speak French?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know they are speaking French?”

“Well, that guy over there is wearing a Koivu jersey, the lady standing next to him has a sweatshirt that says “Montreal” on it, the car has a Haitian flag license plate on the front, and they are black. Five bucks says they are Haitians, and Haitians speak either French or Creole.”

“Uhhhh… Well, we still can’t talk to her. Nobody here speaks French.”

“Excuse me, ma’am? Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Churlish

“Hi, this is C with Local Ambulance, I have a patient report I’d like to call in.”

“We are on diversion.”

“Yeah, I know. I tried to tell my patient that, but she insisted on coming to your hospital.”

“But we are on diversion.”

“I understand, but my patient wants to be seen there, so we are bringing her in. Would you like a report?”

“I don’t think you heard me. We are on diversion. You can’t bring her here.”

“Okay then. No problem. I’ll just need the name of the physician refusing to accept my patient.”

<click>

(and later on…)

“We don’t have any beds. You’ll have to wait there by the wall.”

“Okay, sure thing.”

The ER is virtually empty. The tracking board says they have five patients and more than twenty available rooms. It’s 6:45 on a Sunday morning. I spot two nurses playing checkers and drinking coffee.

Seriously, checkers.

“Hey, C, the bed in 6 is empty.” Slimm tells me after about 15 minutes of waiting and being ignored.

“Sweet. Let’s do it.”

(and later on, after being ignored for a few more minutes, and moving the patient to the empty bed in the empty ER…)

“Excuse me, would you happen to know who the nurse is for room 6?”

“We don’t have a patient in room 6.”

“Yes, you do. If you’ll look right over my shoulder, you’ll see a patient in the bed in room 6.”

“Where did that patient come from?”

“My stretcher.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Sure I can.”

“I’m getting the charge nurse!”

(charge nurse appears, obviously upset that her game of checkers was interrupted…)

“I told you we were on diversion.”

“But you hung up on me before I could get the name of the doctor refusing to see the patient.”

“But we are on diversion. I’m not accepting your patient.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“No, it isn’t. You had better put that patient back on your stretcher and leave!”

“I can’t do that.. That’s against the law. Sign here, please.”

“No!”

“Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

Overheard in the EMS room

Two guys, who work for the same company, but not Local Ambulance:

“You know, I’m thinking of getting out this business.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“No, man, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, right. What are you going to do?”

“I’m thinking of going into acting.”

“What makes you think you could be an actor?”

“I think I’m pretty good at it. I act like I care every day at work.”

Right

“Are you allergic to any medicines?”

“Yes.”

“Like…which ones?”

“Tramadol, Toradol, NSAIDS, Ibuprofren, and Meloxicam.”

“So, you’re allergic to non-narcotic pain medications?”

“Exactly.”

Picky

“Ma’am, do you think you could sign my computer for me?”

“I guess so. What am I signing?”

“The disclaimer is right here on the screen. When you finish reading and accept it, you can hit ‘OK’ and it will take you to the signature screen. This allows us to release your information to the hospital and insurance companies.”

“Oh, so standard stuff?”

“Exactly. Standard stuff. These nurses are going to have you sign the same thing for them.”

“There seems to be a problem, though.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“This isn’t my name. My last name only has one ‘e’ in it.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. I added the ‘e’ in there for the pronunciation.”

“But that isn’t how my name is spelled.”

“If I don’t spell it that way, then people will pronounce it wrong.”

“But my last name has an umlaut over the ‘u’.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but my keyboard can’t do umlauts.”

“But that isn’t my name. My name has an umlaut and only one ‘e’. I’m not signing this until you spell my name the right way.”

 

Sigh.

My partner the bigot

Slimm and I are trying to take care of a gentleman who is a guest of the County in their local Adult Detention Facility. He’s been vomiting, has a little bit of a fever, and describes a very sharp pain that started over his right kidney, then has slowly started moving down lower in his abdomen.

So he has a kidney stone.

I’m feeling generous, so I’m planning on hooking him up with some Fentanyl and Zofran. I like giving people narcotics, especially if I think they might need some, they aren’t a jackass, and they don’t beg for narcs.

Slimm is getting an IV.

Owww, man! That hurts!” He of course yells this out just as Slimm gets flash, and jerks his arm back at the same time, blowing the IV attempt.

Come on, man, it doesn’t hurt that much, and now I have to do it again.”

He gets everything ready again after putting a 4×4 over the previous puncture.

Now don’t jerk this time, man. I need to get this IV so we can give you some pain meds.”

Whatever, man.”

Big stick on three. One, two, thr-”

AWWDAMN! SONOFABITCH! MAN! That HURTS!”

Come on, man, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

Shit, man, yeah it does.”

Okay.”

Man, you’re just trying to hurt me because I’m black.”

You dumb bastard. I’M BLACK TOO, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

No narcs for this guy. Works for me. Less documentation, anyways.

Rhetorical

A “person shaking and cold after having an ultrasound” according to the dispatcher and the MDT

We are going by ourselves, and a quick glance at the directions tells me it might be a 15-minute ride. Just enough time to set my fantasy lineup for the weekend.

How do we know which house it is, if we are having trouble locating? That’s right, it’s the one with all the cars in the driveway.

Four cars this time.

Sure enough, some lady is sitting on a couch, shaking. She complains of being cold, and thinks this is some sort of a reaction to the ultrasound she had earlier.

I have already checked out, but we load the nice lady up anyways, and do a full workup.

Her pressure is better than mine, 12-lead is a sinus rhythm in the sixties, blood sugar is around 100, she’s afebrile, blah, blah, blah.

So we head on over to the hospital with, you guessed it, a guy following us in his car. He’s playing it tight, too. Less than one car length behind us, and he even has his flashers on.

Instead of brood over how stupid people are, I try to decide between starting Antonio Brown or Dez Bryant in my flex spot.

Before we can get this lady out of the ambulance, the follower is all up in Slimm’s face.

“What took you so long to get to the hospital?!”

“Nothing? It took about ten minutes.”

“Why didn’t you go emergency? Use the lights and the siren?”

“Because it wasn’t necessary? Because your wife’s vital signs are all just fine.”

“Hell, I could have brought her here in less time!”

“Okay…”

“Why the hell did I call an ambulance if I could have taken her to the hospital just the same?!”

“…uhh…”

Gotta love it when they answer their own questions.

Not even close

We’re posting. We have a new hire, and Slimm is in the back. From the sounds of it, he is in deep slumber. I’m pecking away on my computer.

“What are you doing over there?”

“Just writing.”

“Oh. What do you write?”

“I have a blog. I’m just writing some posts out.”

“Oh, you have a blog?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your blog?”

“It’s anonymous. I don’t put my name on it.”

“Oh. So, like, you write stories about EMS and stuff?”

This chick is brilliant. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Like, ohmygod! Are you Burned-Out Medic?!”

“Ha! Not even close.”

“OOOOH, I BET YOU ARE.”

I don’t think my mom even reads my blog. Heck, I don’t think my mom even knows that I have a blog.

Yonder

Yesterday, I wrote about how Slimm and I were discussing the definition of ‘yonder’ while on the way to a call to pick up a bossy lady.

Seriously, that’s what we do.

We suggest that everyone eschew the common, accepted definition of yonder, which can be found at dictionary.com. While it may be used to describe some “place, more or less distant; over there,” we propose a new definition:

yonder

[yon-der]

adjective

1. further than you can throw, but not too far to walk

“I’m going to head over yonder to pee. Holler if we get a call.”

Now you know.

Bossy

A lady fell in her home and hurt her hip. At least according to the MDT. Slimm and I debate the definition of ‘yonder’ on the way to her house.

We are met outside of a palatial townhouse but one of the fire gals. She is standing next to the truck with the bags and clipboard.

When one of the grunts has the clipboard, you know it is some serious bullshit.

“This lady fell ten days ago.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. Anyways…so she fell ten days ago, and went to the hospital. They said there was nothing wrong with her, and sent her home. Now she is in there demanding to go back to the hospital.”

“Whatever.”

After five minutes of moving this lady around and getting her outside her home, and onto the stretcher, then locking all the locks on the door, then getting her loaded into the ambulance, then hiding the key back under the statue of the cherub by the front door, we finally have her loaded into the ambulance, and I’m covered in sweat.

The South sucks in summer time.

“I want some water.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t have any water in the ambulance.”

“Well, go back inside and get me a bottle out of the fridge.”

Now, normally, I am not opposed to giving patients water. Especially when I’m pretty sure there is nothing wrong with them, but one thing I am not is an errand boy.

“Ma’am, we aren’t going back inside your house to get a bottle of water. You will have to talk to the doctor when we get to the hospital.”

“Why aren’t we moving yet? Why is it taking so long to get to the hospital?”

“Because we just got you loaded into the ambulance, and then we were discussing your water request.”

“Well, if you aren’t going to get me any water, at least take me to the hospital.”

Later:

“I want you to call my doctor.”

“You can go ahead and call him if you would like.”

“I don’t have a phone, so you need to call him.”

“That is interesting. I don’t have a phone either.”

“I want them to put me on the fourth floor of the hospital.”

“That will be up to the doctors at the hospital.”

“No, that will be up to me.”

Just a few minutes later, after I call the hospital on the radio (since I don’t have a phone):

“Ma’am, the hospital says they are on diversion, and it might take a while for them to find a bed for you in the Emergency Room.”

“I don’t want to go to the Emergency Room, I want to go to the fourth floor!”

“But you have to go through the Emergency Room.”

“Take me home.”

We are literally almost there. I can smell the antiseptic, and see the hospital through the front. “What do you mean, ‘take you home’?”

“I don’t want to wait. I want to go right to a room.”

“What are you going to do when you get home?”

“I’m going to call 911 and have someone take me to the hospital.”

“Ma’am, the people that show up when you call 911 are myself and my handsome partner up front. That would just be a huge waste of everyone’s time.”

Thankfully, Slimm has been ignoring this lady, and has pulled up onto the ramp already. But she is still at it:

“I want you to call my son.”

“Ma’am, I will make sure to get you a phone when we get inside.”

“I don’t know his number!”

“Okay, I’m sure that you can call Directory Assistance, and they will help you find his phone number in this city of several million people.”

We wheel her inside and put her against the wall while we wait for a room assignment. The charge nurse looks over my shoulder and sighs.

“Oh crap. This bitch again?”

“So you’re familiar.”

“I took care of her like, last week. Wouldn’t quit bossing people around.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Put her in triage.”

“She is going to raise a big stink.”

“I don’t care. You need me to sign something?”