Sex, gender, and yet another complaint

“I’m going to sit behind you and call the hospital to let them know we’re coming, okay?”

“Okay”

<Ring, ring>

“Emergency Room, Brandy.”

“Hey Brandy, it’s C on Med 2. I’ve got a report for you.”

“Alright, whatchagot?”

“We’re about ten minutes away. We have a twenty-year-old male who-

“Umm, excuse me?”

“Hang on a sec, Brandy…Yes?”

“Umm, did you just assume my gender?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you just ASSUME my GENDER?”

“I have no idea – what – no…wait – what?”

“You don’t know me, and you just ASSUME that I’m a MAN?”

“Well, I did see your penis a few minutes ago, remember? When you were running around your apartment naked and screaming?”

“That doesn’t make me a MAN!”

“But, like, seriously, you have a penis. Your sex is male. Your gender is none of-”

“My penis doesn’t make me a man!”

***

Seriously, though. Sex and gender are two different things. A patient’s gender doesn’t matter one bit to me, and neither does their sex. A patient’s sex only matters on the PCR, and in the patient report. I’m just saying, if you’ve got a penis, your sex is male. That doesn’t mean your gender is, but again, I don’t care.

I really don’t have time for this. I’m getting tired of writing these reports.

 

Burn

Shaq and I are dispatched to a suicide attempt by carbon monoxide poisoning. The MDT says someone has been in their running car in the locked garage all night. The caller says the person is still alive, and that they have turned the car off, and opened the garage door.

PD has us staging down the road.

It’s barely 5 in the morning.

We didn’t get breakfast this morning.

And I haven’t tucked my shirt in yet.

PD clears us to come in to the house. They gave me just enough time to tuck my shirt in.

As we get close, one of the cops stops us in the street.

“This guy is being a jackass, and he might have a weapon in the car or something. So just hang out here for a little while, cool?”

You don’t have to tell me twice. “Cool, bro. Just let us know when to do what.”

So Shaq puts the ambulance back in park. I start to wonder what the hospital is serving for breakfast in the cafeteria. Maybe they’ll have those cheese grits again. Or the hashbrown casserole. My culinary contemplation is interrupted by a knock on Shaq’s window.

Some guy in a bathrobe obviously needs some attention.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” asks my partner.

“Yeah. What’s going on up there?” pointing at the house in the cul-de-sac. “What happened?”

“Nothing, really. The police are taking care of everything.”

“Well why is the ambulance here?”

“I’m not really certain, sir. I imagine that someone is sick.”

“Well, what were you dispatched to?”

“I’m not really certain I can tell you that.”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

Shaq looks at me. I shrug. I’ve only halfway been paying attention to their conversation, anyways. “No, sir. I don’t believe we have ever met.”

“I’m one of your medical directors, Doctor Bathrobe.”

This just got interesting.

“Well, Doctor Bathrobe, you should certainly be aware of the fact that I’m not supposed to share any information with the general public. That could possibly be a HIPAA violation. If you would like to call dispatch, I am certain they would be happy to give you any information you desired.”

Bad dreams

A female smells gas in her home. Dispatch tells us to stage with the engine. We don’t know why, but really don’t care.

A few minutes later, we find out. There was an alleged prowler walking around the trailer park. And now there is a ‘person down inside the home.’

According to the caller, at least.

Finally we make it on scene, after I lose a game of Mahjong, and Slimm finishes his coffee.

The fire lieutenant tells the caller that there is no natural gas hookup

“Maybe it is carbon monoxide?”

“There is nothing in your home that would put off carbon monoxide.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe I had a bad dream.”

“Maybe.”

I don’t chase patients

A call for a person “out of their mind.” PD is already there.

“He’s crazy.”

“No joke. The dispatcher told us that. Why does he need to go to the hospital?”

“His mom wants him evaluated.”

“Why?”

“He’s crazy.”

I’m getting nowhere with this guy, so Newguy and I walk into the house and find the alleged patient and his mommy. The patient is in his mid-thirties, so I don’t know why he calls her “mommy” but who am I to judge?

“Ma’am, why does your son need to go to the hospital?”

“Because he’s crazy.”

I don’t even bother asking again. I just turn to the dude on the couch.

“You ready to go?”

“I guess.”

Cut to 10 minutes later, going down the road. The dude on the couch, who is now the dude on the stretcher, hasn’t said a word. He won’t answer my questions, or talk to me at all, so I’m just sitting in my chair catching up on paperwork.

The ambulance comes to a stop at a red light. Newguy is listening to a Handel on the Law podcast, and I’m kinda trying to pay attention to that.

‘Click click click.’

Before I look up, dude on the stretcher is now dude jumping out the back door. He takes off like an NFL running back with an open field in front of him.

I mean, he is gone.

“Med four radio.”

“Med four.”

“Show us ten-eight. Our patient left the ambulance and ran. Maybe PD might want to look for him.”

“Which direction did he go, med four?”

“I think north.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I don’t chase people.”

No comprende’

A call for a “person choking” at the nursing home, in the “Memory Care Unit.”

Caring for something that isn’t there any more.

On the way in, we walk through the obligatory keyed-entry door, and Newguy points out a sign just inside the unit.

“New Memories Made Here!”

Kinda ironic.

A crowd of people is gathered around an old feller in a wheelchair at a dining table. Sure enough, he’s choking. As in, not breathing. He’s blue, but looking around. Close to death.

Newguy springs into action like some sort of caped superhero, sans cape, and performs a few abdominal thrusts. Our patient becomes unresponsive, and we move him to the floor, when I swoop in like the superhero’s sidekick with my trusty laryngoscope.

“What the hell is that? Bro, hand me the forceps real quick.”

There’s something in the airway, sho’ nuff. And I’m about to get that junk out.

The forceps go in, grab the food bolus, and I withdraw it slowly. As the food comes into his mouth, the patient starts to gag, cough, and miraculously, his skin changes color. This guy might be a chameleon.

I look at Newguy. “Just who is the sidekick NOW?”

Somebody examines the food bolus, and quickly deduces that it is roughly two-thirds of a lightly chewed Nutter Butter bar.

“Who gave him the cookie?”

“I did.”

“His arm band says ‘Nectar-thick liquids only’.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. I don’t read English.”