Classy, mom.

I’m listening to my student talk to the mother of a child who fell and hit her head. Ain’t nothing wrong with the child, but everyone already knows that. We’re going to the crappiest hospital in the county to “get her checked out.”

Of course.

So student is sitting there just chatting away with this lady. Which is quite alright with me, because it gives me the ability to focus on Angry Birds catching up on paperwork.

This guy isn’t burned out yet. I can tell, because he is asking about stuff that I don’t care about.

“So she is your youngest child?”

“Yeah. We have two others. Two boys.”

“What are their names?”

“Well, the oldest boy is named ‘Rex’, because his daddy is Mexican, and ‘Rex’ is Spanish for ‘King.’* The next one is named ‘Prince’ because if you have a king, you have to have a prince, right?”

“Right. Well, I figured you might have named her ‘Princess’ since you already have a King and a Prince.”

“Oh, we didn’t think of that.”

“How did you come up with her name?”

“Oh, I named her ‘London’ because we were watching that fancy wedding on TV when we made her.”

This might be the classiest lady I run across ever in my life time.

 

*It’s not.’Rex’ is Latin, and this lady is an idiot.

Zero percent effective

“25YOF ABD PAIN” reads the MDT. For some reason we are going lights and sirens. As is a big red truck. I still don’t know why.

Oh, that’s right.

Policy.

Whatever. I’m trying to find a stopping point in this book, Killing Patton before we get there, so my partner for the day drives slow. Without the lights and sirens. Policy be damned.

We arrive on scene to find what appears to be the patient in the midst of what could be a day care, but is actually an apartment. A cursory head count reveals around 8 kids, nope, make that 9, because the lady watching TV is holding another one.

This lady is watching some judge show on TV with the volume at full blast. I don’t know what show it is, and I don’t know what the case was about, because the first thing I did was turn the TV off.

“Hey!”

“Well hello yourself. What seems to be going on?”

“Like I told that lady on the phone, my stomach hurts.”

“Okay. How long have you been hurting?” I ask as the unnamed partner starts to get some vitals.

“‘Bout a week.”

“Hmmm. Okay. Any nausea, or vomiting? Have you had any diarrhea? Has anyone in the house been sick lately?”

“Naw, I ain’t been sick. Just hurting.”

“Okay then. Any chance you could be pregnant?”

“Well I don’t know.”

I am always intrigued by the “I don’t know if I’m pregnant or not” answer. Understandably, I don’t have a uterus, but most women I come in contact with know if their period is late, early, or whatever.

“Well, when was your last period?”

“Like, maybe October? Or maybe September?”

“Have you been pregnant before?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay…how many times?”

“I don’t know. I gots 2 kids.”

How in the name of Sam Hill do you not know how many times you’ve been pregnant?

“Um, have you had miscarriages, or abortions?”

“I ain’t never had no miscarriage. But I had five abortions.”

Pulling out my calculator, I plug in the equations and deduce she is gravida 7.

“Well, let’s take a quick look at your belly” I say as we lay her down on the chaise. “So has anything else been strange lately? You said you haven’t been sick, but have you felt weird or anything?”

“Yeah. It’s weird. I’ve been craving chicken and pickles lately.”

“Yeah. I like chicken and pickles too. Are you sexually active?”

“Well, duh” she scoffs, as if I should be surprised.

“Fair enough. Do you use birth control?” I ask as I do some quick Leopold maneuvers. There is definitely a baby up in there.

“Some times. But not all the time. But I do take my pills. I can’t be pregnant because I’ve been taking my pills.”

“Well, if you want to put your hand right here on top of mine, you can feel the baby in your tummy.”

She does as instructed, and I push with my other hand, making the baby kick. She obviously feels it. This baby is good sized, probably 20 weeks or so, probably more, which jives with a missed period in September.

“But I can’t be pregnant!”

“Well, I don’t have an ultrasound machine, but the fact that you haven’t had a period in five months, and this fetus moving around in your belly tells me you are.”

“But I’ve been taking my pills!”

“Pills don’t always work. What kind of birth control pills do you take?”

“I don’t take birth control pills.”

I feel like I’m being set up.

“Okay then, what kind of pills do you take?”

“Haldol.”

Holy shit.

“…”

I’ve got nothing.

“…”

“What?!”

“Haldol isn’t birth control, and it wont’ stop you from getting pregnant.”

“For real?”

Unconscionable

One of my coworkers caused the death of a patient. In layman’s terms, my coworker killed someone. There really isn’t much to discuss, or wiggle-room, or room for doubt.

That’s what happens when you act arrogant and talk a big game around veteran EMTs and Paramedics – your actions are scrutinized just a little bit more.

And it doesn’t help that my coworker doesn’t understand what she did wrong. She tries to defend it, when her actions scream negligence.

We’ve all seen the EKG. We’ve heard the report. We’ve heard the excuses. We know what happened.

A person is dead now because of the negligence of one of my coworkers. Sure, the patient may have died anyways, but my coworker assured that the patient would die.

And that lady still has a job.

And she won’t be fired.

Because she shows up to work on time.

I can’t respect management that allows that to happen.

I won’t respect management.

They are unconscionable.

Detective Doggy

An “83 year old female with back pain and can’t move.” Great. This sounds serous. At least the dispatcher didn’t say “new onset of immobility.”

That’s the catchphrase lately.

We arrive at the residence, a two-story attached townhouse in a nice area. The door is locked. The fire department meets us at the door, and refuses to allow me to kick in the door.

Something about a “hidden key.”

“But she could be dying in there!”

One day, they are going to let me kick in a door, I can just feel it.

So we find this lady, who, sure enough, is 83 years old. And, what do you know, she says her back hurts. And, if you can believe it, she says she can’t move. Dispatch is 3-for-3 on this one. She is laying in bed, with her dog standing next to her. I notice the dog has stairs to get up and down the bed.

I learn the dog is a Bichon Frise’. His name is Hercule. He looks like a fluffy soccer ball. The patient/lady/owner/doggymommy says she is a big fan of Agatha Christie. She thinks I won’t get the reference.

I do, but just don’t care.

“Ma’am, we are going to put our stretcher next to your bed, then we will lift you and move you.”

“Okay. Is someone going to take my dog?”

“We will put him in your bathroom while we move you over, then we can let him out once we get you in the ambulance.”

“No, he needs to go with me.”

“Ma’am, he can’t go with you.”

“But he has separation anxiety.”

I cannot believe that I am actually hearing this shit. My eyes roll so far in the back of my head, I can see my senior prom. Slimm is dumbfounded. The fire guys are scratching their heads.

“He has separation anxiety?”

“Yes. It’s very bad.” She looks at Mr. Poirot, and kind of whispers to us “He probably needs…medication.

“Ma’am, we can’t take the dog.”

“But you have to.”

“Is he a service dog?”

“A what?”

“A service dog. Is he trained to help you with some sort of disability?”

“No, he’s like my son.”

“He’s not coming to the hospital with us.”

“Then I’m not going either.”

Sigh. “But you said you can’t move.”

“I’ll call my daughter, and she will come take Hercule, and then I will call 911 again.”

Sigh. “Sign here.”

Conundrum

“Hey, C, it is time for your annual training and stuff. These are the days you have to come in for your TB test, mask fitting, and the safety course evaluation. It should take about two hours total”

“Hmm. I work this day, this day, and that day. Can I do it when I get off work?”

“What about this day here and these two days over here?”

“I’m off those days.”

“But can’t you come in?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay, we’ll come back to that in a minute, but I think you are going to have to come in on one of your off days. We assigned you some courses online that you need to complete, too. It should take about three hours.”

“But didn’t IT just disable the Internet on the Toughbooks?”

“Yeah, you’ll have to do it at home.”

“On my off time? How am I going to get paid for that? Do I need to fill out a time exception sheet or something for HR?”

“No, you have to complete it on your own time. We can’t pay you for it.”

“So you are going to require my attendance here on my off day, and require me to do three hours of work, but aren’t going to pay me for either? I’m going to give you 5 hours of my off day, and not get compensated?”

 

And I’m the only one who sees a problem here?