Problems

It's 3:30 in the morning, I can't sleep, not because I'm not tired, I am; twenty-six calls in the last thirty-four hours and four hours to go, rather, I've got all these stories to tell and nobody to tell them to. I think I need this blog more than the people who read it.

We go through life pretty much oblivious of the drama that surrounds us. We pass thousands of homes, thousands of people, each of them with their own set of problems and joy. A few minutes ago I watched a man dying. He was a Hospice patient, or so I surmised from the Hospice folder next to his bed. Unfortunately for him, there was no DNR, no comfort One, nothing even in English. His family gathered around the bed, confused, waiting for something to happen. I couldn't communicate with them. I called the number on the folder and spoke with a hospice nurse. She informed me that the DNR was on file. Great. We took the dying man away from his home, away from his family and dragged him into the rain and to the hospital where he probably won't see the sunrise. Problems? Big ones.

A few hours ago I spoke with a woman who has been raped every day for three months by her husbands nephew. The husband allowed it. The woman was forced to submit. Tonight she had enough, tried to end it and the nephew beat her, then raped her. I have no idea how she summoned the courage to call the police. I can only hope she gets the help she needs. More problems.

A bunch of stabbings last night, more car accidents than I can count and the usual drunks and vagrants, all with their own lives, their own circumstances, their own way of coping.

A couple hours to go, I wonder what will happen next.

A New Beginning

Whether or not I write about it, Rescuing Providence will go on. My part of what happens in the city is small, all things considered. We have six rescues, fourteen engine companies, a special hazards unit, eight ladder trucks and three chiefs. These thirty-two units are staffed at all times using a four-platoon system. I’m there twenty-five percent of the time, my stories a small sampling of what goes on.

It goes on and on, the calls for help never ending. If you have read this blog from the start you have learned a little of what we do. I’ve kept most of the truly disturbing things out; I never intended to exploit other people’s tragedies. Bad things happen, they happen all of the time, all over the country, all over the world. This blog was my little way of letting people know that there are human beings on the other side of the calls, people with dreams, fears, and problems of their own, people who’s lives are affected by what they see and do. We care for you, and we care about you. Even the most jaded of my colleagues is affected by what happens around us. We can’t help it, we’re only human.

Last week, a needle stuck one of my friends during a routine call. The patient, HIV and Hepatitis C + has no idea that my friend’s life has been forever changed. She has started “The Cocktail,” a program designed to lower the chances of contracting these diseases. No intimacy, no peace of mind, no peace for six months. They tell us it is imperative we leave the job behind us during our days off. Our minds and bodies need time to heal, process and rejuvenate so we can do it all again, week after week. There will be no time to heal for my friend; she will be living this nightmare for six months.

Tragically, a seventeen-year-old girl died in a fire last week. The person in charge of Rescue 2 that night was confronted with a nightmare, a helpless person burned over ninety percent of her body. Sometimes we do all we can, try our hardest but the outcome is pre-ordained. I wonder what went through the Lieutenant’s mind as she treated the victim, knowing it was already too late. Will she be able to forget, and come back and do it again?

She will. We all will. It’s what we do.


Thank you for reading my blog. I think that this is a good time to end it, it really couldn’t go on forever. I am extremely grateful and humbled by the response. I’ve made some lasting friends along the way, people who will be part of me always.

Rescue 1, Over and Out.

Crushed

The oil truck hit him, threw him off his bicycle then ran him over. Somehow, he remained conscious. The rear wheels went over his pelvic region, crushing his hips. He could move his toes and I felt a pedal pulse. Shock had set in, his skin was cool and clammy.

"Can you call my girlfriend?" he asked, before asking for something for the pain. I took her name and number and planned to call as soon as things settled down.

Engine 13 had responded along with Rescue 1, six of us, all with a job to do.

"Seth, I need a board and collar," Steve removed the stretcher from the back of the rig while I did a primary assessment. We got him into the rescue, immobilized, vital signs taken, IV's established, hi-flow 02 running, 4 mg. of morphine in and got rolling. I picked up the phone. Paul, a firefighter from Narragansett and RN at Rhode Island Hospital answered on the first ring.

"I've got a twenty-five year old male, conscious and alert, stable vitals, struck then run over by an oil truck, diaphoretic, 4 mg morphine on board, we're about two minutes away."

Miraculously, the patient was able to answer all of my question appropriately. We had him in the trauma room in minutes, all tests underway soon thereafter.

He had just moved here from Boston. He's got a broken pelvis but all vital organs are intact and functioning. Id like to say that he is lucky, but how lucky is it to be run over by a truck?

Two years ago I responded to the exact same location for another man who was run over by an eighteen wheeler. He too lived to tell the tale.

Ironically, both accidents happened on Terminal Road.


*Update. Me and Steve checked on our patient a few hours later. He was still in the trauma room, still conscious, broken pelvis but no life threatening injuries. A few pins and he'll be as good as new, in about a year. His girlfriend and two other friends stood by him. I told his girlfriend that he had asked me to call her but forgot to mention that he did so before worrying about the pain he was in.

"He's a keeper." I told her. He asked our names, when I told him mine one of his friends asked,

"Are you Lt. Morse?"

"I am," I said, wondering what I did now.

"I read your book, It was pretty good."

"This will make a good chapter for the next one," I said.

We shook hands and left them to themselves. I couldn't help but think what a great job this is. I am truly blessed.

Of Mike and Firemen

This is from a blog I just found, Confessions of a Pioneer Woman. Thought you might like it.



Of Mike and Firemen Sep. 10, 2008

My brother, Mike, for as long as I can remember, has been obsessed with fire engines. My brother, Mike, for as long as I can remember, has been obsessed with firemen: what they eat, what they wear, and, of course, where they sleep when they’re on duty. My brother, Mike, for as long as I can remember, has been obsessed to the core with firehouses and all the goings-on there, and by the grace of God above was somehow plunked into a community in which the firemen saw fit not just to befriend my brother, but to make him a regular and integral part of their firehouse family…when it would have been much easier to turn away.
Mike has been a regular at the firehouse in our hometown since he was a boy. “Duh Firestation“, as he calls it, is his stomping ground, his hangout, his most favorite place on earth next to “Duh Ambalance“, which is a whole other story, and “Duh Country Club,” where he charges hamburgers to my dad. While at Duh Firestation, Mike sits with the firemen and watches TV, helps them prepare meals, listens to them rib one another, and—if he’s really, really lucky—goes along on the occasional middle-of-the-night call to a medical emergency or a five-alarm fire. Naturally, because of his physical limitations—short stature, sore joints, and slightly turned-in feet—Mike doesn’t suit up and climb ladders with the rest of the guys. But in terms of belonging—really, really belonging—Mike’s as much a fireman as the rest of the crew. He’s been there a lot longer than over half of them.
Firemen accept Mike—they just do. They understand him and communicate with him and treat him like one of the guys, which, in Mike’s world, is everything. And though I do think the specific fire station in our hometown should be designated a holy place, it seems that even firemen from other places possess a special capacity to understand Mike’s love for the fireman lifestyle, and to make him feel welcome.
When Mike came to visit me when I was attending USC—the same week he decided to take a joy ride in the airport shuttle before returning to his group home, but we don’t need to relive that horror—I did a little prep work before his visit. Knowing Mike’s trip to California would mean nothing if it didn’t include the words “Fire Station” somewhere in the itinerary, the day before he arrived I pulled up to one of the scores of fire stations in the Greater Los Angeles Area. Taking a deep breath, I parked my car and walked up the long driveway to the large open doors of the building, where two firemen were airing up the tire of one of the enormous fire engines.
“Hi there,” I said, smiling nervously.
“Hi,” they replied. “Can we help you?”
“Well, I have sort of an unusual request,” I began. “Um, my older brother is visiting me tomorrow, and I wonder if he might be able to drop by here and hang out for a little while?”
“So…you want to bring him by for a tour of the station?” one of them asked.
Not exactly. “Well,” I continued. “The thing is, he won’t want me coming with him. What he’ll want is for me to stay in my car, drop him off, and drive away. Would that be okay?”
They both looked at me, waiting for more information.
I smiled. The whole thing sounded ridiculous. “See, my brother…my brother is…” I hesitated. “My brother loves fire stations. Like, more than anything in the world. And if he could spend some time at an L.A. fire station, well…”
“That’d be just fine,” they both said, almost in unison. “Just drop him off anytime after he gets in tomorrow.” I didn’t have to explain anything. They had a built-in capacity to understand.
I dropped Mike off the next afternoon, just an hour after he arrived at LAX and only minutes after we enjoyed our first meal together in L.A.: chicken nuggets at McDonald’s. “Sure you don’t want me to walk you in?” I asked. I already knew the answer.
“N-n-n-n-n-n-NO I DON’T!” Mike insisted. He didn’t want his younger sister walking him through anything.
“Fine, Mike…chill out, dude!” I replied, kicking him to the curb. “I’ll be back to get you at 4:30, okay? That’ll give you an hour-and-a-half.” I had big plans that afternoon. Big plans at the Beverly Center.
“F-f-f-fine, den,” Mike said, as he walked up the driveway. Then he stopped and turned around. “I love you, lovely sister,” he said, which he often does when saying goodbye. Mike’s a very complex individual.
When I pulled up to the fire station at 4:30 sharp, I saw Mike standing just inside the large doors, talking to a group of firemen. I waved, a few of them waved back, and before I knew it, Mike was being escorted to my car by three of the guys. Mike wore an L.A.F.D. cap; his face wore a confident grin.
“Thank you SO much,” I said, rolling down my window. “I sure do appreciate it—that just made Mike’s whole trip.”
“Bring him back tomorrow,” one fireman said, smiling.
“Yeah,” said another. “We’d be glad to have him back.”
Even at age 21, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying as I drove away.
“C-c-c-can we eat at McDonald’s tonight?” Mike said.
Mike was never the sushi type.
_____________________________________________
The special grace of firemen has followed Mike wherever life has taken him. In his late teens, Mike spent a couple of years in a group home two hours away from our hometown. My parents wanted to give him the chance to break away from familiarity and experience some independence, and what Mike found instead was a fire station in the area. There, Mike was adopted as one of the crew, and spent weekends there eating with the guys, hanging out, and yes, going on calls. Though he has since returned home and now lives in his own apartment, the friendships Mike formed at that big-city fire station proved genuine, and continue today. He visits there two or three times a year, whenever he needs a break from the routine of his daily life.
During the time he was living in that city, during the time he was a regular at that fire station, a local news channel picked up on the fact that Mike, in all his (air quotes) “specialness”, had become somewhat of an adopted mascot in this local firehouse. A camera crew arrived to do a feature story, profiling Mike’s unique role in the firehouse and interviewing both him and his fireman friends about the kinds of jobs Mike did, how often he was “on duty,” etc. Mike called to tell us he was going to be on the news the following weekend. Since we weren’t in that market, he made arrangements for the director of his group home to videotape the segment for us.
As luck would have it, Mike came home to visit the next week. Our first order of business, after Mike unpacked his meticulously-rolled socks and crisply folded shirts, was to sit down as a family and watch his videotaped news feature. It turned out that Mike had actually missed the original airing because, naturally, he’d gone on a call with the firemen that evening. Firemen have their priorities in order.
“You w-w-w-will not believe what happened,” he told me. He began every story like this.
“What?” I asked, pretending to be interested. I was thinking about boys.
“A woman st-st-st-STABBED her husband at the movie theater that night!”
“Oh, really?” I asked. “That’s terrible! Is he okay?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “I think he is goin’ to make it.”
“So…did they enjoy the movie at least?” I asked.
Mike just stared at me, confused. I loved throwing these irrelevant questions at him in the middle of his fire station stories.
After we finished dinner, we congregated in the living room and Mike inserted the VHS tape into the player. We were all excited to see his television debut.
The story was nice: a female reporter showed Mike in the kitchen at the firehouse, helping to wipe off the countertops. She talked to the other firemen about their experiences with Mike. And she interviewed Mike himself, getting a few memorable quotes about why he enjoyed spending time at the fire station.
And then, in an apparent effort to add a shot of gratuitous emotion to this human interest story, the reporter ended the piece with a shot of Mike standing near the huge, red fire engine. “Mike will never be a fireman,” she narrated over the footage. “But the friendships he’s formed in this firehouse will last a lifetime.”
Mike, who’d caught every word of the piece, looked straight at me. I could see the storm brewing. I braced myself. Mike turned toward the TV screen, sat up straight, and yelled “I WILL, TOO!”
I joined my brother in his rant. “YEAH!” I yelled. “What does SHE know, anyway?”
“Yeah!” Mike continued. And he ended with a “D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dammit!” The reporter had made him mad.
I took Mike to Sonic to get a grape slush…and all was soon forgotten.
The reporter only turned out to be half right. The friendships Mike formed in that firehouse have lasted a lifetime—over twenty years so far. But on her other point, she missed the mark.
Last year, because of his contributions—and constant presence—at various firehouses in the area, Mike was presented with a plaque and citation naming him Honorary Fire Chief of our great state.
Don’t tell Mike he’ll never be something.





Of Mike and FiremenSep. 10, 2008 My brother, Mike, for as long as I can remember, has been obsessed with fire engines. My brother, Mike, for as long as I can remember, has been obsessed with firemen: what they eat, what they wear, and, of course, where they sleep when they’re on duty. My brother, Mike, for as long as I can remember, has been obsessed to the core with firehouses and all the goings-on there, and by the grace of God above was somehow plunked into a community in which the firemen saw fit not just to befriend my brother, but to make him a regular and integral part of their firehouse family…when it would have been much easier to turn away.
Mike has been a regular at the firehouse in our hometown since he was a boy. “Duh Firestation“, as he calls it, is his stomping ground, his hangout, his most favorite place on earth next to “Duh Ambalance“, which is a whole other story, and “Duh Country Club,” where he charges hamburgers to my dad. While at Duh Firestation, Mike sits with the firemen and watches TV, helps them prepare meals, listens to them rib one another, and—if he’s really, really lucky—goes along on the occasional middle-of-the-night call to a medical emergency or a five-alarm fire. Naturally, because of his physical limitations—short stature, sore joints, and slightly turned-in feet—Mike doesn’t suit up and climb ladders with the rest of the guys. But in terms of belonging—really, really belonging—Mike’s as much a fireman as the rest of the crew. He’s been there a lot longer than over half of them.
Firemen accept Mike—they just do. They understand him and communicate with him and treat him like one of the guys, which, in Mike’s world, is everything. And though I do think the specific fire station in our hometown should be designated a holy place, it seems that even firemen from other places possess a special capacity to understand Mike’s love for the fireman lifestyle, and to make him feel welcome.
When Mike came to visit me when I was attending USC—the same week he decided to take a joy ride in the airport shuttle before returning to his group home, but we don’t need to relive that horror—I did a little prep work before his visit. Knowing Mike’s trip to California would mean nothing if it didn’t include the words “Fire Station” somewhere in the itinerary, the day before he arrived I pulled up to one of the scores of fire stations in the Greater Los Angeles Area. Taking a deep breath, I parked my car and walked up the long driveway to the large open doors of the building, where two firemen were airing up the tire of one of the enormous fire engines.
“Hi there,” I said, smiling nervously.
“Hi,” they replied. “Can we help you?”
“Well, I have sort of an unusual request,” I began. “Um, my older brother is visiting me tomorrow, and I wonder if he might be able to drop by here and hang out for a little while?”
“So…you want to bring him by for a tour of the station?” one of them asked.
Not exactly. “Well,” I continued. “The thing is, he won’t want me coming with him. What he’ll want is for me to stay in my car, drop him off, and drive away. Would that be okay?”
They both looked at me, waiting for more information.
I smiled. The whole thing sounded ridiculous. “See, my brother…my brother is…” I hesitated. “My brother loves fire stations. Like, more than anything in the world. And if he could spend some time at an L.A. fire station, well…”
“That’d be just fine,” they both said, almost in unison. “Just drop him off anytime after he gets in tomorrow.” I didn’t have to explain anything. They had a built-in capacity to understand.
I dropped Mike off the next afternoon, just an hour after he arrived at LAX and only minutes after we enjoyed our first meal together in L.A.: chicken nuggets at McDonald’s. “Sure you don’t want me to walk you in?” I asked. I already knew the answer.
“N-n-n-n-n-n-NO I DON’T!” Mike insisted. He didn’t want his younger sister walking him through anything.
“Fine, Mike…chill out, dude!” I replied, kicking him to the curb. “I’ll be back to get you at 4:30, okay? That’ll give you an hour-and-a-half.” I had big plans that afternoon. Big plans at the Beverly Center.
“F-f-f-fine, den,” Mike said, as he walked up the driveway. Then he stopped and turned around. “I love you, lovely sister,” he said, which he often does when saying goodbye. Mike’s a very complex individual.
When I pulled up to the fire station at 4:30 sharp, I saw Mike standing just inside the large doors, talking to a group of firemen. I waved, a few of them waved back, and before I knew it, Mike was being escorted to my car by three of the guys. Mike wore an L.A.F.D. cap; his face wore a confident grin.
“Thank you SO much,” I said, rolling down my window. “I sure do appreciate it—that just made Mike’s whole trip.”
“Bring him back tomorrow,” one fireman said, smiling.
“Yeah,” said another. “We’d be glad to have him back.”
Even at age 21, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying as I drove away.
“C-c-c-can we eat at McDonald’s tonight?” Mike said.
Mike was never the sushi type.
_____________________________________________
The special grace of firemen has followed Mike wherever life has taken him. In his late teens, Mike spent a couple of years in a group home two hours away from our hometown. My parents wanted to give him the chance to break away from familiarity and experience some independence, and what Mike found instead was a fire station in the area. There, Mike was adopted as one of the crew, and spent weekends there eating with the guys, hanging out, and yes, going on calls. Though he has since returned home and now lives in his own apartment, the friendships Mike formed at that big-city fire station proved genuine, and continue today. He visits there two or three times a year, whenever he needs a break from the routine of his daily life.
During the time he was living in that city, during the time he was a regular at that fire station, a local news channel picked up on the fact that Mike, in all his (air quotes) “specialness”, had become somewhat of an adopted mascot in this local firehouse. A camera crew arrived to do a feature story, profiling Mike’s unique role in the firehouse and interviewing both him and his fireman friends about the kinds of jobs Mike did, how often he was “on duty,” etc. Mike called to tell us he was going to be on the news the following weekend. Since we weren’t in that market, he made arrangements for the director of his group home to videotape the segment for us.
As luck would have it, Mike came home to visit the next week. Our first order of business, after Mike unpacked his meticulously-rolled socks and crisply folded shirts, was to sit down as a family and watch his videotaped news feature. It turned out that Mike had actually missed the original airing because, naturally, he’d gone on a call with the firemen that evening. Firemen have their priorities in order.
“You w-w-w-will not believe what happened,” he told me. He began every story like this.
“What?” I asked, pretending to be interested. I was thinking about boys.
“A woman st-st-st-STABBED her husband at the movie theater that night!”
“Oh, really?” I asked. “That’s terrible! Is he okay?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “I think he is goin’ to make it.”
“So…did they enjoy the movie at least?” I asked.
Mike just stared at me, confused. I loved throwing these irrelevant questions at him in the middle of his fire station stories.
After we finished dinner, we congregated in the living room and Mike inserted the VHS tape into the player. We were all excited to see his television debut.
The story was nice: a female reporter showed Mike in the kitchen at the firehouse, helping to wipe off the countertops. She talked to the other firemen about their experiences with Mike. And she interviewed Mike himself, getting a few memorable quotes about why he enjoyed spending time at the fire station.
And then, in an apparent effort to add a shot of gratuitous emotion to this human interest story, the reporter ended the piece with a shot of Mike standing near the huge, red fire engine. “Mike will never be a fireman,” she narrated over the footage. “But the friendships he’s formed in this firehouse will last a lifetime.”
Mike, who’d caught every word of the piece, looked straight at me. I could see the storm brewing. I braced myself. Mike turned toward the TV screen, sat up straight, and yelled “I WILL, TOO!”
I joined my brother in his rant. “YEAH!” I yelled. “What does SHE know, anyway?”
“Yeah!” Mike continued. And he ended with a “D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dammit!” The reporter had made him mad.
I took Mike to Sonic to get a grape slush…and all was soon forgotten.
The reporter only turned out to be half right. The friendships Mike formed in that firehouse have lasted a lifetime—over twenty years so far. But on her other point, she missed the mark.
Last year, because of his contributions—and constant presence—at various firehouses in the area, Mike was presented with a plaque and citation naming him Honorary Fire Chief of our great state.
Don’t tell Mike he’ll never be something.

Early Start

1106 hrs. Call of the day:

Rescue 3, respond to 1000 North Main Street for a female who drank too much last night and now feels ill.

Soon after I was dispatched to a real emergency, a female who had been drinking all morning and was now intoxicated. Maybe tonight I'll be back for the same female who now feels ill.

Never Forget

I don't break out the dress blues too often. Today is one of the days I do. I'll continue to until I am no longer able. Never Forget. I won't.


Today, at a ceremony commemorating the tragic day Vice-president Joeseph Mellor and Secretary Phil Fiore read aloud the names of the firefighters and FDNY EMS personnel that perished seven years ago. I looked at the people who had gathered, friends, co-workers, brothers. As the list of names went on the image of 343 people who's lives were given that day became more clear. If I lost just one of the people next to me this morning the grief would be overwhelming.

God bless the survivors, our thoughts are with you.

I'm proud to belong to Local 799, The Providence Firefighters Union, and The Providence Fire Department.

Sneakers (not)

Nothing like the sight of a few pair of sneakers hanging from power lines to warm the old heart! Even an old geezer like me knows that this is a sign that crack dealers are open for business. Maybe a sign saying "Please arrest me" will be here next week.

Supply and Demands

Perhaps I was not my usual bubbly self when I showed up at her door at 0430 hrs. Maybe she was annoyed that we used the sirens and lights for a "non-emergency." She could have just been cranky.

"Well, excuse me for calling 911!" she said, full of self righteous indignation.
I ran out of my inhaler yesterday and need a treatment."

"We'll give you one on the way to the hospital."

"I'm not going to the hospital."

"Why did you call 911?"

"This is unbelievable!"

"Yes, it is."

I put the inhaler together, put some Albuterol into the reservoir and hooked it up to the oxygen. A fine mist came out of one end, the patient, who showed no sign of respiratory distress or any wheezing breathed it all in. We operate on a replacement policy with area hospitals. What supplies and medications we use we replace at the ER. If we don't transport, we don't replace and must resort to underground tactics to restock our supplies. At four-thirty in the morning with twenty hours in and fourteen to go the path of least resistance looks good.

"Are you done?"

She dropped the empty inhaler on the floor and left without saying a word.

"Rescue 6 in service."

One for Three

The little boy sat on the steps in front of an apartment building, crying. Rich from Engine 10 stood next to him, telling him everything would be okay. A small laceration over his left eye had stopped bleeding, a little scratch on his cheek the only other injury. A neighbor's dog had nipped the boy, probably protective of the puppies she just had.

"Where's your mom and dad?" I asked Pedro. He didn't know. I eventually found the father, pacing back and forth, unable to tell me anything about the boy, he was too upset.

"Your son is fine, he needs you."

The father walked away, said he couldn't handle this.

A police officer came over, shaking his head.

"Can you believe this guy?" he asked.

The boys grandmother appeared from the crowd, agreed to ride with us to the hospital. I asked her the usual questions, name, date of birth, address; she went one for three.

"You don't know his date of birth?" I asked.

"I have too many grand kids," she said.

"You don't know where he lives?"

"Over there, somewhere," she answered, pointing toward Broad Street.

Pedro sat on the stretcher, his big brown eyes full of tears.

Jodi Fazzano

I first met Jodi when she was unconscious. She had been jogging in South Providence when she was struck by a car. Her head struck the car's windshield, and, unfortunately, the supporting brace. Windshields give, braces do not.

Not only did she beat the odds and survive her ordeal, she continues to be an inspiration to all she meets. She has touched my life, and my families with her genuine appreciation of, well, everything. I am proud to be her friend.

Click on the title to get a glimpse of Jodi's latest endeavor.

Thank You, John

She's ninety years old, a widow and bleeding uncontrollably from a surgical incision on the right side of her face. She had a "bit of skin cancer" removed earlier in the day.

"Are you my favorites?" she asked, squinting.

"Not yet," I replied.

"I love your haircut," she mentioned to John, my partner tonight. We were both working overtime at Rescue 5. To say that John is folliclly challenged is an understatement. He bent to help Marcia to our stretcher and she impulsively rubbed his smooth head.

"She is in her glory," said Marcia's granddaughter from a few feet away as the guys from Engine 5, myself and John helped her along. John was obviously her favorite.

"What is your name?" she asked him.

"John."

She nodded her head, storing the information in her mind with the other ninety years worth of names, faces and memories.

We controlled the bleeding and headed out. Marcia's granddaughter was unfamiliar with Providence, we transported "Code C" so she could follow.

"Is Sarah still with us?" asked Marcia, concerned, looking out the rear windows as the city sped past, backwards.

"We're trying but we can't shake her," I answered, conspiratorially.

"She's good," replied Marcia, laughing.

We arrived at Roger Williams Medical Center a little past midnight. We lifted her from our stretcher to theirs, seldom a gentle experience and this was no exception. Marcia grimaced for a second then settled in. She took my partner's hand in her own and as we left said, "thank you, John."

Routine, uneventful, extraordinary.

Paracynic

I just added "Paracynic" to my blog roll because I actually learn something every time I visit, and more often than not I get a few chuckles along the way. Also, the people on his blog roll open up a whole new world of people for me to visit.

So anyway...

0800. Responding to a hi-rise for a dialysis patient "not feeling well." Engine 15 is first on scene and gives the report.

"Engine 15 to Fire Alarm, advise rescue we have an unconscious sixty-one year old male, assessing vitals."

"Rescue 1, Received," I hung the mike back in the cradle.

The address was on the opposite side of the city from Rescue 1, response time about ten minutes. We arrived on scene to find a man barely breathing with a b/p of 80/40. A CNA and the patients best friend stood to the side as we moved the man from his recliner to our stretcher. The CNA offered to clean the patient who had lost control of his bowels, I didn't want to delay treatment or transport.

"Is there any family?" I asked. Neither answered.

"Does he have and advanced directive paperwork?" Neither knew.

The apartment was barely furnished, just a few pieces of furniture and an old TV. What did lonely people do before TV's, I wondered as we moved him out of his home, probably for the last time. Or, are they lonely because of the TV?

The patent's "best friend" decided he was too busy to come with us to the ER, said he would "check later." I told him there may not be a later, he walked away.

I guess people think they will live forever, or if they don't somehow, some way, things will work out for them when their time comes. if only they could be on our side of resuscitation efforts, I think they would get their paperwork done and save themselves a lot of pain and uncomfortable procedures.

Alive

I first felt it nearly seventeen years ago. A glow in the distance, cold wind snapping through the tiller cab, not needed to keep me awake, the promise of fire in the distance got my heart pumping. A tillerman on the Providence Fire Department heading toward a two alarm fire in the middle of a cold winter night is the King of the World. Everything is in focus, the rear of the ladder truck your only responsibility, the wheel in your hands keeping you grounded. Three triple deckers burning, high tension wires falling to the ground. The first fire building let go, the front of the building collapsing in front of Engine 12, cutting off their water supply. A forth home ready to ignite, the vinyl siding already melting to the ground, the family who lived there running out the front door. Me and Danny Brodeur taking a 2 1/2’ attack line from the rear of Engine 7, Carl Richards at the pump squeezing a little more water out of the overburdened pump so we could save the exposure. Lieutenant Healy, standing in the loft of the third fire building before the smoke had cleared, looking toward the east, simply stating “we’ll be here at sunrise.”

The same feeling returns, again and again, this time years later, in the loft of an abandoned home on Bowen Street, me and Peter Sperdutti, heavy fire, a window and a charged 1 ¾ line. Two other houses burned on either side of us. I was on my third pack, just about spent, as was everybody else on this Memorial Day afternoon. It was us or the fire. The fire lost.

Me and Chris Lisi on the third floor of a filthy tenement on Smith Hill. A woman called because her husband was sick. He took his last breaths as we walked into their apartment. We strapped him onto the stair chair and hauled him out. I called for back-up, Engine 7 could be heard in the distance as we put the man on the stretcher and started CPR. I sat in the captain’s chair and watched the guys work, IV, 02, ekg, epi, atropine, check pulse, epi, atropine…all the way to the ER. They had a pulse when we left. When things quieted down I looked into the back of the rescue, recalling the effort just put forth and felt it again.

A guy with two bullets in his head, still breathing, fighting, dying. We did our thing, got him to the trauma room. He’s still alive. I wrote about it and posted the experience on this blog. A few days later, the patient’s sister left a comment after reading the post, thanked us for a job well done and let me know her brother was still alive, still fighting. That same feeling returned, stronger than ever.

I am not a religious man. I don’t believe in fate, or destiny. I’m not sure of the existence of God. All that I’m sure of is what see and feel. The things I’ve seen in seventeen years make it difficult to believe in much of anything. What I’ve felt is a different story. When surrounded by chaos, my life and the lives of others relying on how we respond to the challenge before us an indescribable calm takes over. It’s as if the rest of my time is spent merely existing, it's when when crisis hits and the outcome is in question that I truly feel alive.