Date:	2008-07-21 20:48
Subject:	Got milk?
Security:	Public
Mood:	exhausted
Music:	Korn "Make Believe"

So we get a call to back up a BLS unit for a Cardiac. She's 30 with no history of heart problems or high blood pressure, but we check her out anyway, 'cuz well, that's our job. Anyhoo, her blood pressure, heart rate and EKG are all totally normal, plus after a few minutes of speaking to the patient, it sounds less heart-related and more stomach-related. (This is a common mistake, by the way. Your stomach is located much higher up than where most people think it is; when people say their stomach hurts they are usually grabbing the area around and below the bellybutton, whereas your stomach is actually pretty close to the center of your torso.)

So at any rate, the woman is describing her symptoms, and she says that about two hours after she ate a sandwich it "felt like it got stuck in her chest."

Me: For the record, a sandwich can't get stuck in your chest. It can get stuck in your esophagus, but that's called choking. Plus it would be right away, while you were eating, not two hours later.
Patient: Really?
Me: Well, maybe if you scratched the lining of your esophagus while you ate, you would feel pain in the area of your chest. But I guarantee there's no sandwich in there at this point.
Patient: Huh. But I feel nauseous, and I stuck my fingers down my throat to make myself throw up. Ever since I ate it, I haven't felt right.

I nod to the 6-month-old infant on her lap.

Me: Well, you just had a kid a few months ago. When you're pregnant, your body goes through all kinds of hormone changes. Maybe you've developed a new food allergy. You never know. What was on your sandwich?
Patient: Ham, cheese, lettuce, mayo, bread...you know, regular stuff.
Me: Huh. Well, It doesn't exactly sound like food poisoning, 'cuz you're not shitting your brains out. But who knows? It could be. Or maybe you've become lactose intolerant.
Patient: Oh, I'm already lactose intolerant.
Me: Oh. Well. Wait...you had cheese on your sandwich.
Patient: Yeah.
Me: But you're lactose-intolerant.

She raises her eyebrows and looks at me as if I am retarded.

Patient: Yeah, I'm lactose-intolerant. When I drink MILK.
Me: But cheese is...is made from...

She continues to stare at me impatiently.

*pause*

*pause*

Me (sighing): Let's just go.

Date:	2008-07-17 03:27
Subject:	Danger, Will Robinson, danger!
Security:	Public
Mood:	exhausted
Music:	Fields of the Nephilim "Secrets"

So the first call of the night starts out as a double shooting. Normally, we don't get called for that, but it comes in as an Arrest, so we're assigned, as well as a BLS crew, a boss and an engine company.

As we roll up, I can see that this is going to suck mightily: random, shirtless young men are pounding parked cars with their fists, several young girls scream and wail as they flop and flail on the pavement, and the cops are already stringing up the "Crime Scene Do Not Cross" tape. Yeah. This is not going to get any better anytime soon. This is, after all, East New York.

The engine company has pulled up with us, and the Fire Lieutenant is standing alongside me as he surveys the rapidly escalating scene.

Lt: I'm not going in there.
Me: What?
Lt: It's dangerous, I'm not going in there.

*pause*

Me: Ummm, you run into FIRE.

*pause*

Me: There are patients in there.

The Lieutenant shrugs.

Lt: Let the cops bring them out.

I sigh in disgust, and elbow past the Lieutenant, the screaming crowd and underneath the yellow tape. Alone.

The first thing I see is a young girl of about 18, holding the head of a boy of approximately the same age. I look to the nearest cop.

Me: What do we have?
Cop: Two shot.

I feel for the young man's carotid (neck) pulse, and get nothing. I shake my head.

Me: Nothing.
Cop: Really?
Me: Yeah. Really. Where's the other guy?

I have already started moving away from the first victim. Now, in theory, this is what our ideal situation looks like. It's called Rapid Triage, and it basically means that (in the presence of more than one patient) we devote the most resources toward the patient(s) most likely to survive.

In reality, this does NOT sit well with the girl holding the Dead Man's head. And so, in reality, she starts screaming at me to DO SOMETHING, while the crowd starts screaming at her to MAKE ME do something, while I keep screaming for my partner to HOLY SHIT bring whatever we need to keep the second guy alive.

And in between all of that, I pray that the person who shot my patient isn't hanging around and getting ready to shoot me next.

So as we race toward the ambulance, my patient turns to me and asks me a few questions.

Patient: I'm shot.
Me: Yeah, I noticed.
Patient: I'm gonna die?
Me: Eventually. Probably not today. Just relax.

He falls silent. And as I check his IV, blood pressure and heart rate, I can't help but think of the Fire Lieutenant who refused to enter the scene. And in a way, I can't blame him. Fire is an object. It behaves in predictable, obvious patterns. It merely *is*. It is not *people.* People are unpredictable, dangerous and intelligent. And they hate. They want revenge. They do things we can't anticipate, could never imagine and don't want to believe. And they are the very things I walk into, every single call of every single day.

I find it amusing that the Fire Guys think our job is bullshit, yet they find the scenes that we regularly roll up on too dangerous to enter.

So I guess what I'm basically trying to say is, the next time you see them, give your friendly neighborhood EMTs or Paramedics a pat on the back. Or better yet, tell the NY Post or the Daily News about how hard, shitty and unappreciated their jobs are, so maybe we can gain an OUNCE of respect for doing the kind of jobs that most people wouldn't dream of doing in their worst nightmares for a paycheck that averages barely above the manager's salary at Baskin Robbins.

Just saying, is all.

Date:	2008-06-17 00:36
Subject:	Awkward
Security:	Public
Mood:	happy
Music:	Lords of Acid vs. Sean Paul "Sit on It and Get Busy"

So my mother calls me to wish me a happy birthday. By the noise in the background, she can tell I'm not home, and so she asks where I am.

Yeah.

It's really hard to tell your mother that you're in the Museum of Sex, watching your boyfriend push the red button that makes the Orgasmatron rotate the giant, 12-inch dildo directly in front of (and, in fact, startling) four underage Japanese tourist chicks while trying not to pee your pants laughing.

Holy *shit* do I love this city.

Date:	2008-06-13 03:57
Subject:	Bravery
Security:	Public
Mood:	sad

So yesterday, I went to the wake of a fellow MOS (Member Of Service).

His name was David Mangaran, and he was an EMT at Battalion 35, where I first started in the FDNY. We had never worked together personally, and he started just before I went to medic school, so I didn't know him very well. But when I learned of his tragic death (he lost control of his motorcycle and crashed into the back of a minivan on his way home from work) I felt that I needed to pay my respects. Fer chrissakes, he was only 27. He had at least one kid, and I heard a rumor that his widow was pregnant. Jeezuzfuckingchrist.

So anyways, I showed up at the funeral home. I don't want to say how nice it was to see all my old colleagues, because that might belittle the situation, but, well, there is it. I saw Jason and Frankie, my old partners, and I missed them horribly. I saw Linda (go read the Girl In The Fridge episode) and I missed her too. But mostly, I saw a fellow EMS member, his life cut tragically short, and my heart broke for his family.

Believe me, I am *good* at funerals. I make people laugh, I am at ease. I am pretty much *OK*. I like to put the "fun" in "funeral," so to speak. And this one was no different. Yeah, maybe I had something in me twinge when Dave's brother thanked us all for being there, but my outside never flinched. It was still okee-dokee.

But at the end, we all lined up outside the funeral home. I'd never done this before; apparently we were to salute the family as they exited the building, just as we'd done for the coffin inside.

So we're in two lines, and I'm in the second row. Our Captain calls for attention, and through the doorway comes two forlorn figures, Dave's widow, and his seven-year-old son.

We salute. It is Military-Braveness-And-Respect-And-Whatever, at its Finest.

And I'm standing there, and I'm saluting, and still, everything is okay.

Until David's little boy leaves his mother's side. He descends the five steps and stands before us. And he reaches out to the EMT in the first row, and shakes his hand.

It's right in front of me, but I refuse to see. I think, maybe the kid will get bored, and stop what he's doing before he gets to me. I think, I will not get upset.

But there he is. Going down the line. To everyone. But I refuse to see. I will not get upset.

And suddenly, there he is. In front of me. He looks so much like my nephew, I have to check myself before I focus on him.

He looks up at me, with big, saddened eyes, and my heart tries hard not to break in half.

"Thank you," he says. And shakes my hand. I grab his tiny hand with both of mine.

"No, thank *you*", I say. "Your father would be very proud."

He moves on down the line, as a tear runs down my cheek, despite my best efforts.

I have not seen a more brave man, in all my years in EMS.

It is a full day later, and I can't shake the image from my head.

I don't pray, but for those of you who do, please offer one up to this fine man, and his brave son.

Amen.

Date:	2008-05-31 17:05
Subject:	What happened?
Security:	Public
Mood:	contemplative

For no reason at all, I went back to January of 2001 in this journal and read a few entries. And I realized that I used to be a lot funnier before I had this job. Now I'm kinda dismal and snarky. Okay, snarkiER. I'm not sure what the problem is. Maybe I just need to write more stories about things that *aren't* my job? I dunno.

Date:	2008-05-24 23:41
Subject:	Hot For Teacher
Security:	Public
Mood:	nostalgic
Music:	Van Halen "1984"

So after work on Friday, I went to Madison Square Garden to work my other job, which is basically the same thing as my FDNY job (being a paramedic) only with less paperwork and less bullshit. Plus, if no stupid drunk people come to the office, I actually get to watch the show.

Anyhoo, I missed the last and most exciting song of the set so that my friend Julia could catch it, as she'd been stuck in the office all night tending to the stupid drunk people I'd been trying all night to avoid. And when I caught a whiff of it on the radio, I couldn't help laughing and recalling this pathetic piece of my personal music history:

Back in college, I was a Music Major. Basically, that means I had to take crazy hard classes like Sight Singing, whereby the instructor would simply strike a tuning fork (always in A) and say something like, "The key is D minor," and then proceed to give us HAND SIGNALS (a la 'Close Encounters Of The Third Kind') to lead us through some sort of Mozart sonata or whatever. And if we fucked up, we failed. This REALLY FUCKING SUCKED. What was worse about the class was that there were only 8 people in it, 5 of whom were voice majors (meaning that they also played piano) and 2 flute majors (meaning that they were equally as good at piano as their main instrument). And then there was me.

At any rate, our instructor was the Music Director at a nearby church, and his church had a pipe organ on the "consider list" of the Register of Historic Places. This organ took up the entire upper level of the church; it was as big as a house. (The pipe organ at my college was already on that list, so I knew that this was an amazing thing, to be on this list and be protected by a historical society.) It had bass pipes bigger than a car, and it had specialty pipes shaped like birds that were actually filled with water and "warbled" when their switches were thrown. This thing was INSANE.

Anyhoo, one day, we (the students) were invited to sit at the organ and play on it, one by one. All of the vocal/piano(flute) majors sat at the Place Of Honor, and played beautiful Bach chorals, Hayden sonatas, the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, or intricate Mozart pieces, without fail. It was, to put it mildly (and musically speaking) sublime.

And I listened to them all, heavy at heart. For I had a major in Trombone, with a minor in SUCK.

I was the last to perform. And as my turn came, I sat hesitatingly at the keyboard. I sighed, shrugged, and then accepted my destiny.

My feet struck the major chords, and for no reason at all, I turned on the little warbly birds. They chirped cheerily by my right hand.

And then I proceeded to play Van Halen's "Jump" as if Jesus himself had written it.

The class collectively GASPED in horror. Only my instructor laughed out loud.

To this day, I *love* him for that.

Date:	2008-05-19 20:22
Subject:	Yum
Security:	Public
Mood:	geeky
Music:	Sweeney Todd (Soundtrack)

Today, as part of EMS week, my Battalion hosted both a Bake Sale and a Blood Drive.

My inner Sweeney Todd was terribly amused.

Date:	2008-04-27 19:28
Subject:	The Sisterhood of the Missing Pants
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused

So the other day, my bus got a student. Now, this is hilarious for many reasons, not the least of which being that I'm still practically a goddamn student myself, but whatever. I say hello to the new chick, eyeing her white shirt and unfamiliar patch with concern.

Me: What school are you from?
Student: (I can't remember the name of the school) in Springfield.
Me: Oh. Where is that? Queens or something?
Student: Uhhh, no, in Massachusetts.

I take a moment to absorb this. I should have taken two.

Me: Ummmm...what?
Student: Massachusetts. There are about 9 of us, and we're doing our rotations here. I was here yesterday on a different unit.

I stare at my squeaky-clean, perky blond student unbelievingly. Just the day before, in the middle of the afternoon, four people got shot a few blocks from where we were standing at the moment. Were her teachers insane for sending this petite, polite Massachusetts girl into this urban death maze? No, she insists, she's having a great time. Getting to see a lot of good ol' NYC. (I'd like to add, at this point, that her school had put her and her classmates up at the über-schwanky Marriott Marquis in Times Square. So at least *that* part of the great time I can understand. But the rest? Not so much.) I secretly cross my fingers and hope that some HIV+ crackhead doesn't spit in her face or something.

Anyhoo, the day starts off kinda slow, and I'm deep into a crossword puzzle when we get our first job. It's for an Altered Mental Status, and judging from the text it looks pretty basic, and I figure Kimberly (our student) might get to start an IV and push some basic drugs, boring but important stuff.

I should have known that we were in for some shit when a man met us outside, and led us *seriously* downstairs. Now, I know that the text said "basement apartment" but this was not your ordinary two-steps-below-ground-level apartment. No, these six steps were a foot deep of concrete each, leading down, down, down, into a dank, dark, cramped, subterranean tunnel befitting perhaps only of the C.H.U.D.s, or quite possibly the Morlocks. The ceiling touched the top of my less-than-statuesque frame, and light was a rare commodity.

The man, as it turns out, was one of a pair, his 50-something-year-old diabetic twin sister being the one in need of EMS. They live together, he informed us, and he found her in the bathroom passed out a few minutes ago. He also said that he checked her blood sugar, and that is was about 30-ish, which is really fucking low for anyone who actually wants to do things like, um, live. I should mention at this point that our guide and his sibling were hoarders, and as such, our Journey To The Center Of The Apartment consisted of us sidling past towering piles of every imaginable piece of crap that a person could accumulate over the course of a lifetime. Times two.

And then we find our patient.

She's lying on the floor, she's writhing, she's screaming, and she's *definitely* pantsless.

I sigh. Ordinarily, I'd be the one getting ready to start the line or whatever, but with a student on board, I am relegated to the Bottom Half. As in, keeping the legs from kicking while she prepares to do the fun stuff. After a few seconds, it becomes obvious that this is no time for students, as our patient is sweating profusely and squirming violently thanks to a sugar level approaching DEAD, and I hand the IV stuff to my partner, Andre, who then sets up for an EJ (external jugular vein, the big one on the side of your neck).

Now, my partner, Andre, has shaky hands. And I mean, Katherine-Hepburn-bobble-head-on-a-stick shaky. One of my first days working with him, he said, "My hands may shake a little, but don't worry." And although I initially felt wary, after two or three calls, I never did again. He's like a motherfucking divining rod: shaky shaky shaky shaky shaky shaky BLAM! and there's the water. I've never seen him miss. I saw him get a line on a pediatric, en route to the hospital AND while the kid was seizing. So if he can't find the vein, I'm pretty goddamn sure it doesn't exist. But our student doesn't know this, and I see her eyeballing Andre's shaky hand as it makes its wobbly way toward the patient's neck. To her credit, she continues her friendly banter with our obviously way-fucking-out-of-it patient.

Student: Just relax, sweetie. Okay? We're going to give you some medicine.
Patient: ArrrghaaaAAAAAAAAAAAnyahrrragh!
Student: Okay, just relax.

And so on.

The Man Twin is hovering nearby, trying to hold a lamp over us in a desperate attempt to give my partner some lighting that's barely above pitch black. Andre continues to shake his way around the patient's neck, the student continues her attempts at soothing our patient to no avail, the Woman Twin continues to scream and kick, her violently thrusting and wildly untamed pubic mound waaaay too fucking close to me, and I continue to hate my life.

Student: Um, there's blood in her mouth. She looks like she bit her tongue when she fell.

Huh. From my point of view, she looks like Macy Gray, so I have to take her word for it.

Andre: This is not good.

Andre, by the way, has a thick Haitian accent, so this comes out like, "Theees ees nut gooood," which is kind of hilarious on its own. But in reality, this is Andre-speak for, "Holy shit, this bitch has no friggin' veins!" so I look up.

Now, a few minutes ago, I had lent my stethoscope to Kimberly, after which she hung it about her neck. Unfortunately, due to the situation, the scope had gradually begun the slow slide around one side. I watched it move for a second, mesmerized.

And then I looked down.

In one of those ultra-slow-speed moments you see in movies, the scope suddenly left Kimberly's neck. In my head I screamed, "NnnnnnnnnooooooooOOOOOOOOO!" as I snapped out of my reverie and tried to make a grab for it.

Plop. My poor stethoscope clocked Macy Gray right in the head, and sank deep into the underbrush.

I sighed. That stethoscope had been just two days away from retirement.

Anyhoo, while all this was taking place, Andre somehow managed to find the only vein that the woman had in her entire body, and was pumping D50 into her as best he could. (D50, by the way, stands for Dextrose 50% solution, which is a really fancy version of sugar water.) Within seconds, our patient started to relax. I relinquished my deathgrip on her legs and went to get the stairchair.

Kimberly, bless her perky little soul, hasn't missed a beat: "Hi sweetie, are you feeling better? Do you have any allergies? We're gonna take you to the hospital, okay?"

Patient: No! I need my hat! I'm not going out without my hat!
Me: Ummm, hon, maybe you shouldn't worry about your hat so much. 'Cuz you *definitely* have no pants on.
Patient: Where's my hat?
Me: Pants. You have no pants. On. Currently.
Man Twin: Here's your hat.
Me (sighing): Well, thank god for that.

And off we go to the hospital. Our patient lived to see another naked-from-the-waist-down, keep-everything-I-have-ever-owned-in-piles-in-my-Morlock-friendly-apartment day, and our student got to see how NYC breeds a whole different kind of EMS freak show.

And I never did get to finish that damn crossword puzzle.

Date:	2008-04-14 17:20
Subject:	you're welcome
Security:	Public
Mood:	sad

There is nothing worse than bringing an unstable-yet-very-alert-and-alive patient to the hospital, giving your report to the staff and thinking that you did a great job and got him there in the nick of time, just to come back 30 minutes later to find the same staff doing CPR on him.

Except, of course, running into his son in the waiting room and trying not to cry (and most definitely *not* telling him what you already know) as he thanks you for your hard work.

Date:	2008-04-08 20:15
Subject:	And WHAT?
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Ray Parker Jr. vs. NIN "The Ghost That Feeds"

So about 8 or 9 calls come in that sound like the same job: a 19-year-old female that drank Clorox, all within a ten block radius. It comes in variously as an EDP, Burn Major, Diff Breather, and Other, depending on who is answering the phones and what the psycho on the other end is telling him or her. There are at least 4 ambulances assigned to the job(s), and we're all driving around and shaking our heads at each other, because nobody can find the stupid bitch.

Dispatch calls us and gives a new address, and just for shits and giggles we go check it out. There's a girl standing in front of the building, but she doesn't wave at us as we approach and doesn't walk over to us when we stop. We're just about to radio in that there's no patient, when suddenly she's at the ambulance window, one hand on her hip and bouncing impatiently. I roll down the window.

Girl: Can I get in or what?
Me: Ummm, are you our patient? We got a lot of different addresses.

She is clearly irritated at me. "Yeah, but I don't wanna talk in the street," she says. "And I *don't* want everybody knowin' my bidness," she continues, in a voice loud enough for several city blocks to know her bidness.

I open the back for her and she plops herself on the bench, folds her arms over her chest and scowls at me. I sigh. My day is starting out AWESOME.

Me: Okay hon, so what happened?
Girl: I dranks a bottle of Clorox.
Me: Clorox.
Girl: Yeah.
Me: As in, bleach.
Girl (snottily): Yeah. And WHAT?

I sigh again. I truly hate stupid people.

Me: Umm, listen hon, are you sure it was Clorox? Are you sure it wasn't...nothing?

She scrunches up her face at me.

Girl: Whatchoo mean?
Me: What I mean is, if you had *actually* ingested a bottle of Clorox, instead of this very pleasant conversation we're having right now, you would be hocking up ragged, bloody chunks of your esophagus. And probably screaming. A lot.
Girl: Well...I mean I *tried* to drink Clorox, but it burned my lips.
Me: Uh-huh.
Twat: So I dranks peroxide instead.
Me: I see. And how exactly did you accomplish this?
Girl: Ummm...I mixed the bottle with water and then dranked it.
Me: The whole bottle.
Girl: Yeah.
Me: Um-hmmm.

For the record, I'm not buying that line either, because even a little bit of that stuff would probably cause her to vomit, or at least feel really, really shitty. But that's her story, so I gotta run with it.

Me: So, were you trying to kill yourself?
Girl: No!
Me: Huh. Then what were you trying to do?

At this point, she launched into a rambling, expletive-riddled tirade that was so long, convoluted and FUCKING RETARDED, I pretty much tuned her out for all but the most important points:

1. fight with Aunt
2. "I solves my *own* problems"
3. solving of said problems requires alcohol
4. no alcohol in the house
5. no money to purchase problem-solving alcohol
6. drank household chemicals in its stead
7. and WHAT, bitch? and WHAT?

She finishes her rant, and I snap out of my daze and try to focus on her.

Me: So basically, you drank peroxide and tried to drink bleach because you wanted to get drunk?
Girl (annoyed): Yeah, and WHAT?

*pause*

Me: You *do* know that there's no alcohol in peroxide, right? Or bleach, for that matter.

She looks at me as if she would like to claw my eyes out. "Whatevah," she snaps. "You know," I continue helpfully, "the next time you might wanna try nail polish remover. That's got alcohol in it. Or rubbing alcohol. Or antifreeze. I mean, they'll kill you if you drink enough of them, but the alcohol is there."

I look over at my partner, who is visibly as thoroughly disgusted with our patient as I am. He ignores her completely and starts writing the paperwork.

Me: So we're going to take you to the ER.
Girl: No, I wanna go to *Psych*. I gots *problems*.
Me: I couldn't agree more.

I really wanted to tell her that she wasn't going to go to Psych for at least 12 hours, because she's still hanging onto that bullshit peroxide story, and they're going to keep her in the ER to monitor her until they feel whatever she drank is out of her system. I wanted to, but I also thought it would be more fun to see her sitting in the ER in her yellow gown, the yellow gowns at Woodhull being for the crazy people, bitching and cursing at everyone about how she solves her own problems and WHAT? and WHAT bitch, WHAT?!!?

I also wanted to tell her that it would have been a lot cheaper to buy alcohol than to take an ambulance to the hospital and then have a stay in the ER, but at this point she had become so belligerent I began to fantasize about drinking Clorox myself just to get away from the stupid cunt. Whatever, she'd find out soon enough when the bill came.

At the hospital, in short order she picked fights with the hospital police, someone in the waiting room and the triage nurse. You could hear her not keeping her bidness to herself all the way over in Pediatrics, and long after I got my paper signed and walked over to the ER to say hello to a friend.

Two minutes later, in walks my girl Twatty McDouche. In a yellow gown. She's screaming at the nurse who is taking her into the Critical Care area.

Girl: Bitch, I don't wanna go to no ER! I wanna go to Psych! I dranks PEROXIDE!
Nurse: And *that's* why you're going to the ER.

She was in mid-scream when the door swung shut behind her. And I couldn't stop laughing.

And WHAT, bitch? WHAT?!!?

So I ring the doorbell and a man answers that I quickly guesstimate at about 50. I also guesstimate he's HIV+, but that's another story. He leads me inside to a young girl sitting on the couch. She's 24, she tells me, and several weeks pregnant. I have wrongly assumed the man to be her father, but as I soon learn, he's her boyfriend and co-founder of the current baby-under-construction. Yikes.

Me: All right hon, what number pregnancy is this?
Girl: Oh, I been pregnant a lot.
Me: Okay, what's "a lot"?
Girl (shrugs): I dunno. A lot.
Me (sighing): Okay, let's start at the beginning. How many children do you have?
Girl: Four.
Me: And how old are they?
Girl: The oldest is 9 and the youngest is 1.
Me: All right, 4. How many miscarriages?
Girl: One.
Me: One. When was that?
Girl: Ummm, like at 13.
Me: Huh. Okay, well, how many abortions?

She snorts and rolls her eyes.

Girl: I dunno.
Me: Take a guess.
Girl: I dunno. More than 10.
Me: Umm...could you ballpark that for me? Just give me a number.
Girl (clearly annoyed): All right. Uhhh...11.
Me: Okay, so this is your...17th pregnancy. Roughly.
Girl: Yeah.

*pause*

Me: I really think it's time to get your tubes tied.
Girl: I know! I keep asking for it, but then they never bring me the paperwork.
Me: Ummm...what?
Girl: Yeah! I ask for it every time I go to the hospital, and they tell me I have to sign papers and shit. But then they never bring me the papers.
Me: Wait, are you telling me that the only thing that stands between you and possibly 17 *more* pregnancies is a few pieces of paper?
Girl (nodding emphatically): Yeah! And they don't give me no condoms neither.

*pause*

Me: You know, I'm pretty sure it's not their responsibility to make sure you don't get pregnant.

She lets out a loud sigh, obviously irritated.

Girl: Look, I don't even *want* this one. Can't you just give me some shit that'll like flush it outta me?

I patiently wait for my eye to finish twitching.

Me: I would if I could.

A shiny new dime to anyone who can guess the number of pregnancies the 24-year-old I transported the other day has had.

Date:	2008-01-23 22:22
Subject:	30 is the new Dead
Security:	Public
Mood:	depressed
Music:	Dead Can Dance "Song of the Sibyl"

So we get a call for a Diff Breather, which is roughly the ALS (Advanced Life Support) equivalent of a Sick job. (Sick jobs, by the way, are the blanket term for everything wrong with a patient from a toothache to a rash to a stubbed toe. It’s the most common BLS (Basic Life Support) call. Diff Breathers encompass everything from anxiety attacks to asthma to the flu, and they’re about 80% of ALS calls. And, like Sick jobs, most of them are boring and SUCK.) So anyway, we get the call, and the text says something like: “Male, 30, asthma, sts wheezing, NFI” so basically, it looks pretty blah.

We pull up, and the Fire guys are already on scene. One shouts, “Respiratory arrest!” at us as we enter the building. And I’m like, shit, I didn’t see that one coming. But that’s okay, we can treat that. My blood starts pumping; this is going to be a good job after all!

Thirty seconds and four long, twisty flights later, I changed my mind. But quick.

A young, heavyset man lay on the floor, his head in a pile of vomit. The Fire guys are doing CPR, and the AED is announcing “No Shock Advised” as we drop our stuff. My partner opens the drug bag and starts to the get the IV ready. We call on the radio for the EMTs to bring up the suction, because this guy SERIOUSLY needs it; his chest isn’t rising at all, and I assume it’s from the vomit.

Yeah, I wish.

The story from the sister is that he’d been eating, then he started to wheeze. I have a Fire guy suction out a seemingly endless amount of whatever the fuck this guy just ate as I get ready to intubate. (For those of you who don’t know, that’s when we stick a tube down your throat to help you breathe, or to breathe for you if you’re not.) I tilt the guy’s head back, and his eyes are open. They’re also bugged out of his skull, and the sclera are red. It looks like he’s been strangled, and (in a way) I guess he has. I slide the blade into his mouth, and promptly get a mouthful of vomit at the end. I call for more suction, but I still can’t see his vocal cords, our landmark for intubating. Just red, red flesh. Fuck.

I get on my stomach to get a better view. Which was basically a waste of time, because my view was still of JACK SHIT. And I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I ask my partner for cric (short for cricoid cartilage; pushing down on it brings the vocal cords into view) and I get a wet, squishy sound, more vomit, but no cords. Fuck and double fuck.

I'm pretty sure a seasoned medic would have known instantly what the problem was, but I’m not, so it took until this point until it dawned on me. This guy wasn’t a tough tube because he was fat, or because of the puke. His throat had completely closed up. And I thought: asthma doesn’t do that. But anaphylaxis does. I tell my partner what his throat looks like and he shouts into the other room at the sister about his allergies. She says she doesn’t know, but she doesn’t think he has any. What was he eating? he yells. Fish, she yells back. Awww shit. That’s a big one, like penicillin or nuts. Lots of people are allergic to seafood, and it looked like this guy might be one of ‘em.

I bend the tube in half like a hockey stick, a trick that sometimes works when you have to do a blind intubation. I take a deep breath and Hail Mary it, and I don’t even come close. The tube stops way short, and I take it back out. My partner tells me to forget it and gives me the Combitube, the “failsafe” tube that supposedly always works. Except, of course, for today. So much for 9 months of training and all that fancy medic shit. We’ll be using BLS airway maneuvers today, thank you very much.

By this time, we’ve already given him all the standing order drugs in the protocol, so we have to call our doctor to keep going. He gives orders for a shitload more, and we get him strapped to a scoop stretcher to carry him down. Did you forget about the four flights of stairs? Yeah, me too. “I hate this job,” my partner announces as he hefts the fat man and heads down. No one blames him.

At the hospital a half an hour later, the doctors pronounce him. They pretty much agree with the anaphylaxis theory, which validates our efforts but sure as hell doesn’t make me feel any better. The guy was only 30, fer chrissakes. I go out to tell his sister, and she asks me what happened. And LIKE A FUCKING RETARD, I tell her the truth, that it looks like it might have been an allergic reaction.

She promptly bursts into tears. Turns out that she cooked the fish. And I’m like: way to go, idiot, she’ll probably have guilt issues for the rest of her life; what the fuck did you tell her that for?

I feel awful, and I don’t know which felt worse: not saving a very young man, or telling his sister that she may have accidentally killed him.

Either way, I picked a hell of a week to quit sniffing glue.

Date:	2008-01-02 17:13
Subject:	Welcome back to Brooklyn
Security:	Public
Mood:	peaceful
Music:	Yello "Oh Yeah"

So for some inexplicable reason, after graduation I was sent to Queens. Yeah, I know, I don't know how the fuck that happened either. But anyway, it all got straightened out and I was sent back to Brooklyn, but instead of going to my former Bed-Stuy, I went to Brownsville. (For those of you unfamiliar with the area, it's about halfway between East New York and Bedford-Stuyvesant.)

At first I was kind of pissed, because I loved where I worked. But on my first day there the Daily News just happened to print the murder statistics for Brooklyn. The results? First was East New York, next was Brownsville, and *then* Bed-Stuy. Awesome!

Now, my parents were understandably pretty upset. They had wanted me to stay in Queens where it's safe and clean and normal and very, very BORING. I, however, was thrilled to pieces, and so I came home after my first day as a Brooklyn paramedic thoroughly exhausted but extremely happy.

Ricky: So, what's it like where you are now?

Me: You know how Bed-Stuy is a filthy hole, but at least it's a really busy and populated filthy hole? Well, this place is crazy. It's like one giant demilitarized zone; just huge stretches of scary-looking, burnt-out projects and abandoned buildings full of crackhead squatters. It's filthy. It's dangerous. It's disgusting.

Ricky looked horrified. I clapped my hands together like a child.

Me: I am so fucking happy.

Date:	2007-07-09 12:30
Subject:	Goodbye, Simon
Security:	Public
Mood:	sad

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Date:	2007-06-30 13:46
Subject:	Hell is for children...I mean, for me
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Snake River Conspiracy "Breed"

So I had one of my pediatric rotations yesterday. This is kind of rough for me, because (as you might remember) I'm not particularly fond of children. When I mention this to one of the nurses, she looks horrified. I erroneously conclude that this is simply because someone who doesn't like kids is going to spend many, many hours with them, possibly with screaming, whining and crying involved (on both our parts) but she quickly proves me wrong by asking incredulously, "You mean...you don’t want kids? Why not? Why would you say such a thing? Of *course* you want to have kids!"

Holy shit do I hate it when people do that to me. And so I very gleefully related to her a brief scenario that took place at the movies the other day.

Girl at the ticket window: That'll be $20.50 please. And would you like to donate one dollar for kids with cancer?

Me (smiling cheerfully): Absolutely! I think *all* kids should have cancer!

And I slid a dollar through the slot.

If you listen very carefully, you can actually hear my soul moving another inch closer to Hell.

Date:	2007-04-01 18:21
Subject:	*poke*
Security:	Public
Mood:	calm
Music:	'Weird Al' Yankovic "White and Nerdy"

Hi everybody.

It's not like I haven't missed you all. It's just that I needed a break from the online world for a bit, and it just so happened that said break coincided with a bunch of major changes in my life, keeping me very busy and subsequently away from all but the most necessary computer activity. (And no, I am NOT pregnant! Bite your fucking tongue!!)

I'm finally starting to settle down into a manageable schedule, and I plan to have time to write again soon.

In the meantime, I'd just like to say one thing...

SCHOOL SUCKS MOOSE COCK.

That is all.

Date:	2006-10-13 14:47
Subject:	?
Security:	Public
Mood:	confused
Music:	The sound of my cat puking in the next room

I don't understand brown lingerie.

Date:	2006-09-23 11:26
Subject:	Can't...stop...laughing...
Security:	Public
Mood:	giggly
Music:	'Weird Al' Yankovic "White and Nerdy"

Funniest...video...ever.

Date:	2006-09-21 12:08
Subject:	Signs
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	'Weird Al' Yankovic "White and Nerdy"

So my OT partner and I stop at a place on Bedford and North 7th for something to eat. For those of you who don't know, ever since our illustrious mayors Giuliani and Bloomberg THOUGHTFULLY decided to start ridding New York of all unapproved culture, music and art, Williamsburg, Brooklyn has sort of unofficially become the New Village. As such, it has transformed more and more into the hang out and residence of über-hipsters, rockers, trust-fund trendies and art-school dropouts.

Anyhoo, it's a beautiful night on the weekend, so the take-out place is packed. It takes a bit of effort to elbow my way through a throng of drunken clubgoers both in front of and inside the joint who are completely oblivious to the fact that I have exactly 17 minutes to order my food, get back to the bus, eat it and get back to our area before some nosy conditions boss starts sending us annoying messages to go 89. *sigh* Wasn't I just on vacation a few days ago? Whatever.

So as I finally return to the bus with my food, my partner notices a look of surprise and disgust on my face.

Partner: What?

I motion toward both the restaurant and the crowd of people with my head.

Me: What the fuck? There be like, MAD white people up in there!

A long pause. And then my very Haitian/Dominican partner bursts out laughing.

Guess I've been working in Da Hood for too long.