As some of you may (or may not ) know, I work as a healthcare professional. Been one for donkey's years.
I am also a volunteer with our local volunteer fire/EMS service. Yes kids, I love stress and bullshit and surviving on three hours of sleep ever 24 hours that I volunteer to do it for free on my days off. (No, my regular professional job is not as a paramedic/EMS/First Responder. I volunteer because it serves the community).
Now, every once in a while, I'll present the "business face" of my life to non-healthcare folk who are also not my patients at the moment.
My darling wife is a teacher. And every so often, she'll ask me to come by and talk to the kids in the school - mostly about safety (am also a qualified fire and safety instructor) but also sometimes to talk about my volunteer job as a paramedic.
Most of these sessions are simple. I give a little talk and then let the kids ask me questions. A couple weeks ago, I had a little brunette girl, her angelic face framed by black curls; shyly point to my uniform and ask "Mr. Roughneck, your shirt looks different. Why does your shirt bulge out like that when you sit?"
"Well Tamara, that's because I wear a bulletproof jacket underneath my shirt".
She looked bewildered, "But Mr. Roughneck! You're not a policeman or a soldier! Why do you need to wear a bulletproof vest?!"
Damn!
"That's a good question Tamara. See, it's just part of my uniform. Besides, it gives Mrs. Roughneck a little peace of mind!" (Class laughs).
Really, think about it. Why would a Paramedic - a person trained and certified to provide medical help to those in dire need - ever have the need to wear bullet proof vests? Well, I know the answer - but I can't really tell a classroom full of children "Because there are crazy assholes out there who don't give a flying fuck about the life or property of others".
Now, I'm not very gifted with words. Most of my writings/posts are monotonous, drab, dry and very boring. I am unimaginative and lack the "touch". However, I did come across a most excellent blog of a fellow Paramedic - in particular, a post of his which I thought I should share.
WARNING: Following post may contain scenes and language of violence committed to human bodies - including possibly blood and or other associated body parts and fluids. Those who are sensitive to such things are advised not to read any further.
To be continued....
I am also a volunteer with our local volunteer fire/EMS service. Yes kids, I love stress and bullshit and surviving on three hours of sleep ever 24 hours that I volunteer to do it for free on my days off. (No, my regular professional job is not as a paramedic/EMS/First Responder. I volunteer because it serves the community).
Now, every once in a while, I'll present the "business face" of my life to non-healthcare folk who are also not my patients at the moment.
My darling wife is a teacher. And every so often, she'll ask me to come by and talk to the kids in the school - mostly about safety (am also a qualified fire and safety instructor) but also sometimes to talk about my volunteer job as a paramedic.
Most of these sessions are simple. I give a little talk and then let the kids ask me questions. A couple weeks ago, I had a little brunette girl, her angelic face framed by black curls; shyly point to my uniform and ask "Mr. Roughneck, your shirt looks different. Why does your shirt bulge out like that when you sit?"
"Well Tamara, that's because I wear a bulletproof jacket underneath my shirt".
She looked bewildered, "But Mr. Roughneck! You're not a policeman or a soldier! Why do you need to wear a bulletproof vest?!"
Damn!
"That's a good question Tamara. See, it's just part of my uniform. Besides, it gives Mrs. Roughneck a little peace of mind!" (Class laughs).
Really, think about it. Why would a Paramedic - a person trained and certified to provide medical help to those in dire need - ever have the need to wear bullet proof vests? Well, I know the answer - but I can't really tell a classroom full of children "Because there are crazy assholes out there who don't give a flying fuck about the life or property of others".
Now, I'm not very gifted with words. Most of my writings/posts are monotonous, drab, dry and very boring. I am unimaginative and lack the "touch". However, I did come across a most excellent blog of a fellow Paramedic - in particular, a post of his which I thought I should share.
WARNING: Following post may contain scenes and language of violence committed to human bodies - including possibly blood and or other associated body parts and fluids. Those who are sensitive to such things are advised not to read any further.
This happened three months into my training down at where I work. If things would have gone differently, if that officer would have shot him in the head, splattering brain and blood all over my face and glasses, then I probably wouldn't be working where I am today. This is true. Every last blood-soaked detail.
There are these series of apartment complexes on the far east side of town, so far that they abutt the neighboring city and county. Anyway, these are the addresses that are aired repeatedly on a daily basis. And when it's your turn, when you're on the receiving end of one of these infamous addresses, you can hear a collective sigh of relief from every other ambulance in the city. "Oooh, that hurts. Better them than us," floats in the minds of every other ambulance in the city.
Tonight, it is my turn.
"Number (dramatic pause so everyone nestled up in the black, night air has to awake mildly and bend an ear to listen) 9".
Damn it. "Number 9," I respond.
"Code 10 to this address. All we have is altered mention. Everyone's going". Meaning Police and Fire.
A collective sigh floats above the city streets from every other ambulance. It's my turn. Batter up.
We scream through the night's sky. Slowing down to a comfortable 60 mph at the red lights. Dirty blues harmonica music plays in my head as the red and blue emergency lights ricochet of anything reflective. The dually tires screech around every corner as we rocket down the street. What normally would take fifteen minutes, takes us four. We shut everything off blocks early and creep stealthily to the front entrance of this elderly apartment complex. Not that we thought it was dangerous, but that was habit at night. All stealth. All the time.
In their new post 9/11 black bunker gear, a firefighter approaches the side of the ambulance. This is uncommon, especially here. His face pale, his speech stuttered, he begins talking frantically to my rolled up window. Fingers pointing and hands waving, something has freaked him out. I look at my partner and ask. "Isn't this where all the old people live?"
I exit and the firefighter rambles uncontrollably. "Crazy" and "Police" and "Dangerous" all penetrate the night sky. He is attempting to warn me about something, something that seems to have gone horribly awry. I grab my black, metal briefcase full of medical tools, and like a businessman walking to his cubicle from the water dispenser, I collect my thoughts and wonder what has happened to make this young, fit, firefighter so crazed. How could an elderly man create such a stir?
The police arrive at the same time. One officer. He is large and built like a boxer. I imagine a tattoo of a barbed wire painted on his bicep, under his perfectly starched blue shirt. He follows me along the dimly lit sidewalk to the front entrance, handcuffs clinking and mag light swaying against his hip. We both enter the complex, hop in the elevator made for two, and slowly ascend to the B floor.
As we exit we are greeted by another frightened firefighter. We round the corner and see a huddled group of black bunker gear against the wall, and standing across from them two almost fit security guards leaning against the wall, Dirty Harry revolvers hang from their lopsided utility belts. Apparently, .45 magnums are a necessity around all these old people.
"He's going crazy. We've been out here 10 minutes and all we've heard is screaming. He's tearing the apartment apart."
Still confused, I finally ask, "How old is he?"
"He must be in his twenty's," responds the one I assume is in charge.
The officer leans his head to his right, almost resting it on his shoulder. He punches the small button on the side of the radio attached to his lapel and calls for another car. "Better safe than sorry," he whispers to me.
We wait in the cramped hall listening to the crashing furniture on the other side of the paper-thin walls. An occasional scream breaks the silence and awakes all of us from the horrible daydreaming that is surely occupying everyone's brain.
"He's big, really big." a firefighter mumbles.
The other cop arrives. An identical twin to the giant in front of us, the only difference is that you can see the tattoo on his huge bicep. The two officers huddle together, discuss their plan, and one draws his taser and checks the red, laser light on the wall. He looks at me and smiles. They knock.
"DPD! Open the door!"
No response.
"DPD, open the door or we'll kick it in."
To be continued....