Siren Song: Part II

The room that Ivan leads me into is big, but cozy, and has a dilapidated, "lived-in" feel--brown berber carpeting, mismatched furniture, and a musty, stale odor. The room reminds me of my grandma's basement--the one I was often told to go play in when I was younger, the one where grandma kept her old dresses and wigs in a scary, dusty trunk. In other words, the room is comforting...in a sinister sort of way.

I, of course, feel ridiculously out of place (not to mention HUGELY FAT, given the horrible, disgusting uniform I've been forced to wear). I take a seat on the edge of one of the three reclining chairs that are lined up in a row, all facing a decrepit TV, which is held in a shoddy-looking entertainment unit. The TV is on, tuned to the local news. I sit there for awhile, before realizing that no one cares what I do, and so I finally get up and look around, taking in the details of Base Station 1. Off of the main living area (which, along with the three reclining chairs and entertainment unit, holds a large "leather" couch and a dining table and full kitchen), there are two "bedrooms"--just bare-bones rooms with single beds and night tables, in which on-duty EMTs are allowed to sleep until they are called to duty.

Aside from the main living space and the bedrooms, there are two bathrooms and a large supply room, which holds back-ups of everything an ambulance crew might need (aside from drugs and IV fluids, which must be obtained at the hospital)--extra nonrebreather masks and nasal cannulas, extra sheet sets, pillows, lancets, suction catheters and tubing, needles, boxes of latex gloves, etc. One wall of the supply room holds the time clock (where all the regular employees punch in and out), the charging stations for each EMT and medic's handheld radio, and a large map that shows the geographical area that this particular ambulance company covers.

Also, there is a little den, which holds a small couch and a desk with a computer (with Internet access!), a telephone, and various official-looking papers, forms, and envelopes.

And of course, there is a huge garage attached to the Base, which holds anywhere from one to three ambulances at a time. There's not much else kept in the garage, except for the Oxygen tanks, which a crew can grab when they've used theirs up (all ambulances are required to have 2 portable oxygen tanks on board--one that is actively "in use" (it has to have a certain amount of O2 in it. Once it dips below the required level, it must be replaced) and a backup O2 tank).

Exploring the whole Base station takes all of 10 minutes, and so I walk shamefully back to the main living area and take a seat in one of the reclining chairs. Wendy looks at me. She is a thick, solid-looking woman, with bottle-blond hair and a tired-of-it-all air about her.

"Ivan's gonna wanna go get somethin' to eat," she says, like she needs my permission or something.

"Ok," I say meekly, hating the sound of my own voice.

"After we do rig check," she says. Fear strikes my heart. Well, more fear than was already there, that is. This is the first real opportunity for me to fail at being a "good" EMT student.

Ivan enters the room, and he's clutching a leather briefcase-style laptop-carrier. I know what this means. Rig check. Ivan is the medic on the rig I'm riding on, which means he keeps the computer on which he writes all his run-reports with him at all times. During rig check, he'll need to enter information onto the lap-top, such as the serial number on our "drug box" and the expiration date, etc. Wendy labors up off of the reclining chair she was sitting in and follows him, and I do the same.

We walk out the door, and I am delighted to see that it is light out now. Morning has broken, birds are singing, cars are whizzing by on the busy street next to the Base, and people are awake! I think I even hear a lawnmower! This all means that I am that much closer to being home, in my own bed, and I am flooded with premature relief.

But then I see the ambulance. And I know I'm supposed to get on it, and poke around, and say things about what supplies are missing and whether or not the O2 tank is filled up enough...except I don't know anything! And, to make matters worse, a new crew has just pulled up to Base, for seemingly no other reason than to make my embarrassment that much more poignant.

I stand awkwardly next to the ambulance, while Wendy and Ivan lumber aboard. I guess I'm thinking that not doing anything at all is better than pretending to know what I'm doing. Deep down, I know that I should be asking Ivan or Wendy what to do. But Wendy seems perturbed already and Ivan is gruff. So I just stand there. That's when one of the "new" EMTs who just arrived at Base, walks over to me. He's a slim, nice-looking 30-something man, who grins broadly at me and shakes my hand, telling me his name is Adam**. He is wearing bad-ass combat boots that come mid-way up his calves and his pants are tucked into them, soldier-style. I like him immediately, simply because he smiled and acknowledged my existence.

Adam lights a cigarette and whispers to me, "If you go check the outside compartments and tell Ivan how much O2 is in the main, he'll be impressed." If only I knew what those words meant! Adam inhales deeply and chuckles. "Here, follow me," he says. He takes me around the outside of the ambulance, opening all the outer compartments (storage areas and drawers, built into the outside of the ambulance). One compartment holds all the long backboards and the C-collars (neck braces). One compartment holds the stair chair (used to carry a stable patient up and down stairs). One compartment holds road flares and special orange vests we're supposed to wear on the scene of a car accident. And one compartment holds "the main"--the big oxygen tank that the ambulance draws it's main O2 from. Adam instructs me to look at how much O2 is in the main and go report it to Ivan. He's even kind enough to tell me exactly how to say it. He says, "Go tell Ivan 'We've got 1600 in the main.'"

I am, at this moment, more grateful to Adam than I have ever been to anyone in my entire life. I run and tell Ivan exactly what Adam told me to tell him, and he looks at me, puzzled, like he's surprised I would know to say such a thing (he should be surprised!), and says, "Uh..ok..thanks." Then I go on, telling him we're good on long boards and C-collars and we've got a stair chair and road flares.

Before I know it, rig check is done, and I haven't been screamed at yet. Ivan and Wendy climb out of the ambulance, light up cigarettes of their own, and stand around bullshitting with Adam and his partner Darcy**. I am too pleased with myself to feel resentful at not being included in their cliquey chat-fest.

But there is still a dull panic coursing through my veins. Because the first call of the day has yet to come.

Siren Song: Part I

I fucking love ambulances. Not really, but I got your attention didn't I? Alright, I actually DO love ambulances--because they are specially-equipped vehicles that help paramedics and EMTs save lives. And also because I feel like a total bad-ass when I ride in one.

As those who read this blog regularly undoubtedly know, I'm currently enrolled in a class preparing me to become a licensed and certified EMT. As such, I am required to complete 112 clinical hours. What that means is: I had to ride-along in an ambulance (and work a few shifts in the ER) for 112 hours. I had a little blue booklet that I was required to bring along with me on every ride. In this blue booklet I wrote down all my experiences with patients, plus I was required to have the paramedics and EMTs that I rode with sign the booklet to verify that I had completed a shift.

As a third-party rider in the ambulance, I always sat in the back of the ambulance--in the "jump seat," as they call it, which is the seat at the head of the patient. I was allowed and expected to help with patient care. I would do things like set-up the IV (get the tubing in place, "spike" the bag, hang the bag, etc.) and take vital signs (blood pressure, pulse, breathing rate, oxygen saturation, and blood sugar level). I also helped with loading the patient onto and off of the cot, lifting the patient, and getting the patient's medical history. Plus I helped with all the mundane tasks that needed to be done, like changing out the O2 tanks, emptying the "sharps" container, and "rig check," which is where we would go through the ambulance to ensure that we had the right amount of all the proper supplies: backboards, straps, cervical collars, duct tape, head blocks, traction splint, board splints, KED board (short backboard, usually used for removing a stable patient from a car), oxygen tanks, flares, nasal cannulas, bag-valve masks, nonrebreather masks, needles of all different sizes (18 gauge, 20 gauge, 14 gauge, etc.), 4x4s (gauze), portable suction, suction tubing, IV fluids and tubing, blood sugar lancets (small needles used for getting blood sugar readings), alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, trauma shears (for cutting clothes off of a patient), drug box (a locked and sealed box full of medications to be administered only by the paramedic and usually only in the event of a real emergency), IV box (extra IV stuff, should we run out or get called to a mass-casualty incident), towels, teddy bears (for scared kids), blankets, and sheet sets (for the cot).

I've been promising (threatening?) to write a blog about my ride-alongs for a while now, and I'm finally ready to deliver. Here's how this will work: I've decided to consolidate my most interesting ride-along experiences into one action-packed story, to be written out in a saga-like series of entries. So, if you like Part I, you'll have to stay tuned for Part II (and perhaps Parts III and IV!). Ready to get started? Here goes:

It's dawn. The sky is slowly brightening and light is beginning to creep into my bedroom. Lying flat on my back and still as a corpse, I open my eyes and look out my skylight. A gray-pink sky and the chirping of eager young birds greet me. It is spring, but I feel no joy. Even though it is just now dawn, I've been awake since two AM, because I was too nervous and filled with dread to sleep. Every time I tried to close my eyes last night I saw images of bloody disembodied limbs, HIV-infected needles, and angry drunks wielding chainsaws. But it is dawn now. I have to get up. And so I do.

I shower and put on my uniform. My uniform pants make me gag a little. They are men's navy slacks, and they are huge. I could fit a small neighborhood inside of them. I ordered them a few sizes bigger than what I needed because I was so worried that they would come in the mail and be too small. I didn't get to try them on before placing an order. Nonetheless, I suck it up and slide on my uniform pants. They make me feel obese. The tone is set for the day. My uniform shirt is a light blue short-sleeved button-up heavy-duty cotton weave with the word "Genesys" embroidered above the pocket. I have no beef with the shirt. Beneath my uniform shirt, I wear a men's ribbed gray tank top and a sports bra. My uniform is complete when I slide on a black leather belt, my ID badge, and black leather steel-toed boots. I hastily eat breakfast (Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal) while watching the news (as if I wasn't already depressed enough). It is now 5:40 AM. I need to get my stuff together and go. I'm a nervous wreck. My eyes well up. But I dutifully pack my messenger bag. Into the bag I place: my EMT workbook (fill-in-the-blank style homework that I figure I can work on when we're not "running" (doing a call)), a novel (in case I get sick of homework), my cell phone (turned to vibrate), money, and my blue booklet (remember, the one that needs to be signed to verify my ride-time?).

The base station is so close to my house that I can walk there. And so I start walking. The birds are chirping loudly. For some reason--maybe it's the stillness of the air around me or the desolate street or the screaming birds in the still-leafless trees that are silhouetted black against the pink dawn sky--I am reminded of horror movies. I think I see a zombie, but then I realize it is just my own reflection in a plate-glass window (in case you didn't already know this: I live in a downtown area that's filled with stores. In fact, I live above a bar! It's not as cool as it sounds.). I look weathered and pale, and my gait is graceless.

When I arrive at the base station--a small, unassuming brick building with a large garage, few windows, and a blue EMS flag flying on the flag pole--my heart is pounding in my chest. I can hear and feel the blood rushing through my veins. The base station is dark, save for one beacon of yellow light that calls out to me through the small window on the heavy white door that leads inside. I reach the door and peek through the window. I see no one--just an empty, dimly-lit hallway. I knock on the door. No one comes. I try the handle. It's locked. I knock again, louder this time, hoping upon hope that someone will come to open the door (while simultaneously wishing that no one would ever come).

A man opens the door. He is a short, round man--not obese, but stocky. His head is shaved and he is tan with a circular face and big, somewhat bulldogish features. I guess him to be in his mid-50s, at the very least. He is wearing an EMS uniform--slightly different (and better) than mine. He wears navy blue cargo pants (the pockets are filled with goodies, like neon-green-handled rescue shears!), a tight-fitting navy short-sleeved polyester uniform shirt, complete with cargo pockets and decorative pins that spell out things like "EMS", "Paramedic", and "CPR certified" in posh silver letters. I think to myself: I wish I had pins! But alas, all I have are my disgusting uniform pants and an ugly ID badge that identifies me as an EMS student.

"Hi," I say in a meek little voice that fills me with shame as soon as I hear it escape my lips, "I'm here to do a ride-along." Commence: terror. This is the moment I've been dreading ever since I began EMT class months ago.

"Ok," the man says, humorlessly. "You'll be riding with my partner and I. I'm Ivan** and my partner is Wendy**." He doesn't smile at me. He just steps aside so I can come in, then turns and walks briskly down the dimly lit hallway. As the door slams shut behind me, I can't help but be reminded of the sickening echo a cell door makes as it slams shut, locking it's prisoner in a tiny, cold, windowless room for all eternity. I don't know what else to do, so I follow him.

To Be Continued...


The view from the "Jump Seat"

**Names have been changed