(Author’s note: this slightly AU story expands on some
themes in Walls. Also, there’s some
adult language.)
I wasn’t really keen on the
idea. Don’t get me wrong. The more medical care for the great, unwashed
masses the better, as far as I’m concerned – which is why I fought for the
program in the first place. But, it was one of those few instances where
something Johnny said to me actually made sense right away. And that
scared me.
“Not everyone’s cut out to be
a paramedic Roy. Can you imagine sending every fireman in the department
to paramedic school? Some of these guys can’t even read!”
And he was right. OK,
maybe the reading part was an exaggeration. But I couldn’t see guys like
Chet, the rank-and-file hose haulers and roof ventilators, fishing for a
rolling vein in the back of a bouncing ambulance. And, more importantly,
I couldn’t see the union going for it. That’s why the announcement at
roll call one morning came as such a shock.
*********
“First things first,” Captain
Stanley said, after clearing his throat to get our attention. He had hid
in his office all morning, and now he was twisting his clipboard in his
hands. I’ve never found that to be a good sign.
“Well, I’m not sure how to
tell you about this one. So I’ll just read it, straight through.”
He took a deep breath and
began: “Departmental record-keeping shows an marked increase in emergency
medical calls countywide in recent years. At the same time, fire
suppression calls are in a downturn as our prevention and education efforts
continue to show success.”
I elbowed Johnny, who had
started whispering something dirty at Chet. He glared at me but turned
his attention back to Cap.
“In an effort to acknowledge
this increase in need for emergency medical services, the Los Angeles County
Fire Department is instituting a special pilot program. As part of this
program, all personnel at one station will undergo comprehensive emergency
medical training, after which personnel assigned to the engine and/or truck
company of that station will be available to respond to medical calls
independent of rescue squads if necessary. If the program is successful,
the hope is that firefighters countywide will undergo similar training.”
Cap stopped reading and
looked up. It was confirmation of the rumor we had been hearing for
months now. No one said a word, not even Johnny and Chet. Mike
stood stock-still. It was Marco who spoke up.
“Everyone, Cap?”
“Everyone, Pal.”
Marco looked like a deer in
headlights. Cap resumed reading.
“After careful consideration,
the administration has chosen Station 51, in Carson, as the first subject in
this pilot program…”
The bay erupted in noise.
“No way, Cap…”
“Why us?”
“The union won’t go for
this…”
“This is bullshit….”
Cap stood there and waited
for the hubbub to die down. “Let me finish this guys, then we’ll
talk.” He resumed:
“In 1975 the California
Office of Statewide Health Planning and Development established another scope
of practice for rural EMS providers termed limited advanced life support – or
EMT-2. There are several differences between the level of training of an
EMT-2 and a Paramedic. There are fewer drugs that EMT-2 can administer.
Additionally there are certain airway, cardiac, and defibrillation maneuvers
that an EMT-2 cannot perform. It is thought that this level of training may be
more suitable to the needs of career firefighters with the Los Angeles County
Fire Department.”
Cap stopped. “It goes
on from there, but I think it’s safe to say I’ve read the meat of it.”
“When does it start?” Chet asked.
“I was reading over the
paperwork this morning,” Cap said. “A-shift will train first, starting
next week, in a two-month program in Sacramento. Monday through Friday,
8-5. They’ll use floaters and mandatory overtime to cover the shift, plus
Gage and I will still be here. Then they’ll do the same with B and C
shifts.”
Gage and I? That didn’t
sound right. “You and Johnny and me, right Cap?”
“No Roy, just Gage and
I.” Cap shifted uncomfortably before meeting my eye. “That’s the
other thing. One of the things the union fought for was instructors who
were familiar with our guys, since you’ll be up in Sacramento training with the
rural providers. You’re a certified instructor. Gage isn’t.”
School schedules, carpool
schedules, Little League schedules, lawn-mowing schedules – they all floated
through my mind along with one overriding thought. Joanne is going to
kill me.
*********
My wife always joked that
even though my job was dangerous, at least she had me home to do her bidding
several days a week. Now I wasn’t going to be around at all,
except on weekends. Her displeasure the next morning was not an attractive
thing to see.
“They can’t send someone
else? Johnny can’t go?”
“I guess not. They
wanted someone from the department, and he’s not an instructor.”
“Great. Just super,”
she said in a tone that told me it was neither great, nor super.
“Sacramento, huh? Might as well be Timbuktu. That’s a six
hour drive Roy. Six hours. Every weekend. That’s two months
of no dad, no husband, except on parts of Saturday and Sunday. Explain
that one to your children, Roy. YOUR children, not mine, because after
two months alone with them I’ll probably disown them.”
Her hands were on her hips,
and anger flashed in her eyes. I inwardly squirmed under her gaze.
I couldn’t blame her for being upset. After shelling out all this money
for training, the department didn’t want to pay to fly us home every weekend,
so they offered us mileage reimbursement instead. That was 12 hours every
weekend down the tubes in drive-time.
What could I say? ‘Gee
honey, I’ll handle the kids all the time on the weekends’? I wasn’t a
half-bad dad, but I didn’t have the temperament for that, and she knew
it.
“You’ll be fine, honey,” was
all I could manage.
“Yeah, fine. Just
fine.” She stomped off into the laundry room. I picked up the
phone; no way I was putting all that mileage on the Porsche, and Joanne needed
the station wagon.
*********
Chet answered on the first
ring. “Hello.”
“Hey Chet. I figured we
could arrange car pools up to Sacramento.”
“No way Roy, I’m not
going.” He sounded panicked. “Marco and me, we don’t want to do
this. We’re meeting with the shop steward tomorrow. They can’t make
us do this.”
“What’s the big deal?
They’re paying you anyway, aren’t they? It’s a chance to get away for a
change. Johnny and I did it; you can too.”
“No way. I’m a fireman,
not a doctor. I’m not doing this.”
“It’s not that hard.
There’s less stuff than we had to learn. You’ll get it just fine.”
I sounded more confident than I felt. Chet was a lot of things, but he
was no scholar.
“Oh, I know it’ll be easy,”
he said boastfully. “I just don’t want to, that’s all.”
“The union went for it.
I don’t think the shop steward is going to help you out any.”
“Roy, this is bullshit.
They can’t be serious.”
“Look, Chet. I’ll get
you through this. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make sure you do just
fine. And in the end they’ll probably decide it’s a bad idea and nothing
will be lost.”
“You’d better be right.
But just in case, I’m still going to talk with the shop steward.”
I needed to steer the subject
back to saving my Porsche. “OK, but, let’s assume for the moment that you
are going. Can we carpool?”
“Yeah man. Marco and
me, we’ll probably take the van. There’s no seats in back right now, but
you’ll do just fine on the mattress.”
Did he say mattress?
“Um…what’s wrong with Marco’s
car?”
“Nothing man. But
there’s no better traveling than in a VW wagon. And I’ve got those cool
new speakers too.”
It was time for Plan B.
*********
“Hey Mike.”
“Hey Roy.”
“So for this thing in
Sacramento, I’m looking for a carpool. You interested? You provide
the vehicle, I’ll drive, or whatever works for you.”
“Nope. Craig and I are
taking the truck. For the AC.”
Craig? Who the hell was
Craig? The only Craig I knew was Craig Brice. But no one called him
Craig. Except, apparently, Mike.
“You mean Brice? Why’s
he going?”
“To teach.”
I took a deep breath.
“Is anyone else going, besides Chet and his party van I mean? I need a
ride. I can’t put those miles on the Porsche, and Anne needs the wagon.”
“Dunno. Ask Craig.”
I didn’t know what was worse,
Mike giving the verbal equivalent of shrugs over the phone, or the idea of
calling Brice on purpose.
“OK, I guess I’ll do
that. See ya.”
“Bye.”
*********
“Hello, Brice here.”
“Hi Brice. It’s Roy
DeSoto.”
“Hello DeSoto.”
If talking to Mike was like
pulling teeth, then talking to Brice was like having one’s teeth pulled.
“I was calling to see if you
knew of anyone else who was going to this Sacramento thing. I need to
carpool.”
“I am unaware of anyone other
than your co-workers at 51’s and myself. The chief decided at the last
minute that a second instructor from the county would be advisable.”
“Oh.” Joy.
“Mike’s truck is fairly large
and may fit three across. Perhaps I could ask him if you might accompany
us.”
Mike? Not
“Stoker”? I put aside that mental double-take for the moment and got back
to the business at hand – here was someone offering me a ride.
“I just talked to him, and he
didn’t bring it up. Do you think you guys could talk it over and let me
know?”
“I will do so and advise you
of his decision as soon as possible.”
“Thanks Brice.”
“You are welcome DeSoto.”
*********
“Johnny, you gotta do me a
favor while I’m gone.”
“Sure Roy!” He practically
bounced off the locker room ceiling with his eagerness to please. Some
day I have to learn how to bottle all that energy and make a profit from it.
“Anne is going to need some
help with yard work and stuff, and if it gets done while I’m gone, I can give
her more time for the kids when I’m home on weekends. Can you drop by
every now and then?”
Johnny’s face fell.
“Now, Roy, you know I’d do anything for you . . .”
There are two John Gage’s in
my life. One is “single Johnny”, who barely moves his ass from my back
porch for days on end except to eat Joanne’s free meals and play catch with
Chris. The other is “seeing someone Johnny”, who disappears for weeks on
end and turns self-centeredness into an art form. Apparently the latter
was in control today.
“. . . but I’m seeing this
amazing chick and she’s not really into kids and I’ve got so much stuff planned
to do with her because she’s getting transferred to St. Francis…”
Three excuses without taking
a breath. I was surprised he hadn’t turned blue and passed out.
“… and I won’t run into her
at Rampart after that and . . .”
I had to interrupt before I
gave in to the urge to pop him one. “For Christ’s sake, Johnny. I’m
not asking you to marry my wife and put the kids through college. I just
want the lawn mowed and the garbage emptied every now and then. Besides,
you’ll have dumped this girl, or she’ll have dumped you, before I get back
anyway.”
I knew I shouldn’t have said
it. But I couldn’t help it. And now his face was already taking on
the sullen look that told me I would have to live with the consequences the
rest of the shift.
“Fine Roy. I’ll stop
by. But I’m doing it for Joanne, not you.” And he stomped out of
the locker room, the same way Joanne had stomped into the laundry room a few
days prior.
I wanted to stomp too, but
instead I headed into the dayroom for a cup of coffee. There was very
little that a cup of coffee couldn’t cure, except maybe idiotic ideas by fire
department muckety-mucks.
*********
All that shift, I noted the
tension among my crewmates. Johnny wasn’t speaking to me except when
necessary. Cap seemed to be on the phone every five minutes juggling
schedules. Chet was talking Marco’s ear off. Marco appeared to be
annoyed by Chet’s constant chatter, but made no effort to avoid it.
Mike, well, he was
Mike. You could never tell when something was bugging Mike. I kind
of found that irritating and refreshing, all at the same time. Four years
of Johnny and Chet wearing every emotion on their sleeve was about three years
too many. But in a way, it was like Mike thought he couldn’t trust
us. His wife and Joanne seemed to get along well enough, though. I
had heard Beth was pregnant now, about six months, but you couldn’t tell by
Mike.
“So Mike, how does Beth feel
about you being gone so long with her due so soon?”
He put down his newspaper and
shrugged. “She says she’ll be OK.” The tone of his voice was like a
door slamming shut. Next subject.
“Did Brice talk to you about
his carpool idea? Or maybe that’s a truckpool idea.” I smiled,
pleased with my play on words. No wonder my kids call me dorky-dad.
“Yep.”
“And?”
“You’ll have the gearshift
between your knees.”
Johnny snorted in amusement
from across the table. I ignored him. Hmm. Castration by
stick-shift? Or the party van? What a choice. Not for the
first time, I wondered why mom couldn’t have given me a Chevy Nova for my high
school graduation. I made my decision.
“What time should I be at
your place?”
Mike’s answer, whatever
non-committal, one-word utterance it might have been, was cut off by the tones.
“Squad 51, man down, 10-31
East 223rd. 10-31 East 223rd. Cross street
Cluff. Time out 15:37.”
As Johnny and I got up, Cap
pulled himself away from the phone long enough to say, “Take Kelly with
you. It’s one of the suggestions the powers-that-be came up with to make
the rank-and-file more comfortable with emergency medical training. If we
get a call, we’ll just zip down the street and pick him up.”
He threw a look at Chet that
stopped any rebuttal in its tracks. We headed out into the bay, and Chet
and Johnny settled in the squad.
I acknowledged dispatch:
“Squad 51, 10-4, KMG365.”
And we were off.
*********
1031 East 223rd
street was just blocks from the station and not that far from Cales Park, a
well-known hang-out for drunks and down-and-outs. I had little doubt
that’s where our “man down” had his origins.
“So Chet,” Johnny said.
“You ready to be a star?”
“I’m just watching, Gage, not
doing. I’ll fetch a band-aid for you or something, but that’s it.”
“Well, well, well, the
Phantom is frightened of a little paramedic work? What’s wrong Chet, if
it doesn’t have a nozzle, you can’t handle it?’
I gripped the steering wheel
harder. Johnny baiting Chet wasn’t a good idea, especially since I knew
the shop steward had told him “no such luck” when he and Marco visited the
other day. On the other hand, Chet had made Johnny’s life so miserable
over the years, it was kind of nice to see the shoe on the other foot.
We pulled up to where a small
crowd had gathered. An older man lay on his back on the ground.
There was no obvious sign of injury. Johnny and Chet gathered equipment
while I started quizzing people.
“You know this guy? You
know what happened?” Of course, no one knew anything. I started my
assessment. The odor of alcohol filled the air. Airway patent,
breathing slow but steady, pulse ditto. The guy was kinda big. Good
thing we had Chet to help us move him.
“Hello sir, what’s your
name? Do you know where you are? What happened to you?”
Nothing. A sternal rub produced an annoyed mutter. My attempts to
check his pupils failed when he screwed his eyes shut tight and swatted at my hands
in response to the intrusive penlight. He just needed to sleep it off,
but with my luck, he was a lawyer in his spare time.
“Hey Chet, to be on the safe
side, let’s board him.” I positioned Chet’s hands on either side of the
man’s head, and Johnny handed me a c-collar. We rolled the man onto a
backboard, checking his back and head for injury in the process. There
wasn’t any. He had no wallet in his back pocket either. Johnny set
up the biophone and called it in, while I had Chet put an O2 mask on our
patient.
“Rampart, this is Squad 51.”
“Go ahead 51.” It was
Dr. Early.
“Rampart, we have a male,
about 60. Found unresponsive, supine on the sidewalk. Possible
ETOH. No ID. Reacts to pain. No sign of injury but we have
taken spinal precautions and have him on 6 liters non-rebreather. Vitals
are…” he looked at me for confirmation as I finished up the BP.
“BP 130/80, pulse 60,
respirations 14. Pupils may be PEARL, or may be missing for all I know –
he wouldn’t let me check.”
Johnny repeated the
information to Dr. Early, leaving out my snotty comment about the pupils.
“Squad 51, start an IV Normal
Saline and bring him in.”
“10-4 Rampart.”
Since the ambulance hadn’t
arrived yet, we had some time to play. I turned to Chet. “You want
to help me find this vein?”
“Uh, OK. What do I do?”
“See his forearm here?
Usually it’s right about here.” I applied a tourniquet and tried to
palpate a vein in his rather pudgy arm. Nothing. I tried the other
arm. Still nothing. So much for Chet’s first learning
experience. I briefly debated sticking his hand or going fishing, but
decided against it. This guy wasn’t dying, and Rampart liked us to save
the other veins for the nurses. I looked at Johnny.
“I’m not having much luck
here. You wanna try?”
Johnny came over and poked
around. Still nothing. We could have really used Bellingham right
about then. He wasn’t the greatest paramedic in the world, but he could
find a good vein in a dead rat.
“Well Chet, since this
gentleman isn’t critical, we’ll just tell Rampart and take him in.” I
went to remove the tourniquet, but paused when Chet moved in closer.
Chet poked at the man’s
forearm. “What am I feelin’ for, exactly?”
I said, rather cavalierly,
“Look for the blue lines, then feel around for something squishy. If it’s
hard, it’s a tendon. But you’re not going to find anything. He’s
too big.” The patient muttered a bit under his breath at my
pronouncement, but didn’t open his eyes.
Chet pushed at the man’s arm
curiously as Johnny and I cleaned up. I heard the ambulance sirens in the
distance. At the same time, Chet said, “I kind of feel something here.”
I leaned over and
looked. Sure enough, Chet had found something. It wasn’t the
biggest, fattest vein in the world, but under my grateful fingers it felt like
an inch-and-a-half hoseline. A feat worthy of Bellingham himself. I
gave Chet a big smile and retrieved the 18-gauge angiocath that Johnny was
putting away.
Later, after we came back
from Rampart, Chet regaled the rest of the crew with tales of his medical
daring-do. I let him; it was only fair. I didn’t know about Marco
or Mike, but I knew at least Chet would be driving to Sacramento with a lighter
heart next week.
*********
Joanne dropped me off at Mike’s
Sunday morning. I waved at the kids in the back seat, blew some kisses
toward the front seat, and headed up the front walk. Brice met me at the
door.
“Mike is assisting Beth with
something. We’ll leave shortly.”
I plopped down on the front
room couch with my old army duffle beside me. Brice sat across from me,
with a small athletic bag between his feet. I thought I had packed
lightly, but that little bag seemed to mock my efforts.
“Light packer, huh?” I asked,
more to make conversation than because I really cared.
“I have five pressed uniform
shirts and pants in a garment bag in the back of the truck.”
“Oh.” Figured. I
imagined my shirts crumpled somewhere in the deep recesses of my duffle, and
suddenly I felt absolutely slovenly. Joanne had offered to iron them, but
I hadn’t wanted to add to her workload.
Mike’s voice floated out from
the kitchen: “You need to ask for help when you reach for stuff like
that. You’re going to hurt yourself more.”
Then Beth’s voice. “I’m
not an invalid. I’ll be fine. Just go – I hear Craig and Roy in the
other room waiting.”
“I can’t go. They are
just going to have to deal with that. I can’t leave you like this.
You can’t even keep your balance on those things yet.”
“I’m fine now.” She
sounded exasperated. “And I’ll be fine when you are gone, especially when
you stop hovering! I can’t even go to the bathroom without you breathing
down my neck. Do me a favor Michael, and go already.”
“Damnit, woman, maybe I’d
feel better about going if I could be sure you weren’t going to end up sprawled
on your ass at the bottom of the basement stairs some night!”
Wow. I didn’t know Mike
was capable of sentences that long. And I was pretty certain that in the
years that I’d known him, I’d never heard him swear, or even raise his
voice. I turned my head and was shocked to see a fairly pregnant Beth on
crutches, working her way out of the kitchen. Her knee was wrapped
up. Mike was behind her, red-faced.
“Hi guys,” she said.
“Hi yourself!” I said, springing
out of the couch to help her. “What the heck happened to you?”
She shook me off. “I
tore my PCL in a fender-bender last week. It’s not too bad; they think it
may even resolve itself.”
I was embarrassed to say I
had no idea what a PCL was. I faked a knowing nod, figuring it didn’t
really matter – a hurt knee is a hurt knee. Splint it and let the
hospital deal with it. The mantra of pre-hospital care. But Brice
caught on immediately, the jerk.
“That’s the posterior
cruciate ligament, DeSoto. The PCL is most commonly injured after a
direct blow to the lower kneecap or upper shin,” lectured Brice.
Uh huh. OK.
Whatever. I nodded at Brice and turned back to Mike. “Jeez, you
never said anything to anyone. Anne can come by and help. And I’m
sure Johnny wouldn’t mind. Let me call him.”
“Well, we don’t really…” Mike
trailed off.
“That’s kind of you Roy, but
I don’t need Joanne,” Beth said. “And I don’t need Johnny. A
physical therapist comes by every couple of days. And Mike will be home
on weekends.”
I heard that mental door slam
again. It drives me crazy when people won’t take help that is offered to
them. It occurred to me for the first time that although she was a lot
more social and talkative on the outside, on the inside Beth was just as
private and reticent as Mike. I gave up and grabbed my duffle.
“Well, let’s head out then. Ready?”
Brice picked up his bag, and
Mike pulled a small suitcase from behind a chair. He kissed Beth,
whispered something fiercely into her ear, and walked out the door, obviously
still angry.
“You take care Beth,” Brice
said, heading out the door. I followed suit. This was going to be a
long ride.
*********
Sitting between Mike and
Brice, zipping northward toward Sacramento, I contemplated their apparent
friendship. Neither had said a word since we left. That was typical
Mike, but I didn’t remember Brice being so quiet. Way back before Brice
started at 16’s, when he was still subbing at 51’s frequently, I remembered
Johnny telling me about a morning where Mike and Brice were chatting about
baseball. Actually chatting, not Brice talking and Mike listening
wordlessly. Were they friends then? Had they hung out together
since? I had been so wrapped up in my own family and friendships the past
few years, I honestly hadn’t noticed.
I didn’t mind the quiet, but
I was happy when Mike leaned over to switch the radio on. He stabbed at a
few buttons until the Eagles came on: “Take It Easy.” I wasn’t a big
music fan, but Johnny had played a few Eagles songs for me on some camping
trips.
“Did you ever buy…” Brice
started.
“Yeah, and there’s a new one
coming out…” Mike replied.
“Yes, around Christmas…”
My head whipped from side to
side like a spectator at a tennis match. What in the heck where they
talking about?
More silence, then Brice
spoke up again. “She’ll be OK.”
“Yeah, it’s just…I want to do
this right, not like my dad did.”
“I believe the fact that you
are cognizant of your father’s errors means you are not doomed to repeat them.”
Now I felt like an
intruder. It was obvious that whatever level their friendship was at,
Brice had the unique ability to draw Mike out when his own crewmates could
not. I leaned back my head and closed my eyes, letting the music and
conversation drift around me as weeks of long shifts and household stress took
its toll. Every so often I startled awake when one or the other would say
something, but mostly I just napped the entire six hours.
*********
The way the EMT-2 academy was
set up, my crewmates did classroom time with the rural providers, then split
off with Brice and me to do practicals. Brice and I were supposed to sit
in on the classroom sessions to get an idea of where the class was, and we were
also given a syllabus so we would know what to teach in the hands-on
sessions. We were sitting in our hotel room going over them Sunday night,
when I remembered why I found Brice so annoying.
“DeSoto, I’ve taken the
liberty of changing the procedure in the section on application and inflation
of MAST pants to reflect proper procedure as endorsed by Rampart and St.
Francis.” He took off his glasses and wiped them for what seemed like the
millionth time that evening.
“Don’t you think we should
teach it the way they do up here, so the guys will be able to keep up with
their class and pass their tests?” I said. “We can teach them local
protocol later.”
“I believe that showing them
the correct procedure, and making a verbal note of the difference between that
and what they learn in the classroom, will be adequate.”
It was like that for the next
two hours. Brice finding something he wasn’t happy with. Me asking
what the big deal was. Him telling me how it would be done. I’d
agree with him just to get him to shut up, and ten minutes later he’d be piping
up again. I was thinking up excuses to take a break when Mike walked
in.
“Everyone else is here,” he
announced. Behind him, Chet and Marco stood laden with bags.
“Where do you get a drink around
here?” Chet asked as he plopped his bags on Brice’s bed. I saw Brice
cringe, and was thankful in a mean-spirited sort of way.
“What a great idea,” I said a
little too eagerly. “Let’s check out the hotel restaurant. I’m
starved. You coming Brice?”
“I believe my time will be
better spent looking over these classroom materials.”
Mike spoke up. “Get a
life, Craig. You need to eat too.”
Chet and Marco’s eyes widened
as Brice reluctantly got up from the edge of his bed and headed out the door with
us. I guess Mike wasn’t the only one benefiting from this friendship.
*********
Once things got going, it
wasn’t so bad. Chet wasn’t the best test-taker in the world, but he more
than made up for it in practicals. Mike tested well, probably because of
all those numbers he had to memorize in his engineer exam. His practicals
weren’t great, since he wasn’t as good at translating all that medical
knowledge to action, but he tried hard. Marco was the best of the three:
good at taking tests, good at note-taking, good at practicals. He was a
born paramedic, something which I think surprised him as much as us.
“I didn’t realize how much of
the body is just like a machine, and medications are like the different fluids
and oils. Once I thought of it that way, it got a lot easier,” he said to
me one day. I resolved to remember that analogy for the next class I
taught.
When I was home on weekends,
I spent my days taking children to baseball and softball practice, and my
nights going to bed blissfully early and making love to my wife. But in
Sacramento, I spent most of my spare time on the phone home, complaining to
Johnny and Joanne about Brice. If he wasn’t getting on my case about how
the classes were organized, then he was picking on how I left stuff lying
around the bathroom. It got to the point where I spent more time in Chet
and Marco’s room, or Mike’s room, than in my own.
“If you guys are such good
friends, why don’t you room with him?” I asked Mike one day.
“Because if I ever had to
live with him, we wouldn’t be such good friends anymore,” was his
matter-of-fact response.
*********
When we got to O-B training,
we teased Mike mercilessly.
“Wouldn’t it be just like the
movies if you had to deliver your own kid,” Chet said over a beer one night.
“Yeah, the newspaper headline
could say ‘newly-trained paramedic puts knowledge to good use,’” Marco said.
“It’s not likely you would
have the proper equipment handy to put your training to optimum use,” Brice
said. “But you would be able to effect a proper birth within certain
limitations.”
Mike shook his head
vigorously and took a quick sip of his beer. He muttered something I
couldn’t quite hear.
“What was that?”
“Too gooey,” he said
louder. Our laughter echoed through the hotel restaurant.
*********
The time came for finals and
the certification test. I worked with Chet every night on memorizing
facts and figures while Brice practiced hands-on skills with Mike. Marco
watched both groups, occasionally participating when he felt weak in one skill
or another.
“Chet, if a radial pulse is
present, systolic blood pressure is at least what?” I asked.
“Um, 80?”
“Good. OK, so you have
a patient complaining of chest pain who is showing multifocal PVCs on the monitor.
What is the doctor likely to order?”
“Lidocaine?”
“Yeah, but how much?”
Chet got that panicked look
in his eyes that told me we were in trouble.
“That’s one milligram per
kiligram bolus, at first. They’ll ask you that on the certification test,
even though in real life the docs will probably tell you when you call in.”
“I will never remember all
these damn numbers. I’m screwed,” he despaired.
“You’re not screwed. Just
keep them in your head long enough for the tests and you’ll never have to
remember half of them again. You can do this Chet. Now, what does
the T wave represent on the EKG?”
“Venti…ventri….venticrular
repolarization?”
“There you go, that’s the ticket.”
I didn’t bother correcting his mispronunciation; at least he had the right
idea. The doctors would tell him what all the waves and rhythms were
anyway; this was just for the test. It was time for a break. “Let’s
take a breather and see what the other guys are up too.”
We wandered over to Mike’s
room, where Mike, Marco and Brice were working on spinal immobilization.
Brice was tied to a backboard, and Mike was securing his head with tape.
“Make sure someone is holding
the head stable even after the c-collar is applied,” Brice lectured from the
floor. “Collars are not guaranteed to hold the cervical spine
steady. You should not let go of the head until the tape and straps are
properly applied.”
“What about your arms and
hands? They’re just flopping at the sides.” Mike asked when he was done
taping Brice’s head.
“If they are not being held
properly by the straps, and you will not compromise the IV or aggravate any
injuries, you can cross the patient’s arms in front like this,” he demonstrated
with his own arms, “and tape the wrists together.”
Mike taped the wrists and
stepped back to examine his work. I pulled out a pair of trauma shears.
“When you tape the wrists,
you can slit the tape part-way, to make it easier to remove the tape quickly if
you have to.” I partially cut the tape. “That will come in handy if
you have to administer a drug IC, or defib someone, or decompress a
pneumothorax.” Something flashed in Brice’s eyes, something strangely
akin to panic. I remembered a time two years ago when I had to do just
that. Brice and Mike were pretty messed up in a tanker explosion, and
Brice was in respiratory arrest when help arrived. We thought we’d lost
them both, and it took Mike months to get back to work. Brice broke into
my thoughts.
“Perhaps it would be
advisable to release me,” he said quietly. “So that we may practice other
skills.” I quickly released him from the backboard. He looked
relieved. I quickly addressed the other guys, who hadn’t noticed Brice’s brief
lapse.
“Let’s try some more needle
sticks. You can never have too many of those under your belt.” That
was one item about which Brice and I were in perfect agreement. We made
them stick each other all the time, and Mike and Marco practiced on dummy arms,
bananas and rubber tubing as well. The other two usually fought over whom
Chet would get to practice on, since he never missed. It appeared that he
would be the next Bellingham, able to “stick a brick.”
*********
The finals were on a
Saturday, and Brice and I weren’t needed. So we made plans to drive
Mike’s truck home Friday night, leaving him to cope with the back of Chet’s
van. Mike didn’t put up too much of a fuss when he handed over the keys
to Brice, but he said something about getting even later.
As Brice and I packed up, I
felt a pang of guilt. “I kind of feel like we should stay anyway, for
moral support,” I said.
“We will not always be
available for ‘moral support’, as you call it. They need to be confident
in their own skills and abilities. Besides, I’m sure your wife and Gage
will appreciate hearing your complaints about your roommate in person, as
opposed to over the phone every evening.”
My face heated, and I
suddenly found the latch on my duffle to be most interesting.
*********
The next Tuesday I was on
shift. Johnny seemed thrilled to have me back, and the feeling was
mutual. He’d suffered through a revolving door of partners while I was
gone.
“I was always bumping into
someone,” complained Johnny. “They always got in my way when I was
reachin’ for this or that piece of equipment. Not like how you always
know where I’m reachin’. And a couple of ‘em didn’t like how I drive, but
I told ‘em it’s my squad, it’s my station, it’s my keys. Deal with
it. Don’t suppose I can drive now that you’re back, huh?”
He looked so hopeful, that I
almost hated to burst his bubble. But I had to. He was a good
driver, but I wasn’t a good passenger, and the floorboards couldn’t stand much
more of my invisible braking.
“I’ve gone two months now with
Mike’s gearshift up my… um… nose, and Brice complaining that Stoker
drives too inefficiently, and endless, in-depth discussions about Steve
Garvey’s batting average. I’m ready to grab a steering wheel
again.”
His face fell. I
couldn’t hide my smile. Sometimes I love being senior partner.
********
LA County couldn’t put their
grand plan into effect until we got Mike, Marco and Chet’s test scores.
They spent the next two weeks grabbing ride time with the squad whenever they
could.
The test scores finally
arrived. They needed a 75 to pass. Marco got a 95. Mike got
an 84. Chet got a 73. Cap called me into his office to tell me the
news before he told the guys.
“Did he try his best?” Cap
asked. His hands fiddled with a pencil on his desk. “You know how
he was talking before this all started. I don’t want to get selfish here,
Roy, but it reflects on me as his captain if he didn’t try his best.”
I rushed to reassure Cap
about Chet. “He tried, Cap, real hard. But in the end all the numbers
did him in. He’s great with his hands. He can stick a vein better
than I can, he’s got an instinct for assessment, and he’s got a real light
touch with the equipment. But it was the darn numbers…”
*********
In the end, the county agreed
to run the engine with just Mike and Marco as certified EMT-2’s. But
Chet’s failure had apparently given them some food for thought regarding the
rank-and-file’s ability to hack it. In the next few weeks, the engine was
sent out on alone on a medical call only once. Mike and Marco did just
fine – it was an old diabetic woman, a frequent flyer, who just needed some D50
IV push and a trip to Rampart. Apparently even Brackett was impressed
with their performance. But they, and I, couldn’t help but think that the
entire two months of training had been a huge waste if they were never going to
get any EMS runs.
As for Chet, he moped around
the station for days. Even the Phantom seemed to be depressed, as
evidenced by the lack of practical jokes played on Johnny. After a while
Chet’s funk disappeared, replaced by false bravado and wounded
self-esteem. Every time someone brought it up, he had a set of stock
answers: He didn’t want to take the stupid test anyway. He
knew he’d be no good at it. It was a dumb idea and he was glad he could
prove it. Etc., etc., etc.
Every time he said stuff like
that, I cringed. After all, I was the one who had promised to get him
through this.
Marco had his own
problems. “Now that I’ve figured out I’m good at this, I’m thinking of
going the whole way, to paramedic training,” he said to me as we worked on the
hose tower one day. “The problem is, I’d have to transfer out of the
engine company. I like engine work. You and Johnny never get to
haul hose except once in a blue moon.”
“Maybe you should stick it
out as-is,” I suggested. “Maybe they’ll start sending the engine out on
more medical calls.”
“And maybe not. I have
to make a decision. Stay with the engine and hope they throw me a bone
every so often, or start paramedic training and face leaving what I enjoy
doing. Leaving everyone I enjoy working with.” He meant Chet, of
course. He and Chet were as opposite as me and Johnny, in different ways,
and just as good friends. But the fire service made friendships fickle
and even the best intentions weren’t enough sometimes to keep pals close.
“I’d hate to lose you,” I
said. “But you have the makings of a good paramedic. You have to do
what you think is right. Just do me a favor; think on it for a long while
before making a decision. Things can change.”
Even as I said it, I knew it
was bull. The fire department higher-ups, in their attempt to make us all
things for all people, had instead reduced us to impotent wonders yet again.
*********
A few weeks later we were
sitting in the dayroom after daily chores, waiting for Mike to finish making
lunch, when the phone rang. Cap answered.
“Station 51, Captain Hank
Stanley speaking…..yeah, he’s right here…..really?” He turned to Mike with a
huge smile on his face.
“Pal, you’re almost a dad.”
The way Mike stood there,
spatula in hand, mouth agape – it was classic. I wish I’d had a camera.
“I…I…she can’t be…she had a
check-up today at Rampart…she’s not due until next week…is she OK?” he finally managed
to stammer.
“She’s fine. Here, you
talk to the nurse.” Cap exchanged the spatula in Mike’s hand for the
phone, and then moved his hand up to his ear when it was apparent his engineer
was still in shock.
Johnny, Chet and Marco began
talking excitedly about who’d win the baby pool they had set up with
C-shift. My minded drifted back to the days my children were born, and
the strange mix of joy and terror I had felt when the doctor came into the
waiting room to tell me the news.
Cap, the only other father in
the room, gave me a wink and gestured at the other men at the table. I
knew what he was saying to me: ‘We understand that Mike’s life will never be
the same again. Some day they will understand too.’
*********
Mike headed to Rampart to be
with Beth and his soon-to-be-born child. Anton Kablevsky, the B-shift
engineer, came in early to take his place. B-shift was supposed to start
EMT-2 training in another week. To say the least, Anton wasn’t thrilled.
“You’d think they would have
learned their lesson with Chet screwing up,” he said as we stood out back after
dinner, watching Johnny and Marco play basketball.
“Chet screwing up
what?” Chet said. He had walked in on the last part of Anton’s
sentence.
“Screwing up lunch,” I said quickly.
“Remember that stew you made last week?”
Anton looked puzzled but
didn’t say anything else. I don’t think he realized how hard Chet had
taken it when he flunked the test.
“You people just don’t know
good, healthy food when you see it. Gage ate it. Didn’t you, Gage?”
Chet yelled in Johnny’s direction.
Johnny paused his game of
one-on-one with Marco. “Yeah, and it ate me the rest of the night, if you
know what I mean.”
We laughed, and Johnny and
Marco went back to their game. I was considering whether to take Anton
aside to bring him up to speed on the Chet situation, when the tones went off.
“Station 51, engine 127,
truck 59, activated fire alarm, Appledale Apartments, 2901 Bradley Place.
2901 Bradley Place. Cross street Belmont. Time out 19:32.”
Johnny threw a hail-Mary at
the hoop, and the ball went in. Even as we rushed into the apparatus bay
and hopped into the squad, Johnny was bugging me, “did’ja see that shot
Roy? I’d never do that in a million years if I had to.”
Cap handed over the address
slip, and we were off.
*********
I figure in the last four
years, we’ve responded to Appledale a couple dozen times. Sometimes it
was meat on the stove, or medical calls, but mostly it was false alarms.
This was no false alarm.
“LA, this is Engine 51,”
Cap’s voice came over the radio. “We have a four-story structure, 100 by
300, balloon frame construction, with smoke showing from at least four
apartments on the fourth floor. Request a second-alarm assignment. All companies switch over to fireground
communications and acknowledge.” Johnny clicked us over in time for
Captain Stanley’s next order: “Gage,
tag the hydrant on the northwest corner.”
I slowed to a crawl behind
the engine so Johnny could jump out and grab the supply hose and gate valve for
the forward lay. He wrapped the hose around the hydrant, waved his hand,
and Anton took off down the street, closer to the fire. I staged a bit
further down the street. There were people milling around already.
As I pulled on my gear and ran toward Cap, I could hear their comments about
the fire’s origins. I relayed the rumors to Cap.
“They’re saying it was a
dryer in the basement. It shorted out or something and set a bunch of
linen on fire. Someone tried to put it out and managed to spread it
instead.”
“Then it’s probably heading
up the walls to the fourth floor. I hate balloon frames. Kelly,
Lopez, grab an inch-and-a-half and head for that basement. Roy, you and
John start a primary search and evacuation from the bottom up.” He
grabbed his handi-talkie. “Truck 59, ventilate the basement, then head
for the roof. Engine 127, there’s another hydrant on the northeast
corner. Half of you head for the basement, and the other half search and
evacuate from the top down.”
Johnny had arrived by then
from his hydrant work, and we headed into the building. I felt the usual
rush of guilty pleasure. It’s hard to explain. Fire is bad; there’s
no doubt about that. I don’t wish a fire or injury on anyone. But
there’s just something about walking into a burning building that sends a
thrill through your body. And there’s the slightest nudge of
disappointment when we pull up on the scene of a fire call to find it’s a false
alarm. None of us wants to admit it. But I know Johnny and the guys
feel the same thing.
There wasn’t a lot of smoke
on the ground floor. It appeared just about everyone had left their
apartments. We stepped around the truck company, which was cutting holes
and setting up fans to ventilate the basement. We wore our SCBA’s, but
neither of us was on air. We headed up the stairs to the second
floor. The lights went out. Johnny flipped on his flashlight.
“Maybe this won’t be so bad,”
he said to me as we trudged up the hot, darkened stairwell. “If they can
knock it down in the basement and ventilate the roof fast enough, then maybe
this won’t be so bad.”
I heard the second-alarm
assignment arrive over the radio. “Yeah, I hope so,” I said as I felt the
door at the top of the stairs with the back of my hand. It felt fine, so
I reached for the doorknob.
That’s when several things
happened, at more or less the same time. An explosion rocked the wooden
stairwell. A fireball rose up around us, creating the strange sensation
of a heated windstorm. I could see Johnny grab for the railing as the
stair started to crumple. I gripped his SCBA strap with one hand and held
onto the doorknob with the other. My grip on the doorknob failed, and we
tumbled into the darkness below.
*********
Joanne and I never talked
much about the possibility of me getting hurt. I’d had a few injuries,
some bumps and bruises, ate a little smoke here and there. But each time
I came home with a band-aid, or settled on the couch with a hot water bottle,
or called her from Rampart, her reaction was the same. Her lips would flatten
into a thin, white line, a look of resolution (or perhaps resignation) would
settle in her eyes, and she would do what needed to be done – whether it was
send the kids out of the house for a while so I could rest, or refill the hot
water bottle, or pick me up from the ER. I’d give her a one-sentence
explanation for whatever had happened, she’d nod, and that was that. It
was a couple of years before I realized what my job really did to her, when I
caught her in the bathroom sobbing her eyes out after I came home once with my
eyebrows singed off. I snuck back out of the bathroom without her
noticing and never brought it up. She is a wonderful woman.
I can’t say all that went
through my mind as I plummeted down the stairwell that night. But a whisper
of it touched my subconscious as I came to a stop in a pitch dark puddle of
muck. ‘Anne is not going to enjoy cleaning my uniform after this one,’
was my first thought. My second thought was obscured by the pain in my
hand and arm -- pain that my brain suddenly decided to process all at
once. It took my breath away. In my agony and confusion, I tried to
get away from the pain by pulling my arm away from it. Of course that
only made it worse. I realized my hand was still hooked in Johnny’s SCBA
strap. But while I was sprawled on the basement floor, under what was
left of a flight of stairs, Johnny was still atop one of the damaged
sections. My arm was twisted upward and away from my body.
“Johnny,” I said, tentatively
at first, then louder. “Johnny.” My voice sounded higher than usual
in my ears. He didn’t answer. I tried to adjust my position to take
some of the pressure off my arm and only succeeded in causing myself more
pain. My handi-talkie dug into my hip. It was still working, and I
could hear a bunch of rapid-fire instructions from various people. The
fire seemed to have burned itself out in the stairwell, for now. The muck
that covered the floor had apparently come from nearby hoselines, so there had
to be a crew somewhere in the area. I just had to let them know we were
there.
Unfortunately, that was
easier said than done. No matter which way I wiggled, I couldn’t reach
the HT, and it hurt like hell anyway. Johnny was no help. He had
moaned a few times while I shifted positions, but appeared to be totally out
now. I couldn’t see him in the darkness, but I could hear his rapid
breathing. I lay there in the inky blackness, my cheek mashed into the
floor, my arm held high above me in a painful twist, listening to his breathing
for what seemed like forever. Occasional yells echoed through the
stairwell, and I tried to answer them. Little spot fires occasionally
flared up, briefly lighting up the stairwell before puffing and hissing out
again. I could see that the door leading from the basement to the
stairwell was blocked with debris.
Finally I saw the glow of a
flashlight, and a face poked through a hole in the drywall. “Anyone in
here?” It was Dolan, one of the rescue guys from truck 59.
“Yeah, DeSoto and Gage,” I yelled
back.
“Some stupid fuck had gas
stored under the stairs,” Dolan said. “You all right?”
“I’m alright. We only
came down two flights, but I’m caught up. Johnny’s out, and I can’t get
to him.”
“Hang tight. We’ll be
right back.”
I smiled grimly at his
instructions. Hanging tight was all I could really do.
A few minutes later, Dolan
poked his head back through the drywall. “We’re trying to figure
out the best way to get you out without bringing the rest of the staircase down
on top of you.”
“Dolan, I can’t see Johnny
from where I am. I don’t know how bad off he is, but I think we need to
get him out real soon.” And me too, I failed to add. I had a
suspicion that my shoulder was dislocated, and I could no longer feel the hand
that was tangled in the SCBA strap.
“We’re doing our best
DeSoto. Hang tight.” He really had to stop saying that; it was
getting on my nerves.
At that point, Johnny began
moaning again.
“Johnny? You awake?”
“Wha…um…Roy?” His voice
sounded kind of spacey.
“Yeah. Don’t
move. You OK?”
“Yeah….um….no.
Roy? What happened?”
“Someone was storing gas
under the stairwell, and it went up. You OK, Johnny?”
“My head. Dizzy.
Leg. Roy? My leg hurts. Femur.”
Oh shit. “Open or
closed?”
I felt him shift and almost
screamed as pins and needles shot through my numb hand.
“Closed. You OK, Roy?”
No, I wasn’t, dammit. I
caught my breath and answered as calmly as I could, “Yeah, just don’t move too
much. My hand is caught in your airpack.”
“Airpack? Roy?
What happened? My leg hurts.”
“Dolan,” I yelled. We
needed to move this along.
“Yeah.”
“Johnny’s awake. He may
have a femur fracture and he’s sounding a little altered. We’ve got to
get him out of here, or it won’t matter if the staircase comes down on
us.” Did I really sound as panicked as I thought I did?
“OK DeSoto. We’re
sending in Brice and Lopez.”
*********
Back when the paramedic
program started, it was mostly the rescue men who went for it. That created
a new set of problems, since now many of the men who were fully certified for
technical rescues were getting tied up in paramedic duties, and vice
versa. I had lost count of how many times Johnny and I were forced to
effect a rescue under the most dire circumstances because no one else on the
crew was more qualified to do so, then totally change gears and start treating
the victim. Cap and Mike had both let their certification expire when
they moved up the hierarchy. Chet was only partly there, while Marco had
only just finished his rescue certification shortly before going to
Sacramento. So more often than not it was me and Johnny doing the
technical rescue work, then switching to paramedic duties while the sweat and
soot were still dripping from our faces.
Sending in Brice and Marco to
extricate Johnny and me meant fewer people left to treat victims.
Suddenly the idea of turning all firefighters on the department into EMT-2’s or
paramedics or whatever didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.
*********
I heard the sound of drywall
being ripped down, and Marco and Brice stepped through the hole. Each
carried a portable light. They paused momentarily to survey our
predicament.
“Jesus, Roy,” Marco said as
he knelt to check me out.
“Uh huh,” I agreed. I
tried an ironic grin, but probably only succeeded in looking sickly.
Brice tested his footing
before climbing up to Johnny. “DeSoto, your wrist is caught up in his
SCBA straps.”
No shit Sherlock.
Sometimes I really hated that man. I rolled my eyes at Marco, who was
checking them out with a penlight.
“Pupils equal and
reactive. Did you lose consciousness?”
“Not really. We were kind of
able to ride the staircase down, and I think getting tangled up with Johnny
actually broke my fall. Plus, my helmet stayed on. How is he?”
Marco straightened up and
looked over at Brice. I caught the look Brice gave him. It was the
same look Johnny and I gave each other when a patient was crapping out quickly
but we didn’t want to alarm the family. Brice carefully hopped back down
to the floor. “We’ll need a backboard, c-collar and traction splint,” he
called out to Dolan. That answered my question.
Then he turned to me.
“We will get you free while we wait,” he said. “We are going to have to
lift you to create some slack in the arm. It may cause you some
discomfort.” Marco snorted at that understatement. He had taken
Brice’s place up with Johnny and was looking decidedly worried.
“Let’s get this show on the
road,” I said with more bravado then I was feeling. “So where’s
Animal? Isn‘t lifting more his thing?”
It was Brice’s turn to
snort. “Lifting is, as you say, Bellingham’s ‘thing’. However,
putting down his burrito and fries long enough to squeeze his massive bulk into
confined spaces is not. He is outside helping other victims.”
I laughed. Brice took
advantage of the distraction to get under me and lift, as Marco freed my hand
from the strap.
I’d like to say I gritted my teeth,
breathed through the pain and proved myself a stoic survivor. I’d like to
say that… but I can’t. I screamed like a baby. Nothing had ever
hurt that much in my life. Nothing.
*********
Fifteen minutes later I was
laying under a tree, watching Brice and Marco load Johnny onto an
ambulance. It was dark outside. I was going in with Chet – not as
my caregiver, but as my companion in injury. He had sliced his arm open
on a wayward pike pole. It wasn’t too bad, but it would need a few
stitches. Paramedics were in short supply, and despite his failure to
pass his exam, it was thought that Chet could keep an eye on my IV while
hitching a ride to the hospital. Dr. Brackett approved the plan only
reluctantly; someone qualified was supposed to ride with all cannulated
patients, but occasionally that rule went by the wayside when necessary.
Thanks to an IV and quick dose
of MS after my arm was freed, I didn’t care if Jimmy Carter himself was riding
in with me. Unfortunately, now that I couldn’t feel the pain in my
shoulder, or the pins and needles in my hand, the rest of my body was making
its presence known. I itched everywhere – thanks to first degree burns
from the fireball – and I smelled like burnt hair. It was weird though; I
even itched in places that were protected by my turnout coat. I mentioned
it to Chet once we were on our way.
He looked thoughtful for a
moment. “I remember in class, they said Morphine causes a release of
histamines. So maybe that’s why you itch.”
“Ya know, I knew that, but I
forgot,” I drawled. I knew I sounded like a goofball, but I didn’t
care. At least my shoulder didn’t hurt anymore. I’d never had
Morphine before, and I was liking it. “See, you did retain something from
that class.”
“Didn’t do me much
good.” He looked so forlorn. I wanted to say something comforting,
but for some reason it was getting harder to talk. The itching was
getting a lot worse too. His forlorn look turned into a worried look.
“Are you breathing OK
Roy? You sound kinda wheezy.”
Not wheezy, you big
dope. Stridor. That’s what wanted to tell him. But my rapidly
swelling airway wouldn’t let me. My last memory before the edges of my
vision faded into gray was of my frantic struggle against the stretcher straps
to sit up and breathe.
*********
I awoke in the ER. My
heart was pounding, and I felt all shaky and sweaty. My shoulder was
starting to hurt again. Dixie was messing with a second IV that had been
added to my other arm.
“Epi?” I asked
her. I could barely get out the word past the O2 mask.
“You’re awake,” she said with
a smile. “Yes, that less than lovely feeling taking over your body is the
result of epinephrine. And you can add a new line to your resume now:
allergic to MS. We’re trying meperidine now. It’s still an opioid, but
a different class, so hopefully we won’t have any repeats of tonight’s
adventure. That plus a little Benadryl should put you back in happy land
in no time. I wouldn’t drive anytime soon, though.”
I felt like an idiot. Almost
no one is truly allergic to morphine, at least not to the point of
anaphylaxis. Leave it to me to be the exception; it sounded more like
something that would happen to Johnny.
Jesus Christ. Johnny.
“How’s Johnny? An open
femur fracture. Wasn’t looking too good when he left.” That frantic
outburst left me out of breath.
“Calm down. He’s up in
surgery now to align the femur, and he has a concussion. But Kel says
he’ll be OK.” Her smile turned wry. “Your only problem will be
keeping him still for the next four months or so.”
I gave her a sloppy smile in
return. I was forgetting something else, but the Demerol and Benadryl
were making me sleepy. I drifted away on a mental cloud that looked
suspiciously like Chet’s mustache.
*********
The next time I woke up, I
was in a regular room. To my left, there was an old man watching TV and
eating something that looked like breakfast. To my right, Joanne slept in
a chair. I reached out and rubbed her shoulder. She startled awake.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I
don’t know whether I was sorry for waking her, or for getting hurt. I
guess it didn’t matter.
“They’ve admitted you.”
“Yeah, I kinda thought they
would. What time is it?”
“Eight-ish. They’re
going to X-ray your shoulder and hand this morning to see what kind of damage
you did. They don’t want to put everything back together until they’re
sure they’re not going to mess it up more.” Sure enough, her lips were
compressed into that thin, white line.
“The kids?” I asked.
“With my sister.”
“Johnny?”
“He was in ICU when I got
here, but just as a precaution. They’ll move him later today.”
We sat in silence for a
moment, staring at my roommate’s TV but not really seeing it. My shoulder
started to throb, and I shifted uncomfortably.
“Let me go see the nurse
about your pain meds. I’ll check on the Stokers, too.”
“The Stokers?”
Joanne laughed at me.
“She had the baby this morning. A boy. You forgot she was here,
didn’t you?”
“I guess I did. I was a
little busy being a hero, you know.” I flexed the bicep on my good arm
and approximated a macho look. She laughed again. I love when she
laughs.
“I’ll be right back.”
Her hand brushed my foot for a wonderful moment as she walked away.
A few minutes later, a nurse
came in with more medication. An orderly followed close behind to wheel
me to x-ray.
The X-rays showed nothing was
broken, but I had some ligament damage in both the shoulder and the
wrist. Later that day, they popped my shoulder back where it
belonged. Then armed with pain pills, some more Benadryl and a sling, I
went home.
Before heading out, I stopped
by Johnny’s room. He was pretty out of it, but I sat with him for a
minute and made some small talk that I don’t think he understood.
Actually, considering how drowsy I was from the meds, it’s probably a good
thing he didn’t understand.
Then we headed up to
maternity to see Mike’s new baby. Mike wasn’t there, and Beth was asleep,
so we went to the baby ward alone. Charles Michael Stoker looked like a
wrinkled lizard, like most newborns of my acquaintance. But with all the
oohing and aahing Joanne was doing, I didn’t think she would welcome my
opinion.
*********
Once home, I slept on the
couch until suppertime. I didn’t remember hitting my face when falling
down the stairwell the night before, but I had a hell of shiner and a nice
collection of bruises to go with my injured shoulder and wrist. It scared
my daughter so much, she cried and refused to sit next to me at the
table. Chris thought it was “awesome” and wanted to borrow my sling to
show his friends. I nixed that idea real quick.
After supper, Joanne took the
kids upstairs for bed. Cap stopped by with Mike and Marco.
“Chet too good to come by
with you?” I joked.
“He’s pretty upset about what
happened,” Marco said. “After he got his stitches, he waited until John
got out of surgery and then went home.”
“Something to tease him about
later, I guess,” I said. Chet always cared about Johnny more than he
wanted to admit.
“I don’t think he’ll be in a
teasing mood,” Cap said. He looked weird. Had I said something
wrong?
“Why? Johnny will be
out of work for a while, but he’ll be OK. Chet doesn’t have to worry.”
“He’s not so upset about that
as he is with the thing with you.”
“Thing with me? You
mean the allergy thing? That wasn’t a big deal. They caught it in
the ER in plenty of time.”
Marco and Mike looked at each
other, while Cap took a deep breath. If he had had a clipboard in his
hands, he probably would have twisted it.
“What exactly do you remember
about last night?” Cap asked.
“Um, I was in the ambulance
with Chet, and we took off, and then it got real hard to breathe, and then I
don’t remember much of anything after that until I woke up in the ER.”
“Well, from what I gather,
you were having a pretty bad reaction. Chet was trying to ventilate you,
but nothing was getting in.”
I didn’t know exactly what he
was getting at. But I started to shake, ever so slightly.
“You were still ten minutes
from the hospital, and you were cyanotic.” Marco picked up the
story. “It happened that the ambulance company had sent a rig with a drug
box, since the ones they normally send on fire department responses were all
out. Chet yelled to the attendants to step on it, and they told him they
had epinephrine on board if he needed it.”
Oh my God. Oh my
God. He didn’t. “Cap, he didn’t….”
“He saved your life.”
“But he wasn’t
certified. He could lose his job. He can’t just… ” I sat back
on the couch, stunned.
“By the time you got to the hospital,
you were looking a lot better but you were still out of it,” Cap resumed.
“I guess they asked Chet what the deal was, and he told them everything.
Dr. Brackett didn’t say anything then, but this morning he met with me and some
of the fire department bigwigs and blew his top.”
“But what about Chet?”
Captain Stanley looked down
at the coffee table. “He’s on two weeks suspension.”
“So I guess if I had died,
he’d get more.”
“Roy, stop it.” Cap
reached his hand out to pat me on my good shoulder. I shook him off.
“No. They train the guy
to save lives, they give him the knowledge and the tools, then they get pissed
when he actually does it. This is so screwed up. Chet’s so screwed
up. What was he thinking? Hell, I’m a fully certified paramedic,
and I still got spanked once when I put an airway in a guy without
permission. This whole thing is screwed up.” I was totally out of
control. I didn’t know who I was madder at, Chet or the fire department
brass.
Joanne came downstairs.
“The kids are in bed. What’s so important you have to yell about it at
the top of your lungs?”
I certainly didn’t want her
to know how close I had come to checking out, or that Chet had been the only
thing between her and widowhood. I gave the guys a quick look, then lied
through my teeth. “We were just getting mad about that apartment fire
last night. Some idiot was storing gasoline.”
“Well, keep it down
then. Mike, how’s Beth and the baby doing?”
How on earth could I keep
forgetting that? I was so wound up, I hadn’t even congratulated the guy
yet.
“Yeah Mike, how’s the
baby?” I was grateful for the diversion. “We stopped in to see him
before I went home, but you weren’t there.”
“They’re fine, doing
great. They’re coming home this weekend. I’ve been working on the
baby’s bedroom.” Mike was glowing now, and his grin rivaled Johnny’s on a
good day.
“You need any help, just let
me know. I’m out of work for at least a month, but I have one good arm.”
“That’s nice, but no
thanks. I’ve got it handled.”
Arrgh. It was
depressing to see that some things never changed.
*********
I tried calling Chet every
day for the next week, but never got an answer. I was visiting Johnny one
day when Chet walked in to the hospital room.
“Hi Roy,” he said, just like
nothing had happened. “Hey John, how are you feeling?”
“Feelin’ better. They
just told me, I’m going home tomorrow.”
Chet grinned. “That’s
great news… for the nurses who are sick of hearing your same pick-up line over
and over.”
“Chet, my boy, this…” Johnny
tapped his leg, “…is going to be my chick magnet. I’ve got phone numbers
coming out of my ears. I plan to spend the next couple of months
arranging my date calendar to fit everyone in.”
I listened to the verbal
sparring in amazement. Johnny, of course, knew the whole story. I
had ranted to him the minute he was conscious enough to understand. The
fact that Chet was pretending it never happened…
“Um, Chet, I’ve been trying
to call you. We need to talk.”
“What about?” he said with a
smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You know darn well what
about.” I grabbed his elbow and steered him out of Johnny’s room.
“We’ll be right back,” I said over my shoulder.
I led him to an empty room
nearby. We each sat on a bed.
“You didn’t tell me. I
had to find out from Cap and the guys. How stupid are you, risking your
job, risking my life?”
“I saved your life,
man. I’d do it again.”
“And I can’t tell you how
glad I am you did. But Jesus Christ, Chet, how is it you get mixed up in
these things? How did you even remember how much epi to give me? Or
how to push it?”
“I’m not a total idiot.
I remembered plenty of stuff.” Chet stood up. “Enough to save your
ass.”
He walked toward the door,
then stopped and turned. “Look Roy. I’m not you. I’m not
Gage. I’m not going to make a living doing this stuff. I never
was. But I think I learned it for a reason, and I think it was no
coincidence I was there when you had your reaction.” He shrugged.
“So I’m going to be broke and bored for a couple of weeks. So what.
It was worth it. I let you die, then Gage doesn’t want to come back, then
the Phantom’s gotta break in a new pigeon. You know how it goes.”
Yeah, I knew how it went.
*********
B-shift never did go to
Sacramento. When Chet pulled his little stunt, the brass rethought the
whole project. They let Mike and Marco keep their certification, though,
and every now and then Marco picked up overtime subbing for paramedics in other
stations. I don’t know if Mike did the same. His entire world at
the moment was Beth and the baby, and I didn’t begrudge him that.
But I was still curious about
his feelings on the subject. One night we all got together to drag Johnny
out to a bar. Despite his boasting about his new viability in the date
department, he was bored and lonely a lot of the time as he recovered from his
broken femur. He wore a brace and used crutches after doctors had
inserted a rod in the bone.
We took Johnny’s Rover, so he
could stretch out in back. Chet was with us, and I was just out of my
sling, but Johnny insisted that I drive. He didn’t trust Chet. The
irony of Johnny insisting I drive wasn’t lost on me. We arrived at the
bar and parked next to a really nice 1974 Javelin.
“Isn’t that Brice’s car?”
Johnny said, craning his neck to see as we hauled him out of the back of the
Rover. Once we had him upright, I rubbed my shoulder. This was not
what the doctor had ordered.
“Yeah. He must be here
with Mikey,” Chet said.
“I can’t see Brice hanging
out at bars. Isn’t that too inefficient?” Johnny said.
“You should’ve seen him in
Sacramento,” I said. “After a while, he was having drinks with us every
night. Although never more than one and never on an empty stomach.
It was like drinking with your grandmother.”
“My grandmother drank like a
fish,” Chet said. He held the door open for Johnny, and we entered the
bar. “She said it helped loosen her up before using The Sight.”
“You can’t really believe that
‘second sight’ crap, do you?” Johnny said. “I think that was just a line
she fed you.”
I tuned the pair out as I
scanned the bar. Mike, Marco and Brice were already there, at a table in
the corner.
We steered Johnny around the
other tables, apologizing to patrons who met with the wrong end of his
crutches. Once in the corner, he insisted on standing.
“It feels better than
sitting. And getting up hurts.”
“Then as long as you are
standing up, let’s play darts. C’mon Marco. Mikey?” Chet
said. Mike shook his head, and they led Johnny off to play darts.
They knew better than to ask me. I stink at darts.
“I find darts to be
enjoyable. Perhaps I will see if I can join them.” Brice got up and
went after the trio.
“You think he was hurt they
didn’t ask him?” I asked Mike.
“Nope. He knows people
don’t think he likes that kind of stuff. He doesn’t take it
personally.”
“So how’s the baby?”
“Doing fine. Keeps us
up half the night, kind of like the fire service.”
We laughed. Something I
had discovered during our time in Sacramento was that alcohol relaxed Mike a
bit. He never drank a lot, but the beer that he’d had before our arrival
had apparently done its job.
“So, I heard Marco picked up
some overtime at 8’s, working on the paramedic squad. Is that something
you’re looking into?”
“Not really. I kinda
want to forget it ever happened. It upset everyone too much.”
“But you weren’t too bad at
it.”
He looked down at his beer
and rubbed the wet ring that the glass left on the table. “I’m reading a
book called ‘Salem Possessed’, about the Salem witch trials. They thought
anyone who could cure somebody of an illness better than one of the local
doctors was a witch and burned them at the stake. Chet almost got
burned. I have a family to take care of now.”
Leave it to Mike to compare
pre-hospital care to witchcraft. I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand
him.
Just then we heard a
commotion across the bar. It appeared Brice was beating their pants off
in darts. “C’mon,” I said, getting up. “Now that we are old, boring
dads, it’s our job to make sure they behave.”
“As their superior officers,
I think some push-ups are called for, don’t you?” Mike’s grin was
positively evil.
“At the very least,” I
agreed. We made our way across the bar to our friends. “Or a night
of babysitting, perhaps.”
FOOTNOTE: The Los
Angeles County Fire Department now requires all firefighters to be certified as
EMT-1’s (what’s known as an EMT-B, or basic EMT, in other parts of the country).
The county also runs fully equipped Advanced Life Support (ALS) engines,
staffed by at least one paramedic, in addition to the more familiar ambulances
and rescue squads.
EMT-2 certification (or
EMT-I as other states call it), while available in California since 1975, is
generally limited to rural areas of the state. My story is a work of
fiction; LACOFD never put its members through EMT-2 training.
Many fire departments
across the country now require all of their members to obtain paramedic certification,
and some even make EMT or paramedic certification a requirement at the time of
hire. I was curious to see what would happen to the boys if they faced a
similar situation. Huge thanks to Rose for the beta read (and keeping me
from using the word “and” 350 times). Also, thanks to Nan for her
California and LACOFD info. Any 1970’s medical mistakes or mistakes
regarding the scope of EMT-2 practice are mine alone.