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Read with us: CITY LIFE – a book by Michael Morse – Ch. 3
by Michael Morse, contributing writer, excerpts from his book, City Life
Take a breathtaking ride ride along with emergency responders.
Rescue Lieutenant Michael Morse brings you into the homes, minds and hearts of the people who live in one of America’s oldest and most diverse cities. He takes you along for a breathtaking ride as he responds to emergencies that can be heartwarming, hilarious—and sometimes tragic. From the profound to the absurd, from challenging situations to total disbelief, it’s all simply a day at work for our firefighters, EMTs and police officers.
November
Mabel
It took a while to spot her; she blended in with the litter covering most of the empty lot. I’ve learned to look closely when called to this address. With nowhere else to go, a lot of homeless people converge here. A couple of old chairs sat empty around a lonely tree. Used condoms, discarded clothing, broken glass, and Mabel were all that remained from the most recent gathering. It was cold, forty degrees or so, and getting dark. I walked up to the lump on the ground, bent over, and shook it. The lump stirred.
“Hey, buddy, let’s go.” I said. When I peeled back the blanket covering her face I realized it was a woman, one I had never seen before, not one of the regulars.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
“Sleeping.”
“You can’t stay here, it’s cold and getting dark.” She looked confused, then started to cry.
“What happened to me?” she asked.
“You’re sleeping in an empty lot. You look intoxicated. I’m going to take you to the hospital,” I told her.
“I just want to go home,” she said.
“Where do you live?”
“Right off Prairie Avenue.” She gave me the address and we walked her toward the rescue. Funny how quickly a desolate parking lot becomes inhabited when a spectacle appears, people wandered over, drawn to the scene by the flashing lights.
“Pull your coat together,” I told her.
“I’m not cold.”
“You pissed yourself and I don’t want these people to laugh at you.” She looked down and saw the wet spot between her legs. That was it. The tears ran like rivers down her dirty face as she closed her coat, covering the evidence. People stood to the side watching us with wary eyes as we stepped in and closed the door.
“I’m not like them,” she said to me as we left the scene. She lived in a dreary three-story tenement house on one of the roughest streets in South Providence. I walked her past six or seven people who had gathered on the front steps and up the stairs to her second-floor apartment. When her sister opened the door I caught a glimpse inside. I saw why she found comfort with the homeless people she spent the afternoon with. Mabel walked in, gave me a shy smile as she closed the door, not wanting the gang partying in her front room to see the connection. I walked back outside, careful not to rub against the stairway walls.
Heart Attack
“Rescue 6 and Engine 7, respond to Memorial Boulevard for a male with chest pain.”
We left the Atwells Avenue fire station at 2:04 p.m. John McGovern was driving, we were both working overtime. At 2:07 Engine 7 gave a report over the radio.
“Engine 7 to Rescue 6, fifty-two-year-old male, no history, with severe chest, diaphoretic at this time.”
“Rescue 6, received.”
2:11. We turned onto Memorial Boulevard. What should have been a bustling thoroughfare was a parking lot. In the distance a flurry of activity in front of the GTECH building caught my eye. Construction workers, truck drivers, and detail cops were directing the traffic frantically, clearing a path. Drivers of the cars and trucks blocking the route had no choice but to get out of the way. Fast. We flew through the path, inches between us and the stopped vehicles.
2:13. We stopped in front of the building. I saw the victim about seventy-five feet inside the garage, oxygen mask on his face, sitting, clutching his chest, two firefighters, Tim and Greg, helping him. Lieutenant Paul Picozzi met us at the rescue and helped with the stretcher. The guy was soaked with sweat and gasping for air. We had him on the stretcher and into the truck in two minutes.
2:15. We ran an EKG and attempted an IV. Greg gave him an aspirin, John got the man’s blood pressure and heart rate. The truck was moving at 2:16. His EKG showed some ST elevation, indicating a probable inferior wall infarct. Another IV attempt failed en route. BP 158/100 with a pulse of 100. Greg slipped a nitro tab under the patient’s tongue. “Let it melt, it should help.”
2:20. We wheeled “Roger” into the ER. Donna was working triage. One look at the patient and she was on the Voicera announcing a medical team was needed in Trauma Room 3. I gave her my report as we rolled down trauma alley toward Trauma 3. Ashley and Leanne, two trauma RNs, waited.
2:22. Roger was on a trauma stretcher, Ashley and Leanne starting IVs while I helped Donna with another, more advanced EKG. Sara, the trauma doctor in charge, assessed the situation. She read the EKG when it was done, then ordered a heparin bolus, Plavix through the IV, a nitro drip, and a chest X-ray.
2:37. Seventeen minutes after arriving at the ER, thirty-three minutes after dispatch, Roger was in the cath lab with four IVs running and the proper meds on board.
Roger was lucky. His heart muscle began dying the minute his chest pain began. The construction workers and truck drivers who cleared the way, the cops who kept the road clear, the nurses, doctors, and firefighters worked perfectly together. A heart attack is basically the death of the heart muscle. Medical people have a saying: “Time is muscle.” Roger will probably make a full recovery. I hope everybody involved in Roger’s care understands how vital their role was.
As we drove away from the ER toward another run, both John and I agreed. This is the best job in the world.
Enough
4:12 a.m. It’s late. Or early, depending on how you see things. Right now I’m seeing things as pretty dreary. I was at RI Hospital delivering my ninth intoxicated male of the night to the ER when a life flight landed on the helipad. A female, around sixty, was in critical condition, her husband, also critical being transported by land arriving soon. The trauma team worked on the woman as I left to pick up a twenty-two-year-old who vomited. The girl was a real bitch, wouldn’t look at me, and barely answered my questions.
When I got back to the ER the woman was dead. Her husband in the next room will survive but will probably be paralyzed. They were out celebrating his birthday. Something happened, the car rolled, they were ejected. The usually hardened people who work in the ER were stunned. They went on, caring for the endless flood of patients marching through their door. The unfairness and cruelty of life amazes me.
I’ve been here for thirty-four hours and have four to go. No sleep, thirty-two runs so far. I can’t wait for this to end, go home and kiss my wife, then fall asleep and hope the depression I feel is gone when I wake.
Out with the Devil
There was a pedestrian struck on the corner of Cranston and Bridgham. We were at RI Hospital finishing up at the triage desk. I keyed the mic.
“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, in service from Rhode Island, we’ll handle Cranston Street.”
“Roger, 1, you’ve got it.”
Renato hit the lights and sirens and sped out of the ambulance bay. We both knew a lot of kids hung around that corner. A minute into our response Engine 3 gave their report over the radio.
“Engine 3 to fire alarm, advise Rescue 1 we have a seventeen-year-old male, conscious and alert with minor injuries.”
“Rescue 1, received.”
Renato slowed to a reasonable speed as we approached the scene. A young Hispanic guy sat on a curb holding his knee, squeezing it, trying to get more blood from the tiny scrape. A crowd had gathered, surrounding us. I asked the guy if he was hurt. Three people from the crowd answered for him.
“He needs a doctor!”
“Take him to the hospital!”
“What are you waiting for?!”
I looked at the knee and asked him what happened.
“I was riding my bike and the car ran into me.”
“Did you run into the car or did the car run into you?”
The guy who was driving the car stood off to the side with the police. There was no damage to the bike or the car and only the slightest damage to the knee. The crowd continued their banter. Renato talked to them in Spanish; that quieted things for a while. Again I asked the patient, “Are you hurt?” Again the crowd started.
“He’s hurt!”
“Get him to the hospital!”
“Hurry up!”
I had to walk away. I was talking to myself, something about lawyers, Jerry Springer, Democrats, Republicans, and morons, when Joe, the officer of Engine 3, pulled me to the side. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and said, “Repeat after me: in with Jesus,” he exhaled sharply and said, “out with the devil,” then walked back to the crowd. I’m not a religious man and I don’t know about Joe, but he brought me back to where I needed to be. I walked through the crowd, back to the patient.
Good-Bye
This time she was dead. Facedown on her dirty mattress, hands purple. Her family stood outside the cramped bedroom door and peered in from time to time. I crawled onto the mattress and lifted her arm to feel for a pulse. Rigor mortis had begun. Her skin was like ice. No pulse. I backed off the mattress and stood in the tiny room, surrounded by tiny people, kids and adults. The flies that buzzed around the little refrigerator seemed bigger, slower, as though their time on earth was short. For the lady on the mattress, time had run out. What a miserable life, I thought, recalling her story of escape from the horrors of postwar Cambodia and the years of hardship in the refugee camps. Her escape into a pool of alcohol hastened her demise, which I imagine came as a relief for her.
“She’s gone. I’m sorry for your loss,” I recited to the people in the room. The littlest ones cried freely now, their fears confirmed by the giant in their grandmother’s room. Only the kids spoke English. They interpreted for the adults, who shook their heads, no tears, just grim acceptance. The ability to feel had not been stolen from the younger generation by a repressive, brutal regime. Maybe their tears will help cleanse the memories their elders must endure. I left their home, probably for the last time, my services no longer necessary.
Russell
I knew he wouldn’t make it much longer. I can’t believe he lived for as long as he did. I can’t say I’ll miss him, or that I’m sad now that he’s gone. I am a little concerned that I don’t feel anything at all. I sometimes wonder if this job takes more than it gives.
Married Bliss
She could barely stand; he wasn’t much better. They were down on the sidewalk at 390 Douglas Avenue. Somebody called us from their cell phone. A small cut over her right eye had stopped bleeding but the dried blood remained on her face.
The guys from Engine 12 helped them into the rescue. She started complaining immediately; he nodded out. This was my first call in eight days. Vacation is nice but ends too quickly.
“Wake up!”
He jumped and opened his eyes. “What happened?” I asked.
She answered. “Nothing happened. We don’t have to go with you so let us out.”
“You’ll fall if I let you out.”
“No I won’t. If I do my husband will pick me up.”
I looked at her “husband,” out cold on the bench seat.
“Wake up!” They had all the signs of heroin addicts. She had just gotten out of detox at Roger Williams Medical Center. He picked her up. From the looks of things, detox lasted until she reached the first package store or dealer. “How many bags?” I asked him, his pinpoint pupils giving up his secret.
“I didn’t do heroin, I’m on eighty of methadone. I could do ten bags and it would feel like an aspirin,” he said with pride.
“I could do twenty, no problem,” she chimed in. They told me they just wanted to go home. Their address was a few blocks away. Rhode Island Hospital was packed, Miriam diverting, and Roger Williams a nuthouse.
“If I take you home, stay home,” I insisted. They relaxed and held hands during the ride. He told me he had to catch a bus at six the next morning. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Work.”
Instead of bringing them to the hospital for babysitting, I took them home and watched them as they stumbled in.
Walking
She walked out of her house holding her belly. She was pretty, but looked tired. I was surprised to see her walking. I’ve noticed a lot of people who call 911 in the middle of the afternoon because of abdominal pain are either drug seekers, hypochondriacs, or worse.
This woman was different. I would have carried her even if she insisted on walking. We helped her into the truck and got her on the stretcher. She spoke limited English so I let Renato do the talking. The color drained from his face as he translated.
“She says her stomach started swelling last night at around three. The pain has been getting worse. She had chemo four weeks ago but the cancer spread to her liver. It started in her ovaries but keeps spreading. It’s stage four now. She’s in a lot of pain.” I wrote the information onto the state run report.
The fact that struck me most was her age. Thirty-seven. She lay on the stretcher, closed her eyes, and rested during transport. A few tears were shed along the way. I don’t know if they were tears of pain or hopelessness.
Chapter 2 –
Chapter 1 –
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Michael Morse, [email protected], a monthly contributor is a retired Captain with the Providence Fire Department
Michael Morse spent 23 years as a firefighter/EMT with the Providence Fire Department before retiring in 2013 as Captain, Rescue Co. 5. He is an author of several books, most offering fellow firefighter/EMTs and the general population alike a poignant glimpse into one person’s journey through life, work and hope for the future. He is a Warwick resident.
