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Read With Us: CITY LIFE – a book by Michael Morse – Ch. 6
by Michael Morse, contributing writer
February
Sleep Tight
The city is lively tonight, the usual suspects drunk and helpless providing a steady stream of 911 calls. Toby Keith is playing to a sold-out Dunk. The “granny drop” has been in full swing since this morning. Super Bowl Sunday and all, no room for sick old people at home. Diabetics, seizures, MVAs, and all that go with it have filled the area hospitals.
I don’t know if we need more hospitals or less sick people. I do know that the people we have need to find a better way to take care of themselves. I often wonder what would happen if a true large-scale emergency happened. We survived the Station fire thanks to the heroic deeds of the people who worked that horrific night. That was one incident involving four hundred people and it nearly crippled the system. I hope to never find out how we could treat thousands.
No Delivery!
The house was dark and locked up tight. Somewhere inside a full-term maternity waited. Captain Healy directed his guys to find a way in. A window turned out to be the best way, they forced it without damage, Vicro and Ralph crawled through and opened the door. We heard someone moaning at the top of the stairs; a woman named Lovely, nine months pregnant, due today with constant contractions.
“I feel like my belly is going to explode!” she said as we put her into the stair chair and carried her out the door of her apartment and into the rescue. I had a bulb syringe and clamps ready, the blanket and a catcher’s mitt sat on the bench next to the stretcher. Renato started an IV as we sped toward Women and Infants Hospital. Steve stayed in back with us to help with the delivery. It was a five-minute ride.
“Is she crowning?” I asked Steve as I filled out the report from the captain’s seat. He opened his eyes wide, shook his head, and took a look. The contractions were constant, her water had broken, delivery imminent. Three minutes to the delivery room.
“Don’t push!” Lovely was a trooper but a very loud one. The contractions continued but no crowning. Her blood pressure was 178/120. Two minutes away. I called the triage desk at W&I and gave my report.
“Twenty-seven-year-old pregnant female, due today, constant contractions, two minutes away.”
Nothing much to do now but wait and hope we got to the hospital in time. In fifteen years I have never delivered a baby. I want to keep it that way. I’ve read all there is to read in the books but am petrified of it actually happening. Firefighters and EMTs deliver babies all the time. It’s one of the best experiences one can have, I’ve heard. The mother does all the work; unless there are complications things take care of themselves, I’ve heard.
We arrived at the ER, no delivery. Lovely was fully dilated and taken “upstairs.” She delivered as we were walking back to the truck.
My record is intact.
Winter
I wonder why he was outside on an eight-degree night, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve T-shirt with only a down vest to protect him from the elements. The wind chill was well below zero. If he had a destination in mind he never made it. Somebody saw a crumpled heap lying on the sidewalk and called 911.
He was conscious; barely. No ID in any of his pockets and he couldn’t tell us his name. We found him at 5:00 a.m. Another hour and he would have been dead. He’ll probably lose the fingers on his right hand from frostbite, the left ones have a chance. Cocaine and barbiturates were found in his blood. This has been a mild winter for most of us but a cruel one for the guy we found frozen to the sidewalk.
Emily
Four adults had her pinned to the floor, each holding a limb. Her foster mother stood to the side shaking her head.
“She’ll be like this for hours,” she said. The guys from Engine 12 stood back and waited for some direction. We are not trained or authorized to use restraints. The patient, a ten-year-old deaf girl named Emily, continued to struggle as we figured out what to do.
“How do I say her name?” I asked one of the people in the room, a teacher at the Rhode Island School for the Deaf. He showed me. I formed my hand into a representation of the letter E, then bumped my chin with it twice.
“How do I say my name?” I asked. I bumped my M-shaped hand to my chin twice and knelt beside her.
“Tell her we have to put her on our bed and take her to the hospital.” The teacher signed the message, Emily responded. She said she would go only if the firefighters went with her.
“She spits,” somebody said. I decided to put a surgical mask on her.
“She’ll gnaw on it and might choke. The last time they put masks on themselves,” said the mother.
There was no way a beautiful, scared ten-year-old was going to make us wear masks. I put the mask on my face, looked at Emily, pointed to her, then the mask. She understood and shook her head, yes. Without a whimper, she let me place the mask over her face, never losing eye contact. I had the guys take over holding her and lifted her to the stretcher. My grip on her arm relaxed as she relaxed. Before I knew it I was just holding her hand as she stopped struggling. We let her go. The staff at the school were impressed, but I’m pretty sure Emily was plain out of gas. She pointed at her backpack as we wheeled her into the corridor. One of the firefighters from Engine 12, Dave, handed it to her. He was as captivated by her as I was. She reached inside and took out a little electronic video game and started to play.
Inside the rescue, Dave kept her entertained while I filled out the report. She was fascinated by everything. She wanted us to take her blood pressure and pulsox so we did. She pointed at the heart monitor. We ran an EKG. She knew which button to push for a printout. I let the paper roll. She folded it neatly and stashed it inside her backpack. Emily’s smile lit the back of the rescue.
At the hospital we waited for her foster mom and the interpreter from the school. Emily sat on the stretcher and played with me and Dave. Her hair was a mess, her skin still red from the exertion, and her brilliant blue eyes still swollen from crying, but still she was beautiful. We put her on the hospital stretcher without any trouble as the mom and interpreter came in. As we wheeled her into one of the treatment rooms, I asked the mom about the tantrums.
“She was good for a while but I’ve had to leave work three times this month,” she said.
“What causes them?” I asked.
“She has been through a lot. Her mother was making money using her. Her father is in prison for the same thing.” I heard her but didn’t comprehend. “She was being prostituted.”
As they wheeled Emily away, she looked over her shoulder at me and Dave, gave us a big smile and a wave. I watched until they turned the corner and disappeared. Dave didn’t hear about her past. I considered telling him but decided not to burden him. Instead I walked outside into the bright sunshine, found a quiet spot, and sat there until the cold air made me numb.
Come Home
Somebody was waiting at home.
Midnight, twelve thirty. One.
They must have been frantic. A phone call shattering the silence, one nobody should have to hear. “There has been an accident.”
A truck hauling scrap metal was traveling south on 95. Interstate 95 splits into 195 from the left-hand lanes, confusing even for people familiar with the roadway as you roll through Providence. The trucker from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, was in the wrong lane. When he realized his mistake and tried to veer right back onto 95, his load shifted and the truck tipped onto its side, crushing the car in the next lane. A woman was driving home. She never made it.
The scene was chaos as firefighters tried desperately to clear the sharp metal from the overturned truck. A hole was cut into the roof to expedite things. As I walked the injured truck driver past the horrific sight, he stopped and looked, visibly shaken by the sight. The rear tire was all we could see of the car crushed beneath the truck. At that point we didn’t know how many were in the car. It could have been full of kids.
When enough debris was cleared, Zack Kenyon, the lieutenant from Rescue 4, crawled through and assessed the situation. One victim, female, fifties, no pulse, deformities, deceased.
Renato and I transported the trucker to Rhode Island Hospital. He had been driving trucks without incident for thirty years. He wanted to call his wife back home but his cell phone was lost in the debris.
When I got back to the station I called Cheryl. She yelled at me for calling so late. The sound of her voice was bittersweet.
In Our Midst
A man dies in a heroic attempt at saving his daughter’s life. Time and time again he tries, stopping only when he has nothing left to give. His teenage daughter clings to life, third-degree burns over 60 percent of her body, scarred for life, however long that may be. A mother and son face an uncertain future, heartache, loss, and economic disaster. Firefighters battle the early morning blaze, fearless warriors protecting the lives and property of the citizens of Providence.
Outside the inferno, two firefighters wait, detailed to Rescue 6 for the night. One from a ladder truck, the other from an engine company. They watch, knowing they should be inside with their brothers doing what they do best, fighting fire. The pulseless, burned body of the teenage girl is brought to them from the charred ruin. With minimal rescue experience in an unfamiliar setting, they do their job better than anybody has the right to expect. This incident and countless others get a small mention for a day on the local news, an article in the local section of the paper, until something more lurid comes along.
Everywhere I look I see images of Anna Nicole Smith. Her tragic end is on the front page in the newspapers nationwide, lead story on network stations, twenty-four hours on CNN, MSNBC, and FOX. The media panders to a society that lives with heroes and superstars right in their midst. Our soldiers die fighting a war that has lost its luster with the media. Without “in-depth coverage,” paparazzi, or fanfare, we walk side by side with greatness, regular citizens as important and newsworthy as the “stars.”
Some of us make our living where our mettle is put to the test daily. Others go about their business until tragedy strikes, and then find within themselves the courage and conviction to make a difference.
Then there are those who are fascinated by the glamorous images projected in front of them as they live their lives in front of their TV screen, waiting for somebody to save them.
Close Call
The Rescue Gods are toying with me. A twenty-one-year-old called with contractions two minutes apart. We were three minutes away from the hospital. Water broke, patient screamed, I broke out the catcher’s mitt. We arrived at Women and Infants at 0008 hours. A baby boy was born at 0009 hours. This one never made it upstairs. She barely made it off my stretcher. My record is still intact, barely. I have tempted fate; it’s only a matter of time now. I may have to make a sacrifice to appease the gods. Maybe I’ll let the next one push and get it over with.
Breathe
As the night wore on his lungs filled with fluid. Finally, his wife called 911. When we arrived he was struggling for air, diaphoretic and nearly unconscious. His vitals showed his pulsox at 83 percent, BP 220/148, respirations around 40 with a heart rate of 140.
At a fit seventy-five years old, Daniel looked like he could have been most of the guys’ grandfather or, in some of our cases, father. With help from Engine 12 we carried him to the rescue. Renato started an IV, Issac set up the O2 with an albuterol treatment, I slipped a nitro tab under his tongue. I could see fear in Daniel’s eyes as he labored for every breath.
He had a history of congestive heart failure. His wife gave me his medication list on the way out the door. I saw aspirin and Lasix on the list. I filled a syringe with double his daily dose of Lasix and pushed it through the IV line. For me, one of the most gratifying moments of the job is seeing the effects of our work evident on the face of the people we help. Within minutes the albuterol started to help clear his lungs, blood flow was increased by the nitro, the Lasix helped pass fluid from his lungs, and the oxygen helped considerably.
I reassessed his vital signs. Pulsox, 96 percent, BP 168/110, respirations 24 with a pulse of 110. Not bad. The best vital sign was the look of relief that showed on his rugged face. We transported him to Our Lady of Fatima Hospital. He was able to say thank you and shake our hands as we left. I thought to myself as we rode back to the station as the sun was rising how fortunate I am to have this job.
Ice Rescue Drill
@CMT: Photo follows.
Drew and Seth from Engine 11 cut a hole in the ice. One went into the freezing water, the other one rescued him. They switched places and did it again. Division 1, Battalion 2, Special Hazards, Ladder 5, Engine 13, Engine 10, and Rescue 1 took part in the drill organized by Lieutenant Grantham of Engine 11. His guys did a great job.
Risk Taking
He appeared a lot more dazed than he should have. The damage to his Camry was minor. The pickup he hit had only a scratch and a broken taillight. The guys from Engine 10 saw something wasn’t right.
“He might have had a stroke,” said Bruce as we tried to get him to tell us what happened.
“I can’t move my left arm,” he said, speech slurred. I didn’t think he was intoxicated. We rolled the stretcher to the driver’s door and lifted him onto it. The frozen rain and sleet that had been falling for most of the day and previous night made the footing treacherous and soaked us and the patient, a sixty-one-year-old guy from Cranston, as we worked.
In back the situation came clear. Brad, my partner for the day, was working overtime. He started an IV while I got the patients vitals. BP 212/140, pulse 74, pulsox 96 percent with a glucose level of 110. He had a facial droop on his left side along with left-sided weakness. Probable CVA. We hooked him up with high-flow oxygen, applied a cervical collar and ran an EKG, then started toward Rhode Island Hospital. I was able to get some answers as we sped toward the ER.
He had been shoveling snow when he felt weak on his left side. He waited for half an hour for the feeling to go away. When it got worse, he got into his car and started to drive himself to the hospital. Sometimes the people who need us most don’t want to “bother” us.
“Why didn’t you call 911?” I asked him.
“I figured you guys were busy with real emergencies,” he said.
At the hospital the doctors confirmed our findings. He was a candidate for an aggressive but risky treatment for stroke patients. The treatment has something to do with thinning the blood. When it works, loss of function is minimal. He was having a major stroke and tried to drive himself to the hospital. My guess is he will decide to take the chance.
Real Trouble
“He looks pretty big,” said Don Touro as we approached the crowd.
“He’ll be alright, I’ve had him before.”
Jonathan stood with a Providence cop and the guys from Engine 10, holding his bruised and bloodied hand.
“What happened?”
“He was mad and punched the walls at his group home,” Lieutenant Deedy from Engine 10 told me. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
As Don Touro bandaged the damaged hand, Jonathan told me what happened.
“The people at the group home keep telling me I won’t be nothin’ when I get out of here. I’m going to be eighteen next month and on my own. They said I’m not ready but Carcieri is lettin’ all the eighteen-year-olds loose.”
In an effort to trim the Rhode Island state budget, Governor Carcieri has proposed drastic cuts to social programs. Among them is a provision releasing patients under the care of the Department of Children, Youth, and Families at age eighteen as opposed to the current cutoff age of twenty-one. When I read about it in the paper and heard it on the news, it sounded like a great idea. Decisions affecting other people are easy to make from the comfort of home.
“Why were you punching the walls?” I asked Jonathan as we rode toward Hasbro Children’s Hospital.
“I just get mad and lose it,” he said. “I told the counselor that said I was never going to make it I was going to kill her. Then I punched the window but it wouldn’t break so I went outside and threw rocks at it but I kept missing. I ran a few streets away and started punching a brick wall. Then the cops came, then you came, and here we are.”
He is a big seventeen-year-old kid with a lot of problems. He has been in group homes since he was four and heavily medicated. This wasn’t the first time I took him to the hospital because of his outbursts. I don’t know if the group home is the answer, but I do know that if they set him loose next month he will be in real trouble.
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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.
