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Read With Us: CITY LIFE – a book by Michael Morse – Chapter 15
by Michael Morse, contributing writer
Chapter 15
November
What Took So Long
A man in Cranston dies while waiting for help to arrive. His widow grieves. As days progress the questions start:
Why did it take so long for help to arrive?
Where were they?
Could he have been saved?
The answer may shock you.
Disaster strikes. 911 is called. Rescuers respond. Sometimes the problem is complex and takes dozens of emergency responders to rectify. Other times the emergency is handled by a single unit. Often, there is no emergency at all.
When is calling 911 for a medical emergency appropriate? Most folks use their best judgment before dialing. There are certain criteria: sudden pain, unusual weakness, injury, uncontrolled bleeding, unconsciousness, or any life-threatening emergency. Highly trained and properly equipped firefighters and EMTs are ready to respond at a moment’s notice. Or are they?
Our society once prided ourselves on rugged individualism, fairness, and the ability to take care of ourselves and our own. The tide has turned. People now expect to be taken care of. People call 911 from their cell phones while sitting in their car so they don’t have to pay for parking. They call from their homes looking for transportation, living within sight of the hospital. Doctor’s offices call 911 to have noncritical patients transported to the emergency room, sometimes from the same building! Many think nothing of pushing those three buttons looking for a free ride. There is a prevailing attitude of me first, it’s free, I deserve it.
Because of fear of litigation, you can call 911 for any reason and somebody will come. Nightmares. Lost dentures. Hangnails. Difficulty sleeping. Most people wouldn’t dream of such irresponsible actions. Sadly, many do. And they do it often. These calls drain our resources and leave the rest of the population without adequate protection. True emergencies happen every day. Sick, dying people must wait while rescues cater to those who refuse to help themselves.
I witness the erosion of the 911 system every day. People with sore throats call 911 for a ride to the emergency room for free medical care. A person vomiting calls 911 to get free medicine. Parents of children with mild fevers call 911 so they don’t have to wait, as if their problem is more important than anybody else’s. Drunks call from their homes when they run out of booze, requesting detox. Kids fall and bump their head; rescues are called for ice packs.
The city of Providence is poised to reduce their firefighting force to add additional ambulances. Calls for EMS are on the rise, fires are fewer. The rationale is to move manpower from fire suppression to the rescues. What appears to be common sense is in actuality surrendering to the ideals bent on destroying our society.
Somehow, our 911 system, designed to provide highly trained and equipped personnel to the scene of an emergency, has been reduced to a glorified taxi service for those who expect to be catered to. A four-man fire company is a formidable force. Each member of the company has a vital role in every response, be it securing a water supply at a fire, doing chest compressions during CPR, or driving quickly and safely to your house when tragedy strikes. Compromising the integrity of that force to provide more rescues to a populace that abuses the system is a disservice to every responsible citizen.
Providence residents are well protected by their firefighters. You call, we come. We come with enough manpower to get the job done, no matter what that job may be. Taxpayers pay for a service and deserve to get their money’s worth. It is a sad day when a proud, devastatingly effective force must be diminished to cater to a growing population that takes government services for granted, as their right, as their private taxi service.
Co-stars
“Rescue 1, respond to 356 Elmwood Avenue for an intoxicated male.”
“Rescue 1, responding.”
We rolled out of the bay toward our patient. Matt, my partner for the night, and I made guesses as to whom our guest might be.
“Guarantee it’s Chris.”
“Nope, too late.”
“Kevin?”
“Nah, too far up Elmwood.”
“Shingles?”
“He died last month.”
“No shit?”
“Yep, died in a nursing home. Thirty-nine years old.”
That quieted things down. We approached the scene slowly. There was Jimmy, weaving on the sidewalk next to a Providence police officer.
“Bitch,” he said as I walked toward him.
“Cocknocker,” I replied. He laughed, swore some more, and stumbled toward the rescue. On the way to the ER I told him about last night’s newscast.
“Jim, we’re co-stars, we were on the news last night,” I said, expecting nothing but more insults.
“No shit,” he said, half-smiling. “Kevin told me about it.” He slurred the words but perked up. “I don’t remember any of it.”
No Fair
I placed the cervical collar around his neck, not because he was injured but because his neck could no longer bear the weight of his head. We put him into the stair chair as his parents looked on, hopeful, courageous, and afraid all at once.
I saw the handicapped equipment neatly arranged throughout their upstairs living space. A shower chair sat empty in a corner, leg braces leaned against a wall, next to some games. Mack understood what was going on around him but was unable to communicate with us. His eyes were slightly glazed, as they are with most postictal patients, but held my gaze with surprising intensity. I couldn’t look away.
Mack’s dad came with us in the rescue, leaving the boy’s mother to lock up and meet us at Hasbro in the car. I had wrongly assumed Mack had cerebral palsy or something similar. I asked his dad about the boy’s medical history.
“He was fine until he was five or so,” he said. “Then he couldn’t control his bladder. Before long he started acting up in school, nothing bad, just not paying attention, that kind of thing. Then he started falling. About a year later he started having seizures. The doctors think it might be mitochondrial disease.”
I had never heard of that but if this was the result, I hope I never hear of it again.
“You have your hands full,” I said to the man holding his son’s hand in the back of my rescue.
Every now and then I run into somebody who I think has the courage, faith, and love to overcome anything. Mack’s dad is one of these people. I think his will alone will get his boy back on his feet. For now, the boy is being treated in Boston by the best medical teams in the world.
He’s nine years old. His father may never see him walk again, or even make ten.
End of the Road
“Engine 12 to fire alarm, inform Lincoln rescue that we have a code 99.”
I keyed the mic.
“Rescue 1, to fire alarm, we can divert to the code.”
“Roger, Rescue 1, you’ve got it.”
Engine 12 had responded to the scene of an MVA with a possible seizure. They found a man in cardiac arrest, doors locked, car running, and its front end damaged from a collision. If everything went perfectly we could make the trip in five minutes. It took nearly ten. Buses, pedestrians, traffic, everything worked against us. Eight minutes is a long time to do CPR. I’m sure the guys from Engine 12 were listening for the sirens.
“Engine 12 to fire alarm, do you have an ETA for that rescue?”
“Rescue 1, we’re at Douglas and Veazie, ETA thirty seconds.”
We turned the corner at Douglas; nobody there. Sean Reddy, my partner for the day, looked around, thinking my exact thoughts. “Did we hear the right address?”
We approached Burns Street and saw the flashing lights from Engine 12. Lying on the street next to his car was our victim. Dave and Griff were doing CPR, Paul and Anthony helped with our equipment. We boarded and collared the patient and got him into the rescue, continued CPR, hooked him up to the LIFEPAK 12, started a line, analyzed the rhythm, attempted and failed to intubate. Griff got the code drugs ready, 1 epi, still asystolic. Atropine; pulseless and asystolic. More CPR. Sean drove the rescue, Anthony followed with the engine, Dave and Paul continued CPR while Griff loaded another round of epi and atropine. Possible fine V-fib, I administered a shock. Asystole, pulseless. We continued CPR up to the doorway of Roger Williams Medical Center, where the staff there took over. I gave them my report, they worked the code for at least twenty minutes while I watched, giving as much of the story as I knew.
The fifty-one-year-old man was pronounced dead at around 0900.
We cleaned and restocked the truck and were ready to go at the same time the man’s widow arrived. We went back to work, she broke down in tears.
Reminiscing
Saturday night, 2100 hours. Something strange is going on—no runs for four hours. The other trucks are busy, I’m getting lucky. I had some time to sit and talk with Bob, lieutenant of Engine 14. Guys like him are invaluable to the fire department; his experience and knowledge will never be replaced.
We told some stories, his much more colorful than mine, him being from a different era, when fighting fire was the department’s primary job. EMS has muscled in now, the old ways changing, and not for the better, at least from a veteran firefighter’s point of view. For whatever reason, friendships were stronger then, the brotherhood a reality rather than a memory. We like to think we are different from the rest of society, and we are in a lot of ways. The nature of our work demands a certain trust in one another, our lives literally depend on us having each other’s backs. We manage, enjoy the job, and make the best of it, but the present political climate and changing attitudes make it more difficult. A barrage of misleading comments from our leaders, reported by a media hungry for a story pertaining to our pay, benefits, and job performance, is wearing us down, the morale on the job at an all-time low.
Years ago, things were more simple. It was nice to forget about things for a while and talk about how things used to be.
Small World
An old friend made his way into the back of the rescue. The head umpire of the Providence Kickball League was riding his bike home when he was struck by a moving auto. I first encountered him in July on the kickball field when one of the players went down with a broken collarbone. Coincidentally, the umpire suffered the same fate as a result of the collision.
In another strange twist, I checked on the umpire after transporting an intoxicated person to the same ER. He looked up from the stretcher and asked, “Hey, aren’t you the author?”
It was the first time a person I didn’t know asked me that. It was a little strange. As it turns out, he works at the Brown University Bookstore and recognized me from there.
Providence seems to get smaller as the years go on.
Bookends
Thirteen hours into a thirty-eight-hour shift.
I’m not sure if my day has begun or my night has ended.
It’s 0610 hours, the sun a few minutes away
Waiting to take the darkness.
In a fourth-floor apartment contractions start.
Five children, all under five years old, wake to screams.
Another is about to join them.
Her water breaks just as the sun rises.
The door is locked
The baby is born
We climb the stairs to cut the cord
And welcome a baby girl into the world.
Three hours later a grieving widow sits in a limo.
Her husband lies in his casket a few miles away.
The funeral must wait, another problem arises,
As a car crashes into the funeral procession.
She’s hurt, but refuses to go.
You only bury your husband once.
We help her to the funeral home and wheel her in
Past the casket, the preacher never stops.
She sits on our stair chair,
The cervical collar digging into her skin
And listens
As her husband is laid to rest.
It’s a little past noon.
One enters, one leaves.
One holds onto the miracle in her arms
As the other lets hers go.
The Times They are a Changin’
Once upon a time there were beautiful cars called Cadillacs. People worked their entire lives so that some day they might be able to afford one. Retired folks would take out the machine and drive through town showing off their ride and enjoying the day. If something were to go wrong, they belonged to the American Automobile Association (AAA). A simple phone call and assistance was on the way—a polite mechanic would show up, give you a jump, change a flat, or tow your nice Cadillac to the garage.
As years went by the Cadillac grew evil. Young men in hooded sweatshirts now “pimped” their Cadillac Escalades and rolled through the ghetto, slinging “rocks” to addicts. People feared the loathsome noise that throbbed from these shiny machines and got out of their way.
One day (today), one brave, polite mechanic in a Triple A truck had the nerve to not drive fast enough while in front of one of these machines. The driver and his friend cut off the AAA driver, pulled a gun, and beat the polite man senseless.
At least they didn’t shoot him.
Doh!
People without licenses, insurance, or registration should not drive. Especially not into trees while intoxicated.
Handful
At first she didn’t like me, wouldn’t listen to a word I said. She didn’t want to come with us, wanted to stay right there at the shelter. The folks who run the soup kitchen thought otherwise. They had a hundred homeless people hungry for lunch and had work to do; no time to play footsies with an intoxicated thirty-seven-year-old.
I finally talked her out of the shelter and toward the rescue. She staggered and slurred but refused to let me touch her or help her walk. I kept my distance. She made it outside, where there were no walls to hold her up if should she stumble. Once down the ramp it was nothing but us and the street, the rescue fifty feet away. I moved closer in case she started to fall.
She made a fist with her left hand and swung at me. I easily stopped the punch by holding her arm. With her right hand she grabbed my ass and gave it a good squeeze.
I don’t know who laughed harder, me, her, or the crowd of homeless people watching the spectacle. We laughed all the way to the hospital. When we arrived, she sat on a stretcher and cried.
All Present and Accounted For
It took me a while but I found it, packed away in the attic, waiting for the next move, hopefully our last. It’s waiting patiently on the counter in its green box for the turkey to be done, just as it has for the last fifty years, maybe more. I had to find it; things just wouldn’t be the same if I used just “any” knife. It was my father’s carving knife, reserved for the Thanksgiving turkey. I think of him when I carve the bird.
Ah, traditions.
Cheryl jazzed up the stuffing this year but her mom, Theresa’s, signature is all over it. Her spirit follows us on holidays. It seems like yesterday the day revolved around her. Rest in peace, Mom, we miss you.
My sister Mel has my mother’s china ready to be filled with traditional food. Le Sueur peas have been on a Morse table since the beginning of time. Brother Bob is home, his family together for the first time in a long, long time. I’m sure he has a relic or two left over from our parents’ house. Susan is getting things ready in North Carolina, the wooden box of fine silver polished and ready to go. She doesn’t change a thing from the traditional dinner, Jackie and JC wouldn’t have it. We miss you, Larry—fifty are just not enough Thanksgivings.
The things we do today will live on long after we are gone. Enjoy it, it goes so fast.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. We’re here, together on the holidays, held together by more than we realize.
Stay or Go
I had a decision to make: lock him in, or let him out. He was crouched at the rear doors of the rescue, eyes wild, screaming.
“Why you messin’ with me, man!”
“Derek,” I said quietly to my partner through the partition, “if he gets up, either gun it or hit the brakes, I don’t care which.”
Either way, JoJo would lose his balance and I would have time to throw the “net” over him. I reached over and hit the button that locks the doors just as JoJo reached for the handle.
“Why you lockin’ me in, man, let me out, don’t mess with me!” He glared from his position. I stayed seated in the captain’s chair, portable radio loose by my side and ready for a quick draw. A portable to the noggin usually slows them down. I took the sheet from the stretcher slowly and unfolded it, ready to contain the wildman should he charge.
“If you open the door, you will fall out and the guy behind us will run you over.”
JoJo stayed crouched, glaring at me. We had picked him up a few minutes ago, he and his intoxicated friend laughing and having a ball. JoJo said he wanted to go to the hospital for detox. We let him in. As soon as we got rolling he started. He unbuckled his seat belt before I could stop him, took a few steps toward me, thought better of it, then ran for the back doors and freedom. One of these days I might let one go.
I keyed the mic.
“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, advise Rhode Island we have a combative male, ETA two minutes.”
We held our ground. Security took over when we arrived. Eventually JoJo was four pointed facedown on a stretcher and sedated.
Code Red!
Veazie Street, right before the second alarm. Three-and-a-half-story wood-frame residential, exposures, side one and four. The house was situated a hundred feet off Veazie at the top of a steep driveway. The narrow street left no room for mistakes with apparatus placement, and none were made. If we lost this house, there was a good chance the block would be gone in the morning.
Two firefighters from Ladder 3 climbed the aerial to the roof with a quick vent saw. Through the smoke I watched them reach the roofline, then saw them disappear as flames ripped through the fourth-floor windows. A few seconds later, when the smoke cleared, they reappeared, now at the end of the ladder, ready to get the roof.
Engine 2’s pump operator nearly managed to feed a ladder pipe, three 1¾-inch attack lines and a 2½-inch master stream, before his pump cavitated, screaming for more water. He squeezed every drop from the pump but there just wasn’t enough.
Engine 4 arrived at the end of Veazie, picked up another hydrant, and layed more feeders. Three hundred feet of double 3-inch feeders full of water fed their pump, and they started a relay to Engine 2. By now, Engine 5 with the air supply had arrived at the end of Veazie and pumped the hydrant, setting up a double-relay pumping operation through Engine 4 to Engine 2. With enough water to handle the demand, the pump quieted down to a hum, now efficiently doing its job as the pump operator manned the pump panel, controlling the flow of water to each individual line.
The fight raged on for three hours. I treated three firefighters for injuries, two were transported to Roger Williams Medical Center and one, after falling down a burned-out stairway, stayed working. I saw him an hour after his fall, hauling feeders. Eventually, the good guys won and the fire was extinguished. Was there ever any doubt?
Fourteen hours later, while I was home sleeping, another fire raged on the other side of the city. This one sent four firefighters to the hospital. Burns and a back injury, I’m told. Get well, brothers.
Forgotten
I used to wonder how they managed to do it. Living on the streets of Providence, hot summer days, freezing cold nights in winter, nothing more than a few layers of donated coats and maybe a blanket to keep them warm, bottle of cheap vodka giving the illusion of comfort. They have forgotten any dreams they may have once had, now they just survive each day the best they can. It’s not an easy life, nor one anybody with half a brain would consider trying. The shelters show them the door early in the morning, leaving them to wander aimlessly all day, refusing entry at night if they are intoxicated, which they usually are. A few hours go by until they can scrounge up enough change to get a refill. With nowhere else to go, they call us and end up in the emergency room, not for treatment, but for survival.
I don’t wonder how they do it anymore. They don’t. They die. I haven’t seen one hit sixty yet. Late forties, early fifties, then gone. Forgotten. A new face enters the fray as soon as there is an opening. I play along, take them to the hospital, and watch them die. Sometimes it takes years.
Hmm . . .
Chest pain in a holding cell is a difficult call. All instinct leads you to believe it’s a case of cellitis, and it usually is. The hospital beats the prison, most times. When the patient is your own age skepticism is overwhelming. When it is the second time you have been called to the same holding cell in two hours, it’s guaranteed.
Sometimes.
Veronica sat on the steel bench, crying. She was in desperate need of a shower and some new clothes. I asked how she was feeling.
“I’ve had pain in my chest since last night but didn’t say anything,” she said quietly.
Hmm. Usually the theatrics could win an Academy Award. We put her on the stretcher and rolled her out of the cell. I asked the sherriff for the paperwork, he said there was none, she was free to go home. Double hmm. I asked her to rate the pain on a one-to-ten scale.
“It’s about a seven now but last night it was around four.” Triple hmm. Fakers rate a guaranteed ten.
Once in the rescue we did some vitals and ran a 12 lead EKG. BP was 180/120, heart rate 110, SpO2 91 percent. The EKG was abnormal with a right bundle branch block. She had a history of an irregular heartbeat but couldn’t afford her medications. We started her on O2, gave her some aspirin and a nitro, and started toward Rhode Island Hospital. On the way her phone rang. Her mother was home with her grandchildren waiting for her daughter to come home.
“Mama, don’t cry, I’ll be home soon,” Veronica said into the phone, then started crying herself.
I have no idea why she was detained and didn’t ask. Not because I wasn’t curious, I was, I just didn’t feel it was any of my business. I can only wonder why a nice lady the same age as me with a family who cared deeply about her was in jail. Her birthday was five days after mine; we shared this earth for nearly exactly the same amount of time. Is it fate, bad choices, or circumstance that put us on such opposite paths? I can only wonder.
___
To read Chapters 1-14 of CITY LIFE:
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.
