Subscribe!
Read with Us: City Life – a book by Michael Morse – Chapter 16, 17, end…
Publisher’s Note: We have been fortunate to bring our readers over the last many weeks, the entire book, CITY LIFE, by Rhode Island author, Michael Morse. We are grateful to him for allowing this READ WITH US feature – look for an upcoming book by a new Rhode Island author next week. And – follow the link at the bottom of this story to access all previous chapters of CITY LIFE.
Chapter 16
December
Resurrection
I asked him his name. He spelled it out.
“A-r-o-u-a-r-t-i-o-u-n.”
“How do you pronounce it?”
“Arouartioun.”
“Is that Armenian?”
“Yes, it means Resurrection.”
“What’s your date of birth?”
“December 24, 1935.”
“Hence, the Resurrection.”
He shrugged and smiled, his abdominal pain that made him call 911 gone for now, no particular reason. He said the pain has been coming and going for two weeks, no idea why. Perhaps today they would find the answer. We had a nice talk on the way to the ER. His family moved from Armenia following the genocide of 1915 to Syria, where he grew up.
“Nice place, Syria, they gave us land, said to stay there.”
Refugees were given a chance to rebuild their lives. Some went to Europe, some the Middle East, some America. His family moved back to Armenia in the fifties when it was part of the Soviet Union.
“We were very poor. My father retired from the French Army in 1946, not much of a pension then.”
Somehow they managed to escape from Soviet Russia; his wife had family in America. They have a nice home in the Reservoir Triangle area of Providence now, grandchildren, maybe a great-grandchild on the way. We arrived at the hospital, Arouartioun insisted on walking in.
I couldn’t help being inspired by his story. I’ll be moving, again, in a couple of weeks, three streets away from the house I’ve been renting for six months. It looks like I’ve finally found a home. I didn’t have to travel the world to find it.
___
Chapter 17
January
Maniac
January 1, 0200 hours. We turned the corner into mayhem. A car sped toward a group of people, striking one, throwing him onto the hood then onto the street. Others first ran toward the victim, then saw the car do a 180-degree turn and fishtail back toward the victim. People scattered every which way, the enraged driver went for the guy lying in the street. He miraculously avoided being hit a second time.
Veakro stopped the rescue in front of the victim, put on the lights, and stepped out while I radioed for police. Unbelievably, the car did another 180 and buzzed the rescue. The guy on the street managed to stand and walk toward the sidewalk, right before the car made another pass.
Somehow, nobody was killed. As the maniac sped toward the city we treated the victim and tried to calm the crowd. They had been out for the evening, rented a limousine which overheated on the highway. They stopped at an adult entertainment nightclub on Allens Avenue because one of the passengers knew a bouncer there and they wanted to use the restroom. The limo driver told me later that this was her first nighttime job. She heard the money was terrific.
“I’m going back to taking people to the airport,” she said, still shaking from witnessing the madness.
The cops came a few minutes later and took a report.
New Year’s Eve 2007 was over. A new year had begun.
Rash of Stabbings
I’ve had a few days off since the New Year’s Eve Massacre. (Stabbings, assaults, pedestrian struck, man out a window, head lacerations, concussions, and a nineteen-year-old who eventually delivered the state’s first baby of the new year.)
Add another stabbing to a recent rash of stabbings here in the capital city. A deliveryman was attacked by four men as he sat outside Stop & Shop in the Manton neighborhood. They beat and robbed him, eventually stabbing him in the stomach. Last week three young men were stabbed during an incident near Broad Street. My patient was a nineteen-year-old with three wounds to his upper torso. Whoever did the stabbing was not kidding around; he was going for a kill. The last call of the night on New Year’s Eve was for a man with stab wounds sitting on a porch near Thurbers Avenue. I found five stab wounds on this guy, one of which punctured a lung. As I walked out of the trauma room at Rhode Island Hospital, another man walked into the ER holding his intestines in his hands. He was attacked on the same block as my patient.
I wonder if all of this is coincidence or if there’s a slasher in our midst.
Madison’s Class
I had the pleasure of visiting my cousin Madison’s third-grade classroom recently. She wanted me to talk about my experience as an author but her classmates seemed more interested in my experience as a firefighter. I only put a few of the kids to sleep; the rest tolerated my story and treated me well.
Thank you, Madison, Mrs. Raver, and the rest of the class for the opportunity to speak to you and answer your questions. (Even the one about stealing the man in the wheelchair’s boots!) I had a lot of fun.
Dehydrated
“Why did you call 911?”
“I’m dehydrated.”
“You don’t look dehydrated.”
“What do dehydrated people look like?”
“Get in the truck.”
He stood outside the Providence Rescue Mission, smoking a cigarette. He wore his forty years badly; I would have sworn he was sixty. He stepped into the rescue and made himself comfortable on the bench seat as I started my report.
“How long have you been dehydrated?”
“Since last night.”
“Really.”
“Yup. A water line broke and I don’t have running water.”
“When did the line break?”
“Last night.”
I closed my eyes and started counting.
“One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three . . .”
Lips
“What’s the matter?” I asked John, who stood outside of a Dunkin’ Donuts sipping a coffee.
“My lips are bleeding.”
“No they’re not.”
He bit his bottom lip hard enough to produce a few droplets.
“I have AIDS.”
“Really.”
“Full blown.”
“Get in the truck.”
I took him to the ER. He had just left. I was there last night at midnight when another Providence rescue brought him in, reason unknown.
All of the psych beds in the state are full, the chest pain unit at Rhode Island Hospital now being used as a holding area. I have no idea where to bring the next one.
Turning the Corner
He usually called from a pay phone on Broad Street. It seemed strange seeing him in his home. The front steps looked weak; I tested them with my foot before putting my full weight on each tread. The “Beware of Dog” sign was a nice shot of self-esteem for the fifty-year-old mutt who lay chained to the inside stairs. He put a halfhearted growl out there for anybody interested. For his sake I stepped to the other side of the entryway as we walked past.
Too bad it never rains inside I thought as we walked through a few rooms into a rear bedroom. This place could have used a rinse. It hadn’t seen the business end of a vacuum or broom in decades. Filth festers when it has nowhere to go.
Our patient lay on a couch, seizing. His vacant stare looked past us at something only he could see, his body shaking and rigid. It was a mild seizure and only lasted a few seconds. The shaking managed to loosen an empty pint of vodka from the filthy cushions.
“He didn’t take his meds,” said a dark lady who suddenly popped out of a doorway. “Said he’d drink a corner and be all right.”
We loaded him onto the stair chair and into the bright sunshine, careful not to fall through the porch steps. He seized again when we got him into the truck. When he came out of it I asked him how much he had to drink.
“A corner.”
I thought back to the empty vodka bottle and envisioned an inch of booze at the bottom, when tipped to drink, filling the “corner” of the bottle.
We took him around the corner to Rhode Island Hospital.
Comfort One
The Comfort One protocol spares terminal patients the indignity, pain, and discomfort of life-saving efforts by EMS personnel. Patients can opt for comfort measures only during their last days or hours. No CPR, no intubation, no IVs for cardiac drugs. Basically we provide oxygen and comfort.
Our patient wore such a bracelet. His two-year battle with cancer appeared to be nearing an end. He started having trouble breathing yesterday, followed by muscle cramping. I have taken him to the hospital numerous times in the past and was inspired by his and his family’s courage. It was sad to see it come to this. Henry carried him down the snow-covered stairs of the second-floor apartment that will be his final home and into the rescue. He never complained.
We gave him supplemental oxygen and brought him to the hospital.
Hasbro Children’s Hospital.
He’s eight years old.
Sacrificing the Body
The steps were wide, perhaps six feet across. An inch of snow covered the treads; I saw footprints lead to our patient, a forty-five-year-old female.
“I’ve got two witnesses,” was the first thing she said, followed by, “I told the landlord to take care of these steps. He don’t do nothin’ but take money.”
“Can you move?” I asked.
“No.”
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
“No.”
“Can you feel your legs?”
“No.”
Great.
Ladder Company 5’s crew managed to get her onto the longboard and stretcher. I asked one of the “witnesses” what happened.
“She fell down the stairs.”
I looked at the six steps. The footprints went directly to the indentation in the snow where we found the patient. The snow on the steps was uninterrupted other than the footprints.
I grabbed the bottom of the stretcher and lifted my end. The three hundred–pound woman felt like six as the stretcher, and my back, groaned under her weight. Her cell phone rang, she answered, told the person on the other end to “talk to the paramedic, I’m being rushed to the hospital,” and handed it to me.
“I thought you couldn’t move?” I said.
The folks at Rhode Island Hospital knew her name before I said it. She’s a weekly visitor. Nothing like sacrificing the body to keep our citizens safe. Or, in her case, to make a little money.
Tough Guy
Lunchtime, one of my favorite times of day. I had made stuffed meatloaf, always a favorite with the guys. Wayne called them meat bombs, which I guess they were. A big ball of hamburger, a couple of eggs, secret seasonings, separated into twelve “bombs,” sliced down the middle, add some spinach and cheddar, an hour at 350 and presto!
Two bites in the bell tipped.
“Engine 2 with Rescue 3, respond to the corner of North Main and Doyle for a pedestrian struck.”
We dropped our forks and hit the pole. I was looking forward to getting back to lunch. I drove the engine, looking ahead, fully confident that whatever happened at North Main and Doyle we would handle and be back before the food got cold.
In the distance I saw what looked to be a bundle of bloody rags, tiny. Further up the road, about a hundred yards away, was a bigger bundle. I stopped the truck and stepped out. What looked like a woman was lying on her back, her legs somehow straddling her head. A human body was not meant to be crushed by the wheels of a tractor trailer. She was conscious and hysterical.
“The baby!” she said.
I saw an off-duty Providence firefighter in the distance pick up the bundle and start CPR. Rescue 3 had arrived and was treating the woman, another rescue was called for the other victim.
Parts of a mangled stroller covered the hundred yards between the woman and the other “bundle of rags.” The eighteen-wheel semi was stopped in the middle of the road, a little further up. Somehow, I helped the crew from Rescue 3 immobilize the woman and get her into the rescue. Her legs and back were broken, probably paralyzed. There is no training for what we encountered, you just make do.
Rescue 5 arrived; I joined them in the back of their rescue. Okie, the off-duty firefighter, blood covering his face, handed the infant to Greg and Kevin. The baby was dead. We continued CPR, tried to start a line and get a tube, and sped toward the ER.
The snow-covered sidewalk on the corner of North Main and Doyle made it impossible to pass. The woman—the baby’s grandmother I found out later—was forced to use the street just as the truck was making the turn. The driver never saw them. The baby carriage was caught between the rear wheels and dragged down North Main Street. The grandmother’s lower torso was crushed by the wheels. She stayed put until we arrived.
Somehow, the grandmother survived the ordeal. The baby never had a chance.
An hour later we returned to our meatloaf. It was silent in the day room as we ate. Engine 2 was called back to the scene for a “wash down.” Chief Ronny Moura, wise from twenty-five years of experience, called us off and sent another engine company to wash the blood from the city street.
I remember thinking that I had to eat, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. I was new to the job then, wanted to look tough.
Big tough guy sixteen years later, I remember it like it was yesterday.
Little Man
The little man Henry carried through the snow last month passed away last night. His two-year battle with cancer has come to an end. His mom and twin brother must be heartbroken. I remember going to their apartment at all hours of the night when the boy needed help, watching his mom run around the apartment while we put her son on the stair chair, gathering last-minute things for the trip to the hospital while a healthy version of the patient looked on, never complaining, just watching, as if the drama that unfolded in front of him wasn’t real. He never said a word, just helped his mother and came along.
I imagine the little family will heal, and move on, no longer needing us. It’s too bad they needed us in the first place.
Rest in peace, brother.
Different Worlds
The baby was still, staring blankly at nothing. This had happened before, only not for as long. After a minute the parents called 911. Two more minutes before the first help arrived. The guys from Engine 4 entered the home just as the baby came out of his seizure. We were still five minutes away, responding from the other end of Providence.
The East Side is different from South Providence. The streets are tree lined and quiet, a fire truck causes quite a commotion. I don’t think we are even noticed on the other side, our trips into the neighborhood commonplace.
“Engine 4 to Rescue 1, we have an eighteen-month-old male, conscious and alert at this time following three minutes of seizure activity. History of febrile seizures.”
“Rescue 1, received.”
I put the mic back into the cradle as Rob, my new partner, turned onto North Main. Two minutes later we joined Engine 4 and the patient. Neighbors looked out windows and filled doorways, concerned. Bob Randle, the officer of Engine 4, met me outside and gave the preliminary report. The baby was in the doorway of his home, held by his dad as his mother sat in a chair in the living room holding an infant. An old dog came over, sniffed my leg, decided I was okay, and went back to the couch, satisfied there was no danger here.
The baby was fine. The parents had the proper medication to treat the situation and decided to take care of it themselves. They apologized for “bothering” us. We talked for a while, insisted they call for help whenever they felt it necessary, no bother whatsoever, this is our job. They stood in the doorway and waved as we drove away.
Sometimes I think a spaceship picked me up and put me on another planet. Then I remember, this is how it’s supposed to be.
Miscommunication
“Overweight, history of hypertension, chest pain, history of heart attack, diaphoretic . . .” He counted off the risk signs on his fingers while shaking his head.
A few minutes prior I had brought an overweight, sweat-covered fiftyish man to the ER. Ron took one look at the guy, quickly read my report, and put him into a critical care room.
“Why is he here?” asked the doctor on call impatiently, annoyed that we brought the patient to critical care.
“Look at him,” replied Ron as Rob and I transferred the patient from our stretcher to theirs.
“He needs an EKG,” said the doctor.
“We’ll do it here, this is where he belongs,” said Ron.
The doctor shook his head and walked away.
The critical care team got to work, IVs started, leads placed, oxygen administered.
We had already done an EKG prior to nitro and aspirin, I handed the results to the doctor when he returned. He put the paper aside without a second glance. I wasn’t surprised.
“Is that guy an idiot?” I asked Ron, referring to the doctor in the critical care room when I left the trauma room and returned to the triage desk.
“I believe he is,” replied Ron, who immediately shifted gears and took a report from the next crew that had arrived.
The patient’s nephew stood nearby, listening. A few minutes later the charge nurse approached Ron and told him that the patient’s family had filed a complaint against him, and maybe me. I’ll find out in a few days. He didn’t like the way we were talking about his uncle.
You would think he had more important things to worry about.
Lord of the Rings
“I know, I’ll put five key rings around my penis just to see what happens. Nothing yet, maybe I’ll thumb through the recent Penthouse to see what happens. Uh-oh, didn’t see this coming, better call 911 and have them take a look.”
Security
We are all in this field for similar reasons. Saving lives, helping the sick and injured, making money, gaining self-respect, and the camaraderie are all part of the bigger picture. The people I work with in the local emergency rooms are just as dedicated as the firefighters I live with.
A group of people that seldom, if ever, get mentioned or praise is the security guards. These men and women are vital to the successful operation of the ER, especially those at Rhode Island Hospital. Just today a guard named John, a big, quiet guy from the South Providence neighborhood, helped get a patient who refused to leave the back of the rescue into the ER. I never asked, just informed him that I was bringing him a combative patient. He took it upon himself to help us out. Another guard, Amir, also from South Providence, helped a Spanish-speaking patient communicate with the nurse trying to figure out what was ailing her. I’m sure no compensation is involved for the extra work and it would be just as easy to walk away, but Amir and most of his peers are willing to help when needed.
I’ve seen these people respectfully restrain the most violent, abusive patients in a calm, professional manner, never losing their cool while taking some obscene abuse from those they are helping. Black guards are routinely called niggers by drunken fools, the female guards endure their own share of harassment.
They somehow manage to turn the other cheek and do a great job.
A lot of pieces have to come together for things to work, lives to be saved, and safety ensured. These folks are a bigger part of the puzzle than most people realize.
Overdose
“Engine 3 to Rescue 1, unconscious male, looks like a heroin overdose.”
“Rescue 1, received.”
Rob stopped the rescue in front of the building and got out. I grabbed the blue bag from the side compartment; Rob went to the rear doors and pulled the stretcher from the rig. I placed the bag full of drugs and supplies on top of the stretcher and we made our way in. A man held the door for us, informing us that the elevators were out of order. We left the stretcher at the bottom of the stairs and made our way up.
A man in his fifties lay on his back, shallow respirations, normal pulse with a bluish tint to his skin.
“He’s been down for about ten minutes,” said Joe, Engine 3’s officer. “Went to the bathroom and didn’t come out. His friends went in to get him, this is how they found him.”
The clear plastic of the non-rebreather clouded up every eight seconds or so, the reservoir of pure oxygen barely dented.
“Rob, get the trauma board.” I said. I hoped the Narcan would be effective and we wouldn’t need it. “Better get a bag ready.”
Another Joe from Engine 3 prepared an IV as I drew up 2 mg of Narcan. Instead of waiting for a line I administered the drug into the dying man’s triceps. Instead of the patient improving, he stopped breathing completely.
We had the man intubated and the first round of epi on board just as Rob returned with the board. We secured all two hundred pounds of him, ventilated, and got ready for descent. Everybody on scene pitched in every way possible getting him down the stairs and into the rescue. We brought him to the Rhode Island Hospital ER, where the trauma team took over. Half an hour later they called it.
Time of death: 1836 hours. Engine 3 headed back to the barn, Rob put the truck together, and I tried to make sense of the paperwork. A man is dead, I barely blinked and it was back to business as usual. Sometimes I think this job takes more than it gives.
Party
She sat on the step of Engine 8, her dress ripped, no coat, shivering in the wind and snow. A one-inch laceration to the top of her head and a huge welt on her left temple, evidence of an assault. Blood streamed down her face, ruining the makeup she must have spent a long time applying. I imagine she spent hours getting ready for a fun night on the town.
Somebody cracked her head with a bottle. The bars had just let out, spilling hundreds of drunken revelers into the streets of Providence. The chest pains, seizures, and breathing difficulties would continue to trickle in but for the next hour or two our rescues will be tied up with assaults, robberies, and other assorted mayhem. Witnessing the aftermath of a night on the town makes me wonder why people even bother to go out.
Emergency Response for the Mentally Ill
The blinds separated, leaving an inch of blackness between them. Somewhere in the darkness two eyes peered out. They saw me; I couldn’t see them.
“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, do you have a callback number?”
“Stand by.”
We stood on the snow-covered doorstep. No sounds came from inside. I knocked again. Nothing.
My portable radio cracked the silence. “Rescue 1?”
“Go ahead.”
“The person should be opening the door, I’ve got her on the phone.”
“Roger, the door is opening.”
A disheveled, intoxicated thirty-year-old female opened the door widely, begging us to come in and shut the door. The place was in shambles. Dirty dishes, laundry, spent cigarette butts, animal waste, and cockroaches had taken over. The patient scurried about, pretending to tidy up the place but in actuality couldn’t have tied her shoes at this point, she was too far gone.
“Rescue 1, do you need the police?” the radio blared.
“No police!” screamed the patient. “I’m sick, not a criminal!”
And so it goes.
The fire department is called for a variety of reasons. Nestled among the building fires, chest pain, intoxicated persons, building collapses, car accidents, and other emergencies are a surprising number of calls for psychologically unstable patients. The labels vary—emotional, change of mental status, anxious, suicidal—but all are potentially dangerous.
Society is filled with people suffering from emotional and psychological problems. Many of these folks lead productive lives once helped by remarkably effective treatments; therapy and medication produce tangible results in the mentally ill. Some patients have given up on treatment, choosing to make their own way in the world unimpeded by modern medicine. Most are not successful. Many have no access to the health care system. Whether that is their own decision or beyond their control is irrelevant; what matters is there are a lot of untreated mentally ill people living among us.
When crisis occurs, and if they are able to recognize the warning signals their damaged minds send out, a good resource is the 911 system. Highly trained personnel are waiting to take care of these patients, get them the help they so desperately need.
Or are they?
Those in the field of EMS are given rudimentary training regarding the mentally ill. They cannot solve their problems, nor do they have the qualifications to try. The best they can do is to keep the patient calm and get them to the help they so desperately need. Sound simple? It’s not.
When a person decides to call for help, they are at the end of a long, downward spiral. Making that cry for help is a courageous step, fraught with uncertainty. They wait by the phone, wondering if they did the right thing by calling. From the time the initial call is made to the time help arrives a lot can happen. They change their mind. They hear voices. They begin to see their rescuers as threats to their independence. At times violent struggles ensue. Sometimes the situation is defused with care and compassion; often, force must be used. But whose responsibility is it to use force?
The majority of calls for help in Providence concerning the mentally ill are handled by the fire department EMS, not the police. Family members and friends who call want to avoid a confrontation. They are at the end of their rope, helpless and afraid. They look to EMS as saviors when they arrive to take their loved one to a hospital or psychiatric facility, only to find their options limited by law and lack of training.
Patients who make the call of their own accord don’t see themselves as a threat. What lucidity remained when they called for help is often gone when help arrives. These emotionally charged situations often lead to violent confrontations with would-be rescuers.
Mental health care professionals call 911 from their facilities looking for an ambulance to take a problem patient off their hands. EMTs are then expected to put that volatile patient into a four by eight–foot space filled with glass and needles. It is a recipe for disaster.
EMS professionals cannot restrain, subdue, or abduct. Doing so is a violation of a person’s civil rights. There are no men in the white coats. We do not carry straitjackets. All we have is common sense, compassion, and a willingness to help a person in need. Often, it is not enough.
In the tragic aftermath of one such recent call in Pawtucket, a mentally ill man was shot and killed. The police solved the crisis the only way they could at the time. The officer justifiably felt his life in danger and responded accordingly. Would the result have been different if the fire department had been called, or would there be a dead EMT in the patient’s place? We will never know.
A rapid intervention team consisting of a psychiatrist with power to commit a patient, a law enforcement officer with power to restrain a person against their will, and a pair of EMTs to provide support and transportation in a safe environment is what is needed on these type of calls. Until that happens, we are sending undertrained, unarmed, and overwhelmed people into dangerous situations. There needs to be a definitive approach to handling the mentally ill who call for help. The current system is a time bomb. You can hear it ticking if you care to listen.
“No police,” I said as softly as possible. “Get your things and come with us. We’ll get you some help.” I looked around for potential weapons, kitchen knives especially. A caseworker was stabbed in the neck on Broad Street a few years ago by an emotional patient, bled to death in the doorway, leaving a wife and two small children.
After fifteen minutes of negotiations, crying, laughing, and a temper tantrum or two, we left the woman’s apartment, from the looks of things for a long time.
Good Day
“Rescue 1 and Engine 13, respond to 328 Calla Street for an infant not breathing.”
Seconds seem like hours. Cars move like dinosaurs on the brink of extinction, sirens and lights ineffective. Gloves go on, mind racing, ghosts invade, I throw them out, the trucks move faster, picking up speed, three minutes pass. Before we stop I’m out the door, mother running, baby in her arms, blue. I take her; she’s stiff, burning with fever, rigid, then starts to seize.
Oxygen, assisted ventilations, family screaming, everybody tries to do something, I give out tasks, an IV, keep bagging, need a glucose test, find the history, learn Spanish quickly, I need to know what’s going on, get a temp, find out her weight, find a pulse, keep her safe, the seizing continues as if she were possessed.
Pulsox rises, seizing continues, can’t get an IV, family hysterical, firefighters busy now, doing their job, Tylenol suppository administered, temp of 104, need a driver, call the hospital, tell them we’re coming in with an eighteen-month-old, possible febrile seizure, ETA one minute.
Give the crowd that has gathered a thumbs-up, look calm, reassuring I hope, close the door and take the mother’s hand, seat her next to the stretcher, let her know it will be okay, seizing slows down, the baby relaxes a little, the truck rolls, calm now, all we can do is done.
Trauma room ready, medical team takes over, struggle for a while with the IV but eventually get one, Broselow tape extended, dosages and medication ordered, bagging continues.
We clean and restock the truck, another child is having a seizure at school, have to go. Twenty minutes, we’re back, no seizure, just a kid who took a ball to the face, iced him down, brought him in and checked on the baby who wasn’t breathing, she’s breathing on her own now, fever down, still bluish but okay, mother cries and hugs me.
Yeah, it’s a good day.
Brittany
I’m dog tired and look it. I can feel the bags under my eyes dragging my face to the pavement. People pass, I barely look at them, just enough to avoid contact. I’m isolated, lost in my thoughts, just trying to make it home.
A pizza I ordered waits for me at Pizza Pier. I can see the storefront in the distance, a few hundred feet away. I walk past the sushi restaurant that shares the same block, peek in the window as I pass, and notice a beautiful young girl sitting at one of the tables that line the outside windows. It’s just a glance, a fraction of a second, but I feel a little better.
I’m waiting for my pizza. Marlin, the guy behind the counter, is busy with somebody else. I wait, and slouch a little, the hours having finally caught up with me. Thirty-four hours since my last encounter with unconsciousness. It’s different being a civilian in Providence, the uniform gone, the radio on somebody else’s belt and the crushing weight of being on duty lifted, for now.
“Michael.” (It’s okay she calls me Michael, I met her when she was four.)
I turn and there is the beautiful young girl standing next to me. I’m filled with such ridiculous happiness I can’t believe how good I feel.
“You look tired,” she says, and gives me a hug.
“Just a little.”
We talk a little, hope to get together this weekend. I want to join her and her friend but I just don’t have the gas, and it would be a little tacky to bring a pizza into a sushi place, I think. I pay for the pizza and we walk out together. We say good-bye, and she leaves me, to join her friend back at the table by the window. I look in again as I walk past, smile and wave to them.
I don’t feel so alone when I get back to my car, turn the key, and head away from the city toward home. I’m not as tired, either. I feel good. Great actually, and savor every second of happiness that an unexpected encounter with my daughter has given to me.
Afterword
Who am I to be witness to such human tragedy, triumph, and tedium? Why has my journey led me to other people’s emergencies? Why do I love it so?
I honestly do not know. I have been present at the end of a person’s struggle for life, watched as their final breath left their body and all I could do to keep it going was not enough; been there at the beginning, holding a newborn whose first breath came in the back of an ambulance in the middle of the night; and in the middle, when the weight of despair and disillusionment became too much, and the muzzle of a gun ended up in the mouth, sweaty finger on the trigger, body still warm, heart no longer beating.
It is a very private world that I am invited into day after day and night after night. People’s worst moments are shared with me, and they look to me for salvation, or at least a way to get them there. I do what I can, help them breathe, stop their bleeding, stop their seizing, and make them feel better. Or at least try.
Thank you for reading. And if you ever needed me, thank you for the opportunity.
___
To read Chapters 1-15 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.
