I tried, didn't I?

A normal residential road, cars parked either side, and a 20 miles per hour speed limit enforced by signs and re-enforced by speed bumps.

I look right and left, see nothing, but hear the screaming engine and decide to wait. The two delicately balanced trays, full of sandwiches, aren't worth risking for the few extra seconds I decide to wait as the car appears round a corner, probably doubling the speed allowed on this road.

No more than ten paces to my right is one of the speed bumps, and the engine is slowed through the gears so that the lowered suspension has every chance of making it over without the raised hump of traffic-calming tarmac causing any damage to the precious undercarriage.

In those seconds, they see me, and the sandwiches.

And as they arrive beside me, they stop.

"Any of those for us?" asks the passenger, a giggly, over made-up and unrestrained girl of probably 18.

"Only if you and your friend buckle up and promise not to drive around like idiots", I reply.

They look at each other, and laugh.

"Nah", says the passenger, "we're not really that hungry!"

Their raucous laughter is soon drowned out by their tyres, as they screech their way down the road.

Bernie

The sky is once again dark and menacing. The threat of more of the snow that plagued us a few weeks back is on the not-too-distant horizon. There have even been a few flurries, just to whet our appetite this morning. Not really sure I'm all that hungry. During the last batch of snow more cars crashed, more roads were closed, more people fell and broke limbs, fewer trains and buses ran, and more people couldn't (or possibly wouldn't) get to work. We don't seem to cope with it very well, and now there's more on the way.

Someone should probably warn Bernie.

He's a nice old chap is Bernie, although when I first met him it was difficult to reach that conclusion, given the fact that he was lying in the snow in a heap, not responding. Another, younger man stood over him, barking orders at Bernie to get up. He even tried to physically lift Bernie from the wintry pavement, but his seemingly lifeless body wouldn't cooperate. It was at that point that I was driving past, on the way back from a separate call. I called in a "Running Call" to the control room, and asked for an ambulance to attend for an unconscious patient.

Bernie was unconscious but at least he was breathing regularly. It was one of those shifts where I had an observer with me (told you that they do sometimes get to see things happen), and I sent her back to the car for a couple of blankets. Always handy to have an extra pair of hands, as well as an extra blanket. One to put under Bernie to try keep him off the frozen ground, if only a little, and one to go on top of him. I asked the other man if he was a relative or if he knew what happened.

"Never met him before. I just bumped into him and he fell down. Now he won't get up!" He seemed unaware of the fact that he was shouting, much like someone conversing whilst listening to music plugged into their ears.

Bumped into him? Staggered was probably nearer the truth. The smell of several pints of alcohol on his breath would probably have made him fail a breath test whilst stood 30 feet from the machine. He instantly became aggressive and I had some difficulty moving him away from the patient and us, so as well as an ambulance, I asked for police back-up. Just in case.

Turning our attentions back to Bernie, we'd put him on oxygen, tried to get some baseline observations and elicit some sort of response from him. None was forthcoming. The roads were as treacherous as the pavements, and the call rates had increased exponentially, so we knew that back-up in the form of either the ambulance or the police may take a while. Just as I'd finally managed to get one arm out of a sleeve to check Bernie's blood pressure, he sat bolt upright, the look of bewilderment on his face complemented by the confusion in his voice.

"Where am I?"

"You're on the floor, sir, in NearBy St. Can you tell me your name?"

"Bernie".

"Hi Bernie. I'm Ben, and this is Shelly. We're from the Ambulance Service. What are you doing out and about at this time of night?"

"I've just been out for lunch. Now I'm going to meet Jerry. Where am I?"

And there, in one discombobulated sentence, the repeated question, the lack of time awareness, was our main problem. Was Bernie confused before the fall? Did he know where he was going when he left his house? Did he ever get there? Was it the fall itself that left its mark in the form of possible concussion? More importantly, did he fall, or did he collapse?

We tried to keep him still, but he kept threatening to get up off the floor and walk off. We compromised by Bernie agreeing to move as far as the back of the FRU. At least it was light, dry and warm in there.

The ambulance turned up, closely followed by the police, each to deal with one customer. We handed the once unconscious Bernie to a slightly disbelieving ambulance crew, and the once aggressive drunk, now sitting on the floor shouting at nobody in particular, over to the equally disbelieving police. I apologised to both for the call not being exactly as it had originally been described.

Bernie was moved into the ambulance, where the observations were repeated, the questions reinforced, but the confusion remained. The police had no reports of any missing person, Bernie couldn't remember where he lived, although he was adamant that he was going home, and the crew spent a while convincing him that hospital was the best option. At least for now.

At least until he doesn't have to wander the snow-covered streets in the middle of the night.

At least until we can find out more than the fact that his name is Bernie.

Who's Law?

In the back of my car is a bag. Only a small bag, with only a few bits in it, just enough for me to provide some sort of basic assistance if I ever come across something. I have a bad habit of doing so. I know if it's there that there's a much better chance that I won't need it.

In the back of my wife's car is no such bag. On the rare occasions that we swap cars (hers has more seats and therefore easier to transport more small, noisy people), I swap the bag over too. I like knowing that it's there. It's my comfort blanket. Today was one of those rare swap occasions. Except that I forgot the bag. About 3 miles from home, car full of large and small people, all noisy, I remembered it. Not being the swearing type (apart from the fact that my kids were in the car so I couldn't even if I wanted to), I muttered lots of gibberish, cursed my stupidity, and repeatedly told myself that I bet I come across something.

Two minutes further up the road there's a traffic jam. I crawl around the blind bend to see the first signs of glass and debris all over the road. Then the police cars. Then the mangled Ford with a large Range Rover shaped dent in it. I KNEW IT! I JUST KNEW IT! The one time I forget the bag, and I'm gonna need it! As there's nowhere safe to stop just yet, I keep crawling with the traffic. I get a little closer, and just there, hidden behind the tall hedge, hidden just well enough and just long enough to scare me, is the ambulance. No need for the bag. Lucky. I get to my destination and breathe a sigh of relief that despite my stupidity, my little bag still wasn't required.

On the way home, very near the scene of the RTA, is a car stopped by the side of the road. In front of it is a bicycle lying at a strange angle, and two women standing comforting each other. Neither is injured, so no need for the bag again. Lucky again.

But next time I swap cars, I'll make sure I remember it, because you-know-who's law only rarely takes a break...

Busman's Holiday

Finally, I'm on holiday.

Finally, no night shifts.

Finally, no knocks on the front door asking for help.

And still, I'm not safe.

There I am, walking around the city centre in our holiday destination, when I spot a very familiar looking gathering of general public all looking at the pavement. I get a little closer and see a lady on the ground, with blood around her. Thankfully conscious after falling in the street, but very tearful. She's uncomplicatedly young, about 30 years old, but complicatedly pregnant, about 38 weeks... She has a large hole in her chin which had caused the blood loss, and has abdo pain which could be anything from simple post-fall pain to the baby being in distress, which was obviously her main concern.

There were two police officers on scene and they had called an ambulance. Whilst I undertook an initial assessment of the lady, someone else pushed their way through the crowd. "I'm a paramedic, Holidaysville Ambulance Service".

"Nice to meet you", I replied, "I'm also a paramedic. Although my ambulance is 3,500 km from here". As I speak the local language, he really wasn't sure whether to believe me or not, but accepted my help anyway.

We sent the young lady to get her chin stuck back together and make sure that her baby was ok too.

Think I'm gonna need some kind of ASBO to keep me away from Running Calls...

And now, back to my holiday!

School's (knocked) out!

It was a grey and overcast day, which was normal.

It was cold, which was normal.

I was waiting to pick up my kids from school, which was normal.

I was asked by one of the mums if I was the paramedic, which was, surprisingly, normal.

She told me that the school had just called an ambulance. This was definitely not normal.

After initially being told by the school admin staff to mind my own business, they did eventually let me in to go and help. Apparently a 10-year-old child was knocked out in the playground. Having been called more times than I can remember to schools to an unconscious child who wasn't, I was a little skeptical. However, as I got to the playground, I saw that this time was different. The child was unconscious. She'd been knocked over by another child as they ran in different directions, and a teacher who saw it happen described how her head hit the floor and nothing happened after that. Slowly she started coming round, and seemed to be in a post-fit daze. She'd been incontinent, which often happens when someone fits. A fit after a head injury can sometimes indicate a serious injury, so I was a little concerned.

With very little kit I felt kind of useless, but luckily I didn't really have to do very much other than to keep her airway clear, keep her calm, and keep her still. I once again had in my mind "So this is what it feels like to wait for an ambulance"... The crew turned up a few minutes later, and I was pleased to see that I knew one of them. It made the hand-over easier, as I didn't have to explain who I was and what I was doing there. They immobilised the patient, and by the time they were ready to go, her mum had turned up as well, so she went with them too. Job done, I went back to picking up my own children.

Kids. Who'd have 'em???

I really shouldn't be let out in public any more. I just seem to attract trouble. Or maybe it just attracts me...

Sixth Sense

On our local high street there are several pubs, one of which used to have a somewhat unfavourable reputation, but has totally cleaned up its act and is now even family-friendly.

It's about 9 in the evening and I'm just driving home (stupidly in uniform, as I've just come off shift) past said pub, when out the corner of my eye I see a figure lying on the pavement, just between a bus shelter and the pub. My instant, work-experienced reaction is one of "another binge-drinking session gone wrong". So I drive on.

However, something tells me to turn round and go back again. Some sixth sense kicks in and my professional instincts take over. I get to a mini-roundabout and do an about-face, park in the bus-stop, put on my hazards, and grab my little bag-of-tricks out the boot. There's not a great deal in it, but just enough to be a helpful first-aider.

I crouch down to find a 20ish year old young lady, the smell of alcohol on her breath almost overwhelming, but something isn't right. I've seen enough drunk people to last me a lifetime, and this lady wasn't just drunk. The pub's landlady comes over to me and says that she's already called an ambulance, and that they were on their way. I thanked her, and she left to go back to her customers.

The patient didn't respond to any voice, and only made a vague noise when I applied some pain to her nail-bed, a tried and tested method to elicit a response from those who are pseudo-unconscious. Her GCS was probably about 8/15. In the distance I can hear a siren. I can also hear the paramedics muttering to themselves the same thing I was thinking when I first drove past. The siren that I could hear turned out to be an FRU who I think was pleased to see that there was another green person there. As she got out of the car, I gave a brief handover of the patient's observations, told her about my sixth sense which she instantly accepted.

It was at that exact point that the patient stopped breathing. She still had a pulse, but was in respiratory arrest. Although I had never met this paramedic before, there was an instant co-operation and we worked together as if we'd been crew mates for years. We were able to resuscitate this patient to the stage that when the ambulance turned up she was regaining some level of consciousness and by the time she was actually in the ambulance she was even telling us her name.

Just before I left the crew, Ellen, the FRU lady, turned to me and with a wry smile thanked me and said "Next time you have another Sixth Sense moment, please check that I'm off duty..."