Gossip Monger

It's taken a while to get used to the new radios, not that they've been a bad thing, especially for someone who spends most of their time working solo. Prior to their arrival, the only communication we had with the control room was if we were still in the ambulance or the car. Failing that, we could use our own mobiles or even the patient's phone, sometimes dialling 999 if it was particularly urgent. Summoning police in a hurry often involved one of the crew running back to the ambulance and calling for help whilst leaving their partner facing whatever the danger was. A solo worker was even more isolated. 

There was, however, certainly as the people on the front line, one advantage to the old radios: they were an open channel. As long as you were on that channel, you could hear everything that was going on with all the ambulances in your sector, and therefore it was often the people you knew best. If you heard them calling for extra help, for whatever reason, you could call up and offer that help. Now the channels are blocked. Communications are direct between a radio and the control room. 

The airwaves are silent most of the time, except for the control room sending out "General Broadcasts" advising of calls waiting for ambulances, and other general information. Even these seem to have reduced in number now that they can send messages down the MDTs (mobile data terminals, or, for ease of use, the computer screens on which we get our calls). Communicating to the whole sector is still possible, but is very much frowned upon, except in one instance. If you need help in a hurry. 

On top of the new handsets is an orange button. Press and hold that for a second or two, and everyone else on your channel hears you. No need to push any buttons to talk, your mic is open and hands-free. Everyone else's radios flash bright, and make an alarming sound. In the control room the radio-op has a similar sequence of events and alarm bells sounding. Nine times out of ten, the next words you hear are a crew discussing how upset they are at yet another hospital banning them from the coffee and tea, or some slanderous gossip or rumour, or even someone dealing calmly with a patient. Nine times out of ten, the button has been accidentally pressed, control checks in to make sure that all is well, and nine times out of ten the crew will apologise and spend the next few minutes panicking about what may or may not have been said as the world and his wife were listening. 

A while back, I hit the orange button. On purpose. 

The next words everyone heard were probably a garbled stream, and would have looked good on an old-fashioned Batman TV show: 

"Get off!" "Step back!" THUD "Ow!" SMASH 

"Red Base, I need police on the hurry up!"

"Z751, are you OK?" Control actually sounded a little worried.

"NO!" BANG "I need police! NOW!" "OY, GET OFF!"

I think the magic of the hands-free open-mic only lasts for ten or twenty seconds, so that's probably all they heard. Luckily, probably. Profanities are not welcome across the ether. 

At that point, a crew turned up, not realising what they were about to walk in to, especially as they're on a different radio channel and hadn't heard my calls for help. An innocuous sounding call with little prior information other than the fact that the patient was crying doesn't normally call for any concern. 

The next few seconds, maybe minutes, are a bit hazy. One of the crew waded in trying to help get the patient away from me as the other called again for back-up. Between us we tried to get him down on the floor, both for our safety and his. We failed miserably. In the background I could make out the sounds of several sirens, and a few seconds later half a dozen police officers ran in. 

"Someone call the cavalry?" 

"Er, yes! He's all yours!"

In a blur of arms, legs, handcuffs, swear words, brute force and brilliant technique, the patient, high on illicit drugs and alcohol, was finally subdued and taken into custody. It took all six officers to deal with him, so my pride wasn't too dented by the fact that I couldn't do it on my own. Still, malicious thoughts (often spoken in jest) of using an oxygen cylinder as a weapon came all-too-close to being a reality. 

I drove back to station, covered in my blood and his, uniform ripped and with a sore shoulder and back. On the way back I phoned control to thank them for their prompt assistance and told them that during the events I'd made a new discovery. 

"What's that then?"

"I now know that the orange button isn't just for accidentally spreading gossip!" 

"Well, you say that, but now everyone's talking about you!"

"Oh." 

Sleeping Partner

The bed is covered in blood. The floor is too. Apparently there's loads of the stuff in the bathroom as well.

"We left it there, unflushed, just in case you wanted to see it!" I'd seen enough already, without having to go snooping in someone else's toilet bowl.

Another one of my return customers, Greg and I had met on a previous similar occasion, and probably about a year had passed since then. Maybe eighteen months. The alcohol he'd taken on board over years, slowly destroying him from the inside out. He looked pale, gray even, and was sweating as though he'd just run a marathon in the Sahara Desert.

"I'm gonna die, aren't I?" Greg asks. The fear in his voice is only too real. "Not in my ambulance you're not". I think it, but don't say it. Patients who genuinely fear it, and voice that fear, often know.

"No, Greg, you're not. We're going to get you up to the hospital as quick as we can, and get you sorted."

"We? You're the only one here!" And he's right.

"Another ambulance is on its way. They'll be here soon enough!" I hope my prediction is a self-fulfilling one. I need them in a hurry. In the meantime, I start getting some fluids into him. It's another case of salty water replacing blood, but at least it gives the heart something to work with until we can get him the real stuff he needs. The blood that's left inside him will have to work extra hard to pump round the oxygen that's free-flowing into him through the mask on his face. At least he's stopped vomiting for a while. I don't know how much he's lost internally, but just from what I can see in front of me, he must have expelled a third of his blood volume. By the time the crew arrive, he's had about a litre of fluid back in through a thankfully large vein in his arm.

I hear them downstairs and yell: "Bring a chair up with you!" Often crews backing up first responders will come in to see what's going on, and only then decide what extra things they'll need. Usually it works just fine. Luckily the crew recognised my voice, and the urgency in it, to know not to ask questions.

"Last time I needed surgery. And they gave me nearly twenty bags of blood apparently. But I don't really remember anything. They told me if it happened again, if I didn't stop drinking, that I'd probably kill myself."

He started sobbing.

"I have, haven't I? I've killed myself! And now, two days before my son's due to be born!"

A neighbour was with Greg the whole time we were there, but no-one pregnant.

"Where is she Greg? Where's your partner?" I thought that a friendly face might help calm him a little.

"She went up to her mum's last night, up north somewhere. I've got her mobile number, but I don't want to call her now. It's too early!" Barely in control of his own body, he was still worried enough about his partner and unborn child. "I didn't mean to drink so much. I shouldn't have had anything at all. It's the first time in months!"

We moved Greg to the ambulance, a creaking flight of wooden steps leading down to the front door and out into the cold night's air. Dawn was breaking across the horizon, and the traffic was just starting to build as normal people started another working day. Leaving my car on scene, I travelled with Greg, an extra pair of hands always helpful with a particularly ill patient. The siren blared its way, ensuring the cars cleared the way for us to make a smooth but rapid journey to hospital.

"I don't want to hear the sirens! I don't..." He wept again. "I just want to hear my baby cry..."

We arrived at the hospital, a team ready to meet us was standing round the designated bed.

A doctor listened to the handover and asked for some blood almost immediately, as a student nurse hooked him up to the machines. A nurse thanked his luck for finding a decent vein and put a second needle in the arm I'd left alone.

Greg's tears flowed, and he was barely able to catch his breath between sobs. "Just help me see my baby! Just once! Please... Please..."
Another nurse left the cubicle without a word, and hurried to wake his partner.

Prayers Answered?

Conversations with patients and their relatives often turn to the weird and wonderful whilst waiting, ever longer, on scene for an ambulance. Ambulances are scarce at the best of times, but especially at this time of the year.

There's an absurd fascination in this wintry weather with attempting to stand on that frozen stuff on the ground and see if it really is slippery, and really does make you fall over, and really makes you break your arm/leg/hip. Let me help. It is. It does. It will do. So unless you absolutely have to - don't. Enjoy the view from the window, hot chocolate in hand, heating all around. Don't get me wrong - I fully understand, appreciate and endorse the need for building snowmen. And snowwomen, if you prefer. But stay off the ice! (The publication of this blog has been delayed due to MrsInsomniac doing precisely the opposite...)

Anyway - I digress.

Marik was one of those I'd term the "Worried well". He bought himself a blood pressure machine, just in case. And he had an hour-long head-ache, so he checked his blood pressure, which was fine.

Which worried him. So he took it again. And it went up.

Which worried him more.

So he took it again, and up it went, and he panicked. A little.

He spoke to the doctor on the phone who told him he was having a CVA, or stroke. Thanks Doc.

Well, that was it. Full scale panic. The FRU (aka clock-stopper), was sent, with the promise of an ambulance as soon as one became available. It may be a while. A history was taken, observations checked and found to be in perfect order, advice was given, and a request to be taken to hospital made. For various reasons I was unhappy about taking him in the FRU, so we'd have to wait for the snow/ice/leaves-on-the-track delayed ambulance to arrive and convey.

Whilst passing the time of day, I have a good look around the room and check out all the books. I have a bad habit of doing that, as it gives me a very good clue as to who the people in front of me are. I find that you can learn a lot from books, and not necessarily just by reading them. I see books on all the sciences, especially physics and maths. Books about stars, planets, discovery, the world, and its place in the universe.

Then I see bibles. Dozens of them, in a dozen languages. Shelves of them, 3 books deep, each shelf holding one of the languages. I'm a little surprised. Not at the fact that there is a bible in the house, but at the sheer volume and variety. I'm forced into a corner. I try not to show my curiosity/nosiness or whatever you want to call it, but on the other hand, I have to ask.

"Do you sell bibles for a living?"

"Well, in a way, I guess you could call it that."

"OK. What do you mean?"

"As you ask, I have to be honest. I don't like to tell everyone, but I'm a Prophet of the Lord!"

Now, how do you respond to such a statement? I want to say "A What???" or "Are you sure???" or, probably less appropriately, I want to shout "What the hell are you on about???" I didn't say any of them. I was much more profound.

"Oh", I said. For good measure, I think I even added an "I see".

Then he went on to talk about how he uses his knowledge of science to help him spread the word of God, help him understand, help him make the world a better place. He told me how he received his information, how he knew what to teach. He told me about the messages he received. They were the equivalent of the Twitter Direct Messages. @Prophet. @God. Cool. Wish I had that sort of inside information.

I also wondered if he'd been sent to help out an old friend of mine. I wonder if his prayers have finally been answered.

Used and Abused

With apologies to, well, everyone. You really probably shouldn't read this either on a full stomach or an empty one. It's 3 in the morning, and I can't sleep. Again. And I can't use work as my excuse this time. The news is showing endless loops of drunks in public places, private parties, and excruciatingly humiliating themselves. It's led to some sort of worrying muse. However - I have to say, hats off to the boys and girls who man (sorry) the Booze Bus. I don't know how you do it.

*****

The Season has begun.
You know what must be done.
You must go to the office do,
And start off at a run.

To drink all that you can,
Will show you're such a man.
It's just the greatest thing to do,
From pint, to glass to can.

You'll vomit like a tap,
Wake up and feel crap.
Won't remember a single thing,
Was it worth it, dear chap?

No connection - brain to feet,
You'll fall down in the street.
They'll call for you an ambulance,
That has someone else to treat.

You really couldn't care,
Whether it should be there.
The ambulance is there for you,
So your vomit you can share.

We'll cart you in the back,
You'll shower us with flack.
Both words and stomach contents,
A hurtling attack.

You'll wake in A&E,
Desperate for a wee,
And do it in the cubicle,
"The bog's too far for me!"

That's how you'll end your night,
In bright fluorescent light.
A black mark on your record,
And your friends nowhere in sight.

And the crew that you abused?
They're feeling somewhat bruised.
We really have much better things,
For which we should be used.

Booze Bus

I'm still undecided whether the Booze Bus is a good idea or not. On the one hand, should we really be pandering to the needs of a self-harming group of individuals, who have no-one else to blame but themselves? Do we really need to cater for those with self-inflicted "My drink's been spiked", "I usually handle more than this" and other such ailments? Is it really a problem that society as a whole should be paying for?

On the other hand, I guess the Booze Bus does save sending an A&E ambulance to every irresponsible drunk...

One thing's for sure. I do think that anyone who does (ab)use the Ambulance Service in this way, should get charged at least double the cab fare to the nearest A&E department...

Drunk again?

On top of having a very busy shift with proper poorly people (again... my reputation as a jinx continued, more of that at a later date), I also had a very religious experience at work last night. We were called to an alcoholic to start off the shift who kept stressing to me the importance of believing in God. It was God who had got him where he is today. Lying in the street after collapsing.

I was a little confused to say the least... Do you mean that it's God who's made your liver and kidneys start to fail? Or make you drink at least 10 cans of cider a day? Or that gave you all those self-harm marks on your arms, most of which have required stitches or worse? It would seem, however, that I even had a lesson to learn from Mr Drunk.

It was God who had let him choose his path, and he had chosen badly. Or so he said. Now he wants God's help to lead him back to the rehab clinic so he can start again. I did advise that his GP could probably help him out by being God's messenger in referring him to rehab. But this gentleman was having none of it. He was waiting for God to deliver His message to him personally...

I await to see whether this GFA* remains on our regular callers' list or whether he receives his calling...

*God Fearing Alcoholic