Putting Their Lives on the Line

I was at home enjoying some family time when it happened. But just hours after the horrendous incident in north-west London that left four police officers with serious injuries after being stabbed, I was back on duty, and this time, not a million miles away from the scene.

At a totally unrelated call, an RTC, the police had to block the road for a few minutes so that we could treat our patient safely. A driver caught up in the traffic approached one of the officers, stood toe-to-toe, and through gritted teeth and a with a horrible snarl commented: "It's no wonder you lot get stabbed."

I'm not sure I would have been as restrained as this officer was.

The police have to put up with a lot more abuse than we do, and take greater risks too. If there's a call that sounds a little suspect, we'll ask for police attendance and hide around the corner until we know it's safe. Yesterday's incident proves once again how big that risk often is. I have a great deal of respect and admiration for the police, what they do, and what they sometimes have to put up with, especially as they've saved me from a serious pounding on numerous occasions.

I hope and pray that those injured make a full and speedy recovery, both of body and soul. They deserve it.

And as far as the idiot driver who had been inconvenienced for a few minutes, well, I can't really tell you what I hope and pray for him. But I'm sure you can well imagine.

Nurse In Charge

The nurse in charge sees us walking Martha into the department. 

"Stop right there!" She shouts. "She's not coming in here unless she's been searched!" 

Back at Martha's house, we had spent an hour negotiating with her, at first through a closed door, and then, finally, face to face after she agreed to let us in. She seemed pleased with her achievements, proudly listing the cocktail of drugs and alcohol that she'd ingested over the previous hour or two. If what she told us was accurate, or even close to it, she would need some serious medical attention, and quickly. 

"Of course she's been searched. The police even stopped her bringing a large kitchen knife with her." 

As we were about to leave, Martha asked if she could go back to the kitchen to get her packet of cigarettes. I waited by the front door as a police officer accompanied her back into the house. Suddenly, he shouted at her to "Put that down!" at which point I saw Martha return a knife to the kitchen drawer. Grinning manically, she put the cigarettes in her hand bag, and we all made our way to the ambulance.

"I don't care. She's not coming in here until she's searched again. Check everything and everywhere. Last time, she'd hidden a knife in her boot." I looked again. She was wearing knee-high boots over a pair of jeans. The two officers who had accompanied us looked at each other, and then at Martha. We all moved into a side room, the eagle-eyed nurse in charge watching every move. 

As she was searched again, Martha started a search of her own. 

"Where's my handbag?" 

I had a quick glance around the room and just outside too. The bag was nowhere to be seen. 

"Must still be in the ambulance. I'll go get it."

The handbag had been in the kitchen, the cigarettes were shoved inside, and Martha had turned her back to us for a second to pick up a lighter too. "No point having ciggies and no fire to light 'em with!" she'd said at the time. "You coppers need to lighten up a little!"


I think that all men struggle to know what to do when asked to hold a lady's handbag. We struggle to look at ease, for fear of looking, too, well, at ease, really. I walked back in to the department, looking and feeling a little uncomfortable, clutching the handbag at the top and letting the handles hang loose by the sides. Stepping back in to the side room, I attempt to hand the bag back to Martha.

"Oh. No. You. Don't... Not. Before. It's searched!" The emphasis of every word, every syllable did the trick, and I gave the bag to the officer. He opened it up, and blue-gloved hands rummaged through the contents. There were dozens of pieces of paper, chocolate wrappers, lipsticks, a packet of cigarettes and lighter. Right at the bottom, hidden by everything that had been thrown on top, was a serrated kitchen knife, with a six inch blade.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm in charge, and Martha isn't."

And to think how close I was to that knife, all the way to hospital...

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." 

The Night After

It was one of those nights. I only saw five patients. 

1) Drunk, fallen asleep in the street. Told me to get lost. Not quite as politely as that, however. Then proceeded to walk straight into a wall.

2) Drunk, fallen over in the street. Told me I need a shave, which I do, and that I speak good English for a Chinaman, which I'm not. Also, I need to go back to China, where I come from, "'cos we don't need no more foreigners in the country." Nice.

3) Drunk, fallen over at home, slightly apologetic. Slightly better natured than the previous two. Things were looking up. But not for long.

4) Drunk, violent and nasty, high on drugs to boot. I got covered in his blood as well as mine as I tried to stop him killing both himself and me, before the police turned up and looked after him. Things were looking grim again. 

5) Drunk, unconscious and very seriously injured after a high speed impact with the road. Definitely grim. Grim for me, as it was pouring with rain, but that's nothing. It's much more grim for him. He's probably going to die, assuming he hasn't already.

I'm back at work in a few hours. The night after the night before. I hope it's a better one. For everyone.

Teddy

The room was on the third floor, not in an apartment block - but a private home. The driveway was the length of many suburban streets, and the private estate on which the house sits could pass for a royal residence. The country park feel only added to its charm, but at the same time left the scene feeling cold.

"He's just in here. I won't come in with you, because he screams each time I step into the room."

The room is also massive. Floor to ceiling mirrored wardrobe doors only added to the size making it seem twice as big. An en-suite bathroom cleverly hidden in the far corner. In there, huddled in a corner with his knees under his chin, sat the terrified figure of an eight year old boy.

"He's been fine up until the last few days, maybe a couple of weeks I guess. Can't work out what's bothering him. He's slowly stopped talking, hardly eats, hardly sleeps, and has started wetting his bed at night. He won't let me help him get dressed, won't let me check his school bag, hates going to school which he used to love doing and he doesn't want me to step into his room! Now he won't even come out of the bathroom!"

"Alright. I'll try to talk to him. What's his name?"

"Andy. Andrew really, that's what we christened him, but nobody calls him that."

I step into the bathroom and sit down on the floor by the door. Andy tries to scrunch himself up into an even smaller ball, pressing his legs to his chest and shutting his eyes as tightly as he could. I notice a small bruise on his forehead, an almost ever-present mark on any young boy's head.

"Hi Andy. My name's Ben. Your mum tells me your not feeling too good, can you tell me what's wrong?"

Without a sound, he turns himself towards the wall, facing away from me. I kept my distance and pondered my next step. Children are not small adults, they're child-sized, fully-grown children. You can't just talk down to them - you need to look them in the eye and speak at their level. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom was starting to get uncomfortable. 

"Andy, is something hurting you?" 

Without looking up he shook his head from side to side. 

"Do you feel sick?"

Same response again. I asked Andy's mother if he had a favourite toy, and without a word she left and returned a moment later with a teddy-bear. 

"Andy, would you prefer to show me what's wrong on the teddy?" 

A shrug of the shoulders was the closest Andy came to cooperating. I handed him the bear and asked him to show me what had happened, but he sat just as still as before. 

"Shall I ask teddy instead?" It felt wrong to be treating an eight-year-old as though he was still a toddler, but it seemed to work. Andy nodded his approval and I addressed teddy instead as he sat hugged tight by his owner. 

"Teddy, does your tummy hurt? Have you bumped your head? Has somebody said something not nice to you?" 

All the questions were met with a tough silence and a shake of the head. 

"Why don't you show me what's happened then? I'll stop guessing, and you can just tell me. Does that sound OK to you?" 

After a few moments, Andy suddenly stood up from under the sink, turned on the tap and stuck teddy's head under the stream of cold water. He then turned the tap off, and started hitting the teddy's head on the sink.

Suddenly, having taken out all his anger, the teddy's arm fell off. 

Andy sank to the floor, curled himself back up in a ball and sobbed uncontrollably. I turned round to see his mother in the same state, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, all the answers she'd been seeking suddenly hitting her like a juggernaut.

"Andy, I think you and teddy need to speak to someone like a doctor. Mum can come too. I can put a bandage on teddy's arm for now if you like. Will that be alright with you?

Andy looked at teddy who turned his head to look back. They both nodded their approval. 

Central Locking

Before the old ambulances could be completely replaced, we were treated to a smattering of new vehicles. Shiny yellow, with a trendy battenberg design all the way round, and as an extra confusion, diesel engines rather than the lawn-mower type petrol ones. Many a medic would be caught out in the first few months by feeding the engines with the wrong fuel.

They were hardly loved, those old LDV's. Nothing more than vans that had been given blue flashing lights for the roof and the front grill. Meat wagons. Loud, growling engines that would wake an entire street at three in the morning, but which you had no choice sometimes but to leave running, just to make sure that you still had some battery power by the time the patient had been recovered from the scene and placed on board. The three battery lights on the front would give the cab a disco feeling as they would all start off a tired red, change through slumbering amber and on their way to eager green, each individually, each moving backwards and forwards through the sequences depending on what the driver tried to get out of the engine.

At least the temperature control was reliable. The heating would completely fail in the winter, and work whether you liked it or not on the hottest days of summer. The air-conditioning never worked - there simply wasn't any. Anything that broke, fell apart or went missing was fixed with tape, a staple of any medic's armoury, along with all the medical stuff, and in fact probably higher on the priority list than most of the real kit.

In their final days, as they sensed the day of judgement and their own demise, they mounted a rebellion. They had a knack for trying to poison the occupants by filling the cab with noxious gases that would leave crews needing oxygen therapy themselves. Finally, not so long ago, and at least five years past their best, the last of the old fleet were mothballed.

In the early days of the new Mercedes ambulances there would be fights as to which crew would have the privilege of owning it for the shift. Those on the longest shift thought they were entitled to it, or those who were taking the longest transfer. The lure of the softer suspension, gentler ride, and most importantly the ability to control the internal temperature were cause for more than one disagreement. Yet, as the younger members of staff would argue over the newest, shiniest ambulances, the old guard would reminisce about the wondrous days of sliding doors, scoop-and-run, and were often mocked about their memories of the horse-and-cart. Finally, after several weeks of watching others enjoy the pleasures of the new arrival, it was my turn, and as I tried to climb in the passenger side door, I discovered one more novelty that the old trucks lacked - central locking.

Dean took the keys and control of the vehicle for the day, I never even got a look-in, not that I minded particularly. Even from the earliest days in this job I've preferred to attend rather than drive. Dean, however, was like a kid in a sweet shop who'd been given free run of the shelves, and loved every minute of finally driving a vehicle that responded as an emergency ambulance should. After a few routine calls, we were tasked to a call given as a man with a serious laceration to his arm caused by broken glass.

Arriving at the call a few minutes later, we took out the normal bags, as well as an extra bag of bandages. A trail of blood stretched across the pavement by where we'd parked, down the paved driveway and into the house that was about thirty metres away. Dean locked the ambulance. We started to walk towards the house and as we opened the porch door, a figure started to run towards us and stopped us in our tracks. As he came nearer, we saw that he wasn't alone, but carrying what looked to be a knife behind his back. We could just see the handle and a glint of metal, but that was enough. 

We stepped back out, backpedalling at speed, and Dean had the presence of mind to slide the porch door shut in a hurry. Still carrying all our kit, we ran back to the ambulance, and tried to climb back in, only to find that the doors, for the first time ever, were locked. Our "patient" had almost caught up with us, and now all I saw was the knife, which turned out to be a samurai sword being waved menacingly above his head and coming ever closer. I dropped the bags.

"Open the doors!" I screamed to Dean. 

"I can't! The bloody things won't open!"

"IT'S THE CENTRAL LOCKING!!! USE THE KEY!!!" 

Dean fumbled in his pocket for the unfamiliar key, whilst we both ran round and round the ambulance trying to avoid being sliced in half. Dean yelled to a neighbour to call the police, as this was before the days when we had personal radios, and our only means of communication were, like our safe haven, locked inside the ambulance. Eventually there was a standoff, where we stood at 180 degrees to each other - us on one side - and a sword wielding maniac on the other, but all three of us standing by doors. If we unlocked the ambulance, he could get inside just as quickly as we could. We worked out a plan where we could hold him away from an access for just long enough to unlock the doors, climb inside and re-lock the ambulance before he'd climb in. Another couple of circuits of the ambulance and we'd finally positioned ourselves as per the plan, and miraculously managed to pull it off. 

"Control, this is Z321, we need urgent police assistance!"

"Z321, received. Can you tell us what's happening?" 

As I tried to catch my breath, I told them in half sentences what had happened and they promised to arrange for the police to attend. Our sword-swinging friend had finally realised he couldn't get in, and instead took to trying to smash the windscreen, which thankfully held fast. Any interested bystanders had quickly seen sense and fled back into the safety of their own homes, and as he turned away to pick up one of our discarded pieces of kit, we had just enough time for Dean to beat a hasty retreat, far enough to be safe, but close enough to still see the scene. Ninety seconds later, the first of the police units arrived, closely followed by several more. 

We watched from afar as our patient was quickly bundled to the ground by half a dozen officers, the sword wrenched from his grip, and he was placed in the back of a police car. Not without a struggle, but it wasn't a very long one. Slowly, Dean turned the ambulance round and we headed back to the scene, safe in the knowledge that neither assailant nor weapon were now of any threat. Stopping alongside one of the officers, I wound down the window and briefly explained again what had happened. 

"We'll need a full statement," said the officer, "we can do it here or back at the nick." 

"Might as well do it here. At least we've got air-conditioning." I climbed through the door between the cab and the back of the ambulance as the officer tried to open the back door from the outside. 

"Can't open it!" he said, "Must be jammed!" 

"Oh. Yeah. That'll be the central locking..." 

Dean pressed the button that magically unlocked every door to the ambulance. 

"Must remember not to lock these in future, especially on samurai-sword calls. Too bloody dangerous!" 

The Vow

With her head in her hands, Lea sat on the torn green seat at the back of the ambulance. Perched on the edge in total silence, trapped in a world of fear, as the shuddering of her shoulders told a tale all of their own. I remembered meeting her once before when she told me of her dream to move from her job as a health care assistant to that of a paramedic. 

I was packing my kit back into the car as the ambulance took off in a hurry with a badly injured cyclist. The driver of a car parked at the side of the road didn't look before opening their door, and the cyclist had no way of avoiding the collision. Riding downhill at high speed meant that his injuries were severe, and a doctor was called to scene to help stabilise him for travel. The doctor traveled with the crew, leaving me to tidy up the carnage.

Lea was the first one on the scene, having seen the accident from her bedroom window, and when I arrived I was glad of her help. Initially I left her holding the patient's head, and then, when pairs of more experienced hands arrived, she kept running backwards and forwards getting whatever piece of equipment we needed. 

When the action was over, she came over to help me pack up. 

"I'd love to be out on the road, on the front line, but they told me I needed a driver's license." 

"Very difficult to drive an ambulance without one!" 

"Well I hoped they'd just let me do all the other stuff, you know, the real fun bits!"

"Oh, you mean like talking to people who can't cope with a bit of a sniffle, you mean?" 

A look of mock horror crossed Lea's face. 

"You mean it's not all trauma like this?" 

"'Fraid not. It's one percent trauma and ninety-nine percent routine. Sorry to shatter your illusions!" 

"You haven't really. I know it's not always like this. I did my homework, you know! Now all I've got to do is learn to drive."

"For what it's worth, I love this job, even with the sniffly people. You come to work, ignore the nonsense, ignore the politics, and try to make a difference in just one person's life. It's that one call in a hundred that makes it all worthwhile. And it doesn't have to be a trauma job, either. It could be just talking to a ninety-year-old war veteran." 

I cleared what was left on the road of the mess that we'd created, and got ready to leave the scene. Lea approached the car window again. 

"Thanks for letting me help. Now I'm even more determined to get in!"

"Well, you were more than helpful. Good luck. I really hope you make it!" 

Our second meeting was a year, maybe even two years later. Now she sat, a broken woman in desperate need of help, and not knowing where to look. There were bruises down both her arms, a palm print on her cheek and a deep cut to her forehead. Tiny shards of broken glass reflected the light as they sat on her face and clothes. A police woman sat next to her, held her hand and told her that she could talk whenever she was ready. Two other officers had removed her partner from the house. He put up no fight, showing his cowardice for all it was. 

"Lea," my voice as gentle as possible, "we'll need to take you to hospital. You'll probably need some stitches, but you'll be fine. Is that OK with you?"

She nodded. 

"They've got him, so he can't do you any harm, and this police lady will be with you the whole time, alright?"

Again, with the tiniest movement, she nodded her approval, and we set off for hospital in an impenetrable silence. As we arrived, she finally spoke.

"You know what this was all about?" Now she was practically shouting. "He didn't want me to go to out to work. He didn't want me to ever leave the house. All he'd do is scream 'What do you want to go to work for?' or 'What do you think you can do that's any good?'"

She dried her eyes, summoning up the courage to speak out.

"I told him I wanted to do what you guys do. I told him that I was learning to drive so that I could work on an ambulance. Do you know what he did? He slapped me round the face and threw the glass at me! Told me that now I've got a reason to be on an ambulance." She stopped and took a deep breath.

"I'll show him!" She said. "I'll prove to him that I don't need him, or his approval. And while he sits in jail, I swear I'll be the best damned paramedic there is!"

From what I've heard, she's kept her vow.