Code STEMI

At eighteen, I was the sort of squeamish person that everyone laughed at, as I'd feel faint at the mere smell of alcohol gel at the entrance to a hospital of doctor's surgery. The mere thought of visiting someone in hospital would give me a cold shiver down my spine. The threat of a needle would be enough to tip me over the edge into hysteria. Just a few years later, I joined the world of EMS. I guess you could say I got over my squeamishness. Although I still hate anything to do with teeth, dentists or anything in between. Don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are dentists. But only when I meet them outside of a quarter-mile radius of any dental surgery. 

The London Ambulance Service was my introduction into a world that I could never imagine, and my chance to discover that being squeamish is much the same as any other fear - the best way to overcome it is to face it head on. 

At first, as an EMT, I performed my duties almost by rote. Unthinking actions, following the script that had been drilled into my head throughout the initial weeks of training. But then, after a short while, as my confidence grew, I wanted to actually treat people, not just patients. I wanted to understand more about what I was doing and why I was doing it. And through this, despite the somewhat morbid attraction that many in the world of EMS have to trauma, I grew to love the heart just as much. I would sit and look at ECGs (replace C with K depending on which part of the world you happen to be in), try to delve into their mysteries and unravel the secrets that they held within the squiggly lines. 

Cardiac patients fascinated me. Within a short time of me joining the LAS, a new system was introduced for patients experiencing a heart attack, or STEMI. These patients would be diagnosed by the ambulance crew as having an acute STEMI and immediately conveyed to a cardiac unit for angiogram and angioplasty if required. Many patients have benefited from this life saving procedure, thanks not only to the skill of the doctors in the hospital, but to the skill of EMS providers in the field. More than once, having delivered a STEMI patient into the hands of the cardiac teams, we would stay to watch the procedure itself and get to see how the squiggly lines translated back and forth into what was happening on the inside. 

London became one of the pioneers in the field, leading the way in training all its staff to analyse ECGs and recognise the immediacy of the STEMI. It was exciting to be a part of something innovative and that was proving a great success. 

Recently, a team of paramedics and film-makers joined up, headed across the Atlantic from the USA to London, and joined crews there to see it all in action and share it with the world. Ted Setla and Tom Bouthillet put together a series of short films, taking in EMS systems around the world, with the London Ambulance Service - "The busiest EMS system in the world" - taking pride of place. 

CodeSTEMI (a hashtag with this name is also used on Twitter) is well worth the watch. In just under half an hour, the viewer is introduced into the world of the ambulance service and invited into the lives of people who have survived a threat that just over a decade ago would have meant  a much higher likelihood of death. It concentrates on the patients, on the crews and on the system that has helped raise the chances of survival of a cardiac arrest from single-figure percentages to somewhere over 30 percent in just a few years. 

The film doesn't sugar-coat reality, but it does show the human side of EMS, from the viewpoints of both patient and provider. And in these days where everything seems to depend on what can be done to bring down costs, whatever the cost, it's refreshing to see how people with a passion can still help to make a difference. 

It's been a year, almost to the day, since my last shift with the LAS. I'm proud to have them on my resumé, and smile when I look back, even as I'm still looking forward. It'll be strange to be the new-boy again when I finally wade through the sea of red-tape that is gradually running out (I hope), but at least this time I'll be able to do it with a decade's worth of experience. 

And I'll have all the inspiration I need by just looking back over my shoulder. 

Plumbing

The first beads of perspiration appear on his forehead as we attach the monitor leads to his limbs and chest.

"I don't think it's a heart attack," he says, more hopeful than certain, "the pain's in my shoulder, not my chest. It can't be a heart attack, can it?"

As the beats begin to dance across the screen, appearing at regular intervals of just over one per second, the picture begins to emerge. A corner of his heart is screaming for blood, for oxygen, as more cardiac muscle dies every second. The strip of paper that spills out the front of the machine, pink paper with tiny red squares all covered in black lines of the ECG, answers his question and leaves no room for niceties.

"You're having a heart attack. It means that one of the blood vessels in your heart is blocked and we need to get you to hospital so that they can unblock it."

"You make it sound like some sort of plumbing job!"

"Well, in a manner of speaking, it is. They'll plumb their way into your heart, remove the blockage and fix your heart."

He has some medication to relieve the pain, some to prevent the blockage from worsening, some to stop him feeling so sick. His blood pressure is a little low for the first part of the journey to hospital, but his pulse remains steady and constant.

"And you're sure this is a heart attack? I thought you die when you have a heart attack?"

"You can blame the media for that. They need to learn the difference between heart attack and cardiac arrest. One is when your heart is sick, the other is when your heart has stopped."

"So my heart hasn't stopped yet?"

"Thankfully not, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The dancing heart beats continue on their way crossing the monitor screen from left to right, looking as though each one is holding hands with a beat either side. Speeding our way down country lanes heading for the hospital, he continues to ask some more questions.

"Is it safe, this angioplasty thing?"

"Of course it's safe. They do hundreds of these every year. You'll even get to stay awake whilst they do it."

"And what if I decide I don't want it?"

"That could be one of the last decisions you ever make." I'm not one for dodging answers to serious questions. 

"Oh."

I look back up at the monitor. Suddenly, one strange-looking beat skipped across, the shape and pace very different from all the others. A messy, irregular beat, it's often the precursor to bad news. Quietly and hidden behind his head, I take the shock pads out of their wrapper and have them ready. Just in case. As the ambulance takes a sharp left turn some seven or eight minutes from hospital, his eyes roll back and the beats on the monitor turn from an organised rhythm into an uncoordinated, mangled mess.

"He's arrested!" I shout through to the front.

"Do you need me to stop?"

"No! Keep going and just get us there in a hurry!"

The pounding on his chest keeps the blood pumping round as much as possible, but it's nothing like it should be. The pads are stuck firmly on his chest and the monitor whines as it charges them ready to deliver a shock. I have one pair of hands where ideally I need two, but the other pair of hands is doing work of equally great importance - getting us to hospital. The orange button lights up, flashing away to tell me that the machine is ready. 

His body jolts up, the useless, erratic beats on the machine register the shock and then proceed to go completely flat, just for a few seconds. More compressions on the chest. Just a few more corners and we'll be there, several pairs of hands will be waiting to help, to take over. 

His body jerks with yet another shock. 

More compressions. 

Suddenly, there's resistance, even a groan as he appears to push my hands away. Not unconscious, but not quite conscious either. Breathing on his own and with heart beats that are once again holding hands. We wheel him off the ambulance and into the lab as he slowly seems to regain his faculties. 

"You're sure this is a heart attack, are you?" Totally unaware of the drama of the last few minutes, he still seems reluctant to accept reality. 

"We're sure." 

One of the lab technicians helps us move him across on to their bed, leaving him surrounded by monitors, machines and staff all dressed in x-ray blocking lead outfits. We move behind the clear, lead-lined screen  as the well-oiled machine of the cardiac team gets to work. One of them introduces himself as the cardiologist and explains once again about the procedure, despite our patient's protestations. 

"It's quite simple," explains the doctor, having tried the softly-softly approach but getting nowhere, "you've already died once. If you wish to do so again, but this time stay that way, then I'll be happy not to operate. However, considering the fact that the ambulance crew have worked hard at getting you here alive, I think it might be worthwhile to try to keep you that way." 

"Yeah," said our patient, "that's basically what he said. Go ahead then. But just one thing." 

"What's that?" 

"I just hope you're as good at plumbing as they say you are." 

White Van

Downtime is a rare commodity on the ambulances these days. Socialising with colleagues is limited to snatched moments in between handing over patients at the hospital and the next call. Rarely is that time more than a few brief minutes. More often than not, the second a crew is ready to go, there's a call already waiting for them. The same is true from shift's start to shift's end. I try to arrive for my shift about half an hour before the official start time. It gives me a chance to get all my equipment ready and catch up on the news, whilst not having the stress of having to go out on call the second the clock ticks over at the start of my shift. 

The evenings are getting cooler, and darkness seems to fall in the middle of the afternoon. Standing out the front of the station, I start to get the car ready for my shift. Checking the stock, changing the oxygen cylinders and making sure that all the lights are working, whilst at the same time catching up with the oncoming night shift crew. One of them is a brand new trainee, in only their second week on the road, the other with only a year's worth of experience, having a new probationer to look after for the first time. 

"You guys make sure you hurry to my rescue tonight, won't you?" I know that at night, sometimes waiting for the ambulance to back me up can take some time. 

"More like you're going to rescue us!"

The chit-chat continues, some along professional lines, some less so. A bit of good, off-the-record banter can work wonders sometimes, giving the time to replay calls that we're unsure of, seeking backup for good decisions, learning from others about things we don't know or understand. With ten minutes to go, we all finish our checks, the crew head inside and I'm only a step behind, hoping for a quick cup of coffee. Just then, a white van pulls up outside the station and the driver steps out.

"Excuse me, I don't feel very well."

He looked pale, and the sweat was dripping off him. He walked up to the car and as he came within touching distance, collapsed to the floor. Practically tasting their coffee, the crew turned round and came straight back outside. Within a few seconds of hitting the floor, our unnamed patient started to come round.

"Stay there a second," I tell him, as he tries to get up. "We'll get you in the ambulance and check you out." A check of his blood pressure confirmed our suspicions - it was so low that it was barely readable and his pulse was much slower than it should be, at less than forty beats a minute. We get the trolley from the back of the ambulance, and lift him gently from the floor,.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Mani."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty." One of the crew, the new probationer, looks shocked. Mani looked probably double the age he claimed to be, but confirmed his date of birth without having to stop and think about it. The maths adds up. He really is as young as he says. As usual, several things need to happen at once. Observations, an ECG, cannulating a vein ready for any drugs he may need. It's always a good indication of the seriousness of an illness when a patient's reaction to the threat of being stabbed in the arm with a large needle is almost no reaction at all. He managed to give us various other details, including his home address, only one street away from the ambulance station. He'd decided when he started feeling unwell that it was quicker for him to drive to us, rather than the other way round. By the end of the call, we would all realise that he was lucky to drive that far.

Despite raising Mani's legs on the stretcher, giving him drugs and some fluids, his blood pressure fails to rise. We have difficulty attaching the sticky dots to his chest because he's so clammy, but eventually we succeed and the machine complies, printing out the tracing of his heart. His heart was sick.

At thirty years old, Mani was having a heart attack, the part of the heart that affects his pulse and blood pressure blocked and dying. It was no wonder that he wasn't responding to any treatment we were giving him. I abandon my car at the station before I'd even had the chance to turn the wheel, and travel with Mani and the crew to hospital, hoping to get there before his heart gave up altogether. With a twenty-five minute journey, there were no guarantees, and there was little more we could do to help improve the odds.

Mani listened anxiously as we explained what was happening, but accepted it. His greatest worry after his health was getting a parking ticket on his van. or worse, having it towed, having left it in front of the ambulance station with the keys still in the ignition. I promised to do what I could to make sure that wouldn't happen.

He was lucky. Still conscious when we got him to hospital, and amazingly calm as the team did their work. As we stood watching what is effectively a plumbing procedure on the heart, the response was almost instantaneous. Blood began to flow back around his heart, feeding oxygen to the parts of it that had been starved for some time. His pulse improved, as did his blood pressure, and the hospital team seemed pleased with their work and Mani's response.

"We'll keep him here for a few days," the consultant tells us through the lead-lined window, "then if all's well, he'll be sent home to restart his life. Good work guys!"

"Don't forget my van, will you?"

"Don't worry, Mani. We'll sort it out for you. You concentrate on getting better. I'll leave a message with the hospital when we work out what to do."

"Thank you. Thank you for everything." He waved at us, a relieved smile on his face, and then rested his head back on the trolley that had been brought to wheel him to the ward.

Having tidied up the ambulance, we drove all the way back to station, and I discussed with control what would be the best plan for Mani's van. Having made all the arrangements and received agreement from on high, I called the hospital and asked them to let Mani know that his van was parked outside his house, and the keys had been put through the letter box.

"You know," said one of the crew as I walked back into station, "you've got a new career ahead of you if you give up on ambulance work!"

"Oh yeah? What's that then?"

"Well, the world always needs more white-van men..."

"Yeah, thanks for that guys. Should we start our shifts now?"  

Monday Mornings

Monday morning. A curse for many, a blessing for some. The day breaks on the horizon as I head towards what will almost certainly be the last call of the weekend, with the car sounding almost as tired as I am. Thirty six hours over three night shifts, almost seventy activations, with over thirty patients attended. It's been a busy weekend. 

Henry, well into his eighties, is woken by a crushing pain in his chest and his jaw. 

"Call an ambulance, love. I think my heart's playing up again." He tries to stay calm, putting on a facade for Lena's benefit, but after more than fifty years together, she sees straight through it. Once she's called the ambulance, she wakes up her neighbours and asks them to come in. 

"Just to help me keep an eye on him. You don't mind, do you?" 

Their neighbours are young, and always willing to help. I meet them first as I pull up outside, barely five minutes after the call has started. 

"Thanks for coming so quick. I've hardly even put the phone down! Henry's upstairs." Lena's calm exterior  as she watches me climb the stairs does little to hide her anxiety, and as I step in to the room, I ask her to take a seat next to her husband so she can see and hear everything that's going on. 

Craig, the neighbour, gives me a quick rundown of Henry's history, a heart attack nearly twenty years ago leading to a series of another four over the years. 

"I think I'm running out of lives!" Henry says, only half joking. "I guess I'm lucky to get this far. I think it's Lena's fault that I'm still going. Who else is she going to nag to take out the rubbish?" 

She glares at him and tells him to keep quiet. 

Henry's pulse is irregular, a rate of anything from the low thirties up to nearly one hundred. The ECG shows that the heart's struggling, not getting enough oxygen to where it needs to be. Another heart attack seems just around the corner, and as the second ECG strip prints, I hear the crew arrive. 

"Bring a carry-chair up with you please!" I call down. One set of footsteps keeps heading up the stairs whilst the other heads back out to the truck to get the chair. 

"Meet Henry," I say to the attendant. "He's eighty-five years young, and has a habit of causing Lena stress by having had five heart attacks in the last few years, and his heart isn't particularly happy at the moment." I show the attendant the ECG strip, and he concurs. 

The pain had eased a little since I'd given Henry a lemon-flavoured aspirin and spray of GTN under his tongue. That should help open up the blood vessels that feed the heart, easing the problem at least temporarily, if not solving it altogether. The ECG remained unchanged after we had loaded Henry into the ambulance. His heart was sick, and so was he. Lena wasn't far behind, worrying about her husband. 

Once we had reassessed Henry, cannulated him, taken some of his blood, and given him some more medications, I stepped out of the back of the ambulance and headed back to my car, closely followed out of the treatment area of the ambulance by one of the crew. As she was about take her seat behind the wheel, Craig approached her. 

"Make sure you take good care of both of them, won't you?" 

Loading the luggage into the boot of my car, and with my back to them both, I couldn't believe as I overheard her answer. 

"I'll do what I can. But it's late, it's Monday morning, I've worked all weekend, I'm tired, and I just want to go home." She got in the cab, and within seconds was driving away. 

I left half my kit on the road, and went back to speak to Craig. I don't know why I felt the need to apologise for somebody else's behaviour, but I just felt it was inexcusable. 

"I'm sorry about that. I don't really know what to say!" 

"Don't worry about it. It's not you who needs to say anything. Anyway, thanks for your help. I hope Henry'll be OK." 

"They're taking him to the best hospital in the area for cardiac care, and I'm sure they'll do all they can for him.  If you wait an hour or so and then give them a call, the hospital might be able to give you some details on how he's doing." 

"Hope so. I suppose I'd better go get ready for work now. Back into the real world again after the weekend." 

"Ah. Yes. Forgot about that. It's Monday morning for you normal people." 

"Yup. For normal people and grumpy ambulance drivers." 

*****

We meet dozens of people every week, be they patients, relatives, friends, or neighbours. They all blur into one after a while. For us, these calls become routine, emotions become dull, and we feel disconnected. For us, it's a coping mechanism. There's no way we could feel what they all feel, and still be able to do our job.

The patients, however, their friends and family too, may only ever meet one ambulance crew. If the impression they're left with is one of "grumpy ambulance drivers", somewhere along the line, not only do they fail their patient, but we all do.

In amongst all the skills we use, and the knowledge we possess, showing that we care, even if sometimes we struggle to do so, may be the most important thing that we do.

Especially on Monday mornings. 

Driving Skills

At the age of 17, like so many others, I learnt to drive a car. Actually, that's not exactly accurate.

At the age of 17, like so many others, I learnt to pass my driving test.

I learnt about Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre.

I learnt about road signs.

I learnt to parallel park.

I learnt to drive on slow roads and fast roads.

I learnt to reverse around the corner.

At 17 and a little bit, on a Monday lunchtime, I walked into the staffroom at the school where my mum used to teach, with a dozen pairs of eyes staring at me and my glum-faced expression, none brave enough to ask if I'd passed the test or not. My mum, standing the other end of the room and obviously knowing me better than anyone else there, saw straight through the fake sadness, spotted the glint in the eyes, and without a word spoken, threw her car key across the room to a round of applause.

That was the day I started to learn to drive.

*

At the age of 26, I learnt to be a paramedic. Actually, that's not exactly accurate.

At the age of 26, I learnt to pass the first of many tests to be a paramedic. Yesterday, a patient reminded me of it just by asking a simple question.

"Do you get taught how to stay calm through everything you see, or is it something you naturally have to have before you can join the Ambulance Service?"

To me, that hid an altogether different question: where do you learn how to become a paramedic?

Is it all the sitting in classrooms, bored to death by endless powerpoint presentations?

Is it by spending time in the operating theatres, practising cannulas and intubations?

Is it by listening to lectures on how to treat everybody the same?

Is it by reading through the book about drugs, their actions, their contra-indications and being able to recite them all off by heart?

The answer to all of these are easy. Yes. That's where you learn how to be a paramedic. Or at least, that's where you learn how to pass all the assessments that qualify you as a paramedic.

For me, that's not enough. I don't just want to be able to pass my driving test, I want to learn to be a good driver.

By the same token, I don't just want to be able to say that I have a certificate that says I'm a paramedic, pay my annual dues, and finished. That's the easy bit.

I want to be a good paramedic.

That's what you learn after you get your certificate.

That's when you learn how to use all the skills you've just been handed.

*

You learn to use common sense, you learn empathy, you learn sympathy.

You learn that the technique with which you cannulated your patient in theatre, where all is calm and controlled, won't be the same when you're cannulating a patient in cardiac arrest on his home floor with several family members watching your every move.

You learn that the worst case scenarios which always seem to occur in assessments, are really few and far between. But in the meantime you see cases of domestic violence that you were neither trained nor prepared for.

You learn all about how a heart attack patient might look and feel, you'll know how to treat and transport them, but how do you keep them calm and reassured?

You realise that you're an expert at CPR, yet you were never taught how to tell someone that their loved one has died.

You find that you were given a stab vest to wear, but are never quite ready for the time that a patient or their relative suddenly turns into a threat.

You discover that when you're treating a young child and their asthma attack, when your knowledge of the right drugs is important, that the way you are treating their parents is equally critical.

You find that even if you know theoretically how to treat every patient you see, sometimes you need to treat yourself. The trick you aren't taught is to know when that sometimes is.

Oh, and you learn to reverse around the corner again. This time in a truck.

*

The list is jumbled, just like the real world of the paramedic. A shift can, and often does, range from the sublime to the ridiculous, from the mundane to the life-threatening.

Despite every lecture to the contrary, you find that you can't treat everyone the same, because everyone is different. What you can do, is treat everyone to get the same result.

Most importantly, you learn that you cannot learn it all. Certainly not at once.

It takes time, patience, an open mind and a willingness to learn in order to perfect those driving skills.

Hopefully I'm getting there.

Ten out of Ten

"Ten, definitely ten". The stock answer of some people when asked how bad their pain is on a scale of 1 to 10. I guess that gives them a genuine reason for having called an ambulance in the first place. The thing is, that they sit in front of you, no wince, not doubled over, just sit calmly and tell you that the pain in their arm or leg, stomach or back, is the worst pain they've ever experienced.

If the patient is a mother, I often ask if this pain is so bad that it's worse than childbirth, a question that regularly has the pain score downgraded, even if only slightly. Either that or they're superwoman. If the patient is a man, I'll compare it to something often involving a gory amputation of one of their limbs, and see what happens then.

These patients, whilst claiming to be in the worst pain known to humankind, then jump sky high as soon as I take a pinprick's worth of blood to test their sugar levels - a procedure that hurts no more than a minor paper cut. And more often than not, haven't bothered to try taking any home-based pain relief such as paracetamol or ibuprofen. The easiest option is to call out an ambulance and discharge the responsibility for their condition and care to somebody else.

Sometimes, I meet the exact opposite. A patient who's pale, sweating buckets and complaining of a slight ache, 2 or 3 at worst on the pain scale. A patient who is so clearly in distress, but denying it, either out of stoicity (if that's even a real word), bravado or genuine fear of the unknown. Regularly these are the sorts of people who wouldn't call an ambulance until they are practically bullied into it by concerned relatives or friends, or have had ambulances called for them without their knowledge.

In both cases, those who overplay their pain, and those who underrate it, I'm left with a dilemma.

On our ambulances, we carry a very limited option of analgesia, or pain relief.

For kids, we have liquid paracetamol to ease pain and reduce fever. To be honest, I don't know why we have it. It should be in the drug cupboard, in plentiful supply, in every child-containing household in the land. There should be no reason for us to give a 4-hourly dose of fever-reducing, pain-easing medication that can easily be bought at any chemist, supermarket or even petrol station. It can be given in the calm, safe and familiar surroundings of the family home by any medically-unqualified parent, rather than in the scary scene of the back of a terrifyingly strange ambulance by unknown, green-attired, martian-looking paramedics. I know which I choose for my kids. If one of them refuses, then just the mere mention of the word doctor or hospital is enough to get them to down the stuff.

We also have Entonox, a mix of oxygen and and nitrous oxide, often referred to as laughing gas. Like any other analgesic, it works well for some people, and not at all for others. Over the last few years I've found that it works particularly well for things like muscular back aches, releasing enough of the tension in the muscles to enable the patient to get on the move again, exercising those tensed backs, instead of leaving them immobile. It also works well enough to enable a dislocated limb to be reduced, enough to allow transport and definitive treatment at hospital.

Then we have Oromorph, and Morphine sulphate. The same thing, but one is swallowed and the other requires IV administration directly into the bloodstream. These are the ones we use for severe pain. Things like heart attacks, nasty fractures, serious burns and other injury or illness-induced agony. There are other options for stronger pre-hospital analgesia, but these require having a doctor on scene, in the form of either HEMS or a Basics doctor.

The dilemma I have is when to use analgesia, and of which sort.

For our first type of patient, the one in such agony as he sits and drinks his cup of coffee in the front room as the caffeine-deprived ambulance crew stand by and watch, do I jump right in and give him some of the heavy stuff? Do I take his answer as gospel, his pain is off the scale, and needs immediate resolution, and so give him the morphine straight away? Is it justified, and is it necessary? Or do I suggest to him to try some paracetamol first (from his own supply, as I don't carry an adult dose)?

And so, on to our second type of patient. Clearly, in my eyes, in severe pain, but refusing to admit it. She declines the offer of either Entonox or morphine, says she's just taken some over-the-counter tablets, and is feeling better already. Both her clinical observations, as well as my observation of her, indicate otherwise. Do I just offer these patients a seat in the ambulance and convey them to hospital, no analgesia, no treatment, no nothing. After all, they've refused any. Doesn't seem right to me.

In both these cases, the question is one of objectivity vs subjectivity.

Is the pain defined by the patient's experience, or by the paramedic's observations and assessment?

Is the treatment decided by the patient's story, or by the paramedic's interpretation of it?

Which of these methods would leave me to treat the patient the best way possible, and afford my treatment, much like their pain, a score of ten out of ten?

Information

Dear Patient,

I'd like to ask for your help. Please.

When I ask if you have any medical history, can you please do me a favour and give me the information I've asked for? It makes my life a little easier, it may change and probably improve your treatment, and, slightly less importantly, makes me feel a little less stupid when you tell the hospital staff something that you never told me...

There are several ways to garner a history. I normally start with a very simple "do you have any medical problems?"

Often the answer is something along the lines of "Not really, I take medicines for those..."

Then begins the sometimes laborious task of locating said tablets, seeing if what's in the boxes is what it really should be, working out which treats what, and when they're due to be taken. Blood pressure, diabetes, cardiac failure and chronic breathing problems, are easily the most common conditions I meet on a regular basis.

Then there are the less common. Things like sickle cell crisis, Addison's disease, lupus, and a myriad of other ailments that I either haven't heard of, or don't know enough about, that then I have to go and read up on. Whatever it is, I need to know about it.

I admit that if you're in your sixties, and are complaining of chest pain, I don't really need to know about the leg you broke when you fell off your bike 50 years ago, or the fact you had appendicitis when you were in your twenties.

However, if you are in your sixties, and are complaining of chest pain, it might be important to tell me other bits of information.

Information such as the three previous heart attacks you've had in the last two years.

Information such as the fact that this pain feels identical to that experienced in those three previous heart attacks.

Information such as the fact that each time, nothing appeared wrong with the ECG, but your blood tests and later angiograms showed otherwise.

And most importantly, information such as the fact that on each of those occasions, your heart actually stopped whilst you were either on your way to hospital or once you were already there.

That's the sort of stuff we need to know. The important stuff. The sort of detail that may actually help us to help you. Please.

By the way, please say hi and thanks to your heart for not stopping this time. It was good news for both of us...

Much appreciated.

Good Feeling

The address I'm given is wrong. Only by a few doors, but as I stop the car and get out, I'm confused by the young lady 10 houses further up screaming in terror.

"He's in here! His breathing's really noisy! Quick! Help!"

The look of horror on her face tells me that this isn't one of those unnecessary panics, but that it's the real deal. I quickly check with control that they have no other calls on this street, and they confirm that it must have just been a typing error when putting the call on the computer.

I grab my bags and speed upstairs, to find that the noisy breathing's stopped. In fact, the breathing has stopped. Full stop. I place the defib pads on his chest and the screen shows VF. The chaotic, non-rhythmical flutterings of a useless heart.

But there's hope. This is a rhythm that could benefit from a shock. The defib shouts its commands.

"Shock advised. Stand Clear. Charging."

I warn the family that it isn't a pretty sight. Some look away, others watch in fear. I press the button and his lifeless body leaps off the bed. The crew arrive, and we move him to the floor. CPR continues, he's intubated, cannulated, we breath for him, pump his heart for him. The defib, with its disembodied voice speaks again, repeating the sequence of orders. The orange button flashes silently, and as its pressed, discharges another shock. His body jumps again.

Ten compressions later, he takes a breath. We watch, awed by the scene of such a rare sight. This is what we're trained for. This is what we strive for. This is what we hope for. It's just that we so rarely see it actually happen.

We finish dealing with him, tidy up, restock, re-energise. I attend my next call knowing that I've just been part of saving someone's life.

It's a good feeling.

Frostbite

We have a code for paperwork for every ailment, disease or injury we meet. There are about 100 options for the calls that we are most commonly called to. Ones not covered go under the "other medical problem" code. Every so often the list is updated, something added, something taken away, and the alpha-numeric sequence is shot to pieces again. I've memorized a large number of the codes, and rarely have to look at the crib sheet to remind myself. I'd hazard a guess that every single London Ambulance Service paramedic knows that 62 is the code for Alcohol Intoxication. That one hasn't changed for years. We probably also all know about 75 being a minor head injury. Friday and Saturday nights especially. But our all time number 01? Sitting at the head of the table? Abdominal Pain.

I believe it's number one not just for alphabetical reasons (although I'll admit that AB at the start of a word will give it a pretty good chance in any alphabetically organised list), but also as it's probably the most common complaint that we come across. Abdo pain is a potential minefield. It can be anything from gastroenteritis to food poisoning, from a heavy period to appendicitis, from labour pains to a ruptured placenta. It could be a potentially fatal bowel blockage to a very unlikely to be fatal under-cooked doner kebab making some very unhappy returns. In some patients abdo pain can signify a heart attack, in others it could be a ruptured aortic aneurysm, both potentially lethal. With no CT scanners, ultrasounds, or X-rays available in the back of the ambulance (yet), it can sometimes be a matter of educated guess work, at least initially.

However. I'd like to guess that the patient who's had mild abdominal pain for three (yes, 3) months (yes again, months), probably wasn't in a life threatening condition. In fact, she knew she wasn't. She told me so herself. She was about to go to the GP for a repeat prescription for some regular medication, but realised that the surgery had shut ten minutes earlier. So she called an ambulance to take her to A&E so she could get what she needed.

I had to ask what made her call an ambulance for what was clearly not an accident or an emergency. I'll give her her dues. She was honest. "It doesn't cost anything!", she said. The cab to the hospital would have cost her £5, possibly less. Less than the packet of cigarettes that she was holding in her hand.

As I'm in the FRU, just a car, and not really supposed to transport patients, technically there's a "big" ambulance on its way too. I'd love to be able to say to this person that she doesn't need an ambulance and she should get on a bus, but it's just not worth it. Sometimes I just can't be bothered for the argument, but I'm sure they sense my unease. I cancel the ambulance and inform control that they may as well save it for a worthwhile call. The "patient" wants her friend to go with to the hospital, so I move my luggage out the back seat and sit them there.

The 7 minute drive to hospital was spent in frosty silence, until it was broken by the radio.

"General broadcast all ambulances - ambulances needed for two possibly fatal stabbings in local area. One with multiple stab wounds, one with slashed neck. Anyone available please respond!"

In a moment of Mouth before Brain (unusual for me), I look in the mirror and mutter loudly "Unfortunately this taxi is already in use. Sorry I can't be of any help."

Did I mention the silence? It could have induced frostbite.

Pat

The image above may look to the non-medically trained like a road map of the Himalayas. To the medically trained it'll look like something all together different. This is a sick heart. This is a myocardial infarction. Or in plain-speak: a heart attack.

*****

Going to bed after a heavy meal is apparently no good for you, or so Pat claimed. That's why normally he'd have his main meal of the day at lunch time, and only a small dinner. Tonight was different. He'd gone out for a meal, and it would be an otherwise squandered opportunity if he didn't eat well whilst someone else did the cooking and clearing. As Pat and his partner were getting ready to leave, he felt a little discomfort. Indigestion. Must be. One.

They went home, watched some television, and got ready to go to bed. Pat decided that a glass of milk just before bedtime would ease the indigestion that had now been bugging him for the last two hours. Two.

His partner was starting to get a little nervous that the dull burning sensation was still there, so decided that maybe it'd be a good idea to call an ambulance.

Good plan.

*****

Out of the kindness of my heart (as well as the weightlessness of my wallet), I'd decided to do an overtime shift on a real ambulance. Abandon my solo car for the night, and join Lou, the contender for my "Station Insomniac" crown. She's the sort of person who when you first meet seems a little matronly, but is actually just the sort of crewmate you need when it's all going wrong and all your patients turn out to be quite ill. It would be a night full of surprises. Pat was one of them.

When we arrive at his house, we're greeted by another paramedic on a FRU. Nice to be on the other side of the handover for a change. Pat looks well, is calm, not sweating, not feeling sick. He's a fit man in his early 60s, not seen a doctor for years, not on any medication, and the most serious illness he's had was a bad flu about five years back. And the fact that he's a smoker. Three.

His basic observations show a normal pulse, a normal blood sugar, excellent oxygen levels, and a very high blood pressure. Four.

He's still playing down the burning sensation as a bad case of heart burn, although he's a little concerned about the fact that his left arm feels heavy. Five.

Five warnings. Five danger signs.

Eventually he relents to an ECG (or EKG for our friends across the water). What printed out was the one at the top of this post. Lou and I step up a gear and a flurry of activity follows. We tell Pat what's happening. Drugs are administered, cannula inserted, bloods taken, repeat ECGs done, priority message placed to the hospital to make sure that they were all awake and ready to perform the angioplasty that would save Pat's heart from further and potentially fatal damage.

*****

As we open the back of the ambulance at the hospital, before we've said a word to the staff who regularly greet us, I hand the ECG to Al, the cardiologist, and I could swear I see a glint in his eye. Even if it is 3am. This is one of the things they live for. Diagnosing heart attacks and delivering patients directly for emergency angioplasty is probably one of the best innovations in the ambulance service in recent years, and these cardiac experts are clearly a major and enthusiastic part of this innovation.

Al's first words to the patient are praise for us. "They got it right, sir. You're having a heart attack". Now I know that looking at the ECG it'd be hard for any trained medic worth their salt to get it wrong, but it's still nice to hear from another medical professional. Pat's wheeled in to the theatre, attached to the monitors, and prepared for the procedure. Whilst all that's happening the consultant walks in. He turns to Pat, takes one look at the ECG and says "These guys got it spot-on, they said that we need to fix your heart, and they're right". That's twice we've been complimented, which we like, but it had better not happen a third time, or our heads would be too big to fit back in the ambulance...

Pat successfully undergoes the procedure and should be out of hospital within a few days. With a little rest, a few life style changes and the right medications he should be able to get back to normality in a relatively short time. All in all, a good result.

And we got a pat on the back to boot.