Tonight is the premiere of another new EMS oriented TV series -- Trauma -- which is on at 9:00 PM EST on NBC. At that hour I will likely be reading "Brown Bear, Brown Bear What do you See?" and "Good Night, Moon" to my twenty-month-old daughter in hopes that she will finally close her eyes and drift off to sleep so I too can finally lay my head on the pillow, stretch my tired body and get myself some sleep before the alarm goes off at five and I have to head back in to work for another 12-hour day.
Zoey made her own first trip to the ED yesterday after falling and cutting the inside of her lip. She was fine -- I think the trip was more for her mother (who works at the ED) to get some assurances that everything was going to be all right. (I sense my fearless daughter who has to do everything her older sisters do will be a frequent ED visitor in years to come as she learns to ride bikes and climb trees.) Before I could even get to the ED, I got a call that she was okay and headed home.
Earlier that day I took care of a little girl only a year older than Zoey who got her finger caught in a door and had her finger tip torn off. No bone, just the whole nail and half the tip -- a degloving I guess you'd call it. We packed the tip in ice and I gave her 2 mg of morphine IM for the pain and dutifully went a very easy lights and sirens to the hospital in hopes that they would be able to sew it back on.
I later did calls for an old man who was feeling dizzy because of some new medicine, yet he was zipping about his apartment with his walker on wheels when we arrived and then for a woman post car accident who the police officer thought might have a head injury. The accident was in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. The woman was struck while backing out. Low speed impact, but enough to knock one side of her bumper off. She was 80-years-old and had had her seat belt on, but when she told the officer she was too shaken up to know what happened, he thought head injury and so called us for an evaluation. She didn't appear hurt, and said she didn't want to go to the hospital, but I couldn't quite get her to focus on the refusal discussion. She had a heavy Italian accent and her command of English was weak. She clearly said she did not want to go, but when I advised her to go to the hospital (we are required to advise everyone to go if we are called), she then felt she had to go and became quite upset about what she was going to do with her dog, a small terrier she held in her arms as she walked about outside the restaurant in the light drizzling rain. She kept asking me about what would happen to her car and explaining the accident and who was at fault and did not seem to understand that my role was that of a paramedic and not the police officer who was busy trying to get a tow truck for her car and writing up the paperwork seizing her driver's license. I tried several times to get a proper refusal, but she really wasn't focused or competent enough to understand. Long story short, we waited with her in the rain for a hour until her nephew finally came and confirmed what I had thought all along -- that this was indeed the woman's norm.
Not the most exciting day, but not necessarily atypical. I do some pretty good calls in the town I work, but I doubt many of the average ones will qualify for Trauma's TV script. It has been a year now since I worked in the city. I've done a dozen cardiac arrests, but of them only a handful weren't asystoles who we worked for 20 minutes and then called on scene. No shootings or gory stabbings (There was a big drive-by shooting last week near the city line with three victims -- but it wasn't on my shift).
I do respond to quite a number of traumas and hardly a day goes by that I don't give someone morphine. But my traumas are not helicopter or spectacular multi car crashes. I see hip fractures, broken shoulders, wrists, ankles and back pain from low falls. People getting old and tripping, losing their balance, etc.
Aside from the finger degloving, I don't think I've gone lights and sirens to the hospital in over a month (and even at that there seemed no urgency at the hospital to sew the finger tip back on). Our rules on lights and sirens are pretty clear these days -- only use lights and sirens if in the time you save going lights and sirens the hospital will be able to do something for the patient to make a difference in life or limb that you cannot do yourself.
My trips in are make them comfortable, pop in an IV, put them on the monitor, and chat while I enter their information and my assessment into the computer, making sure to apologize for the bumps in the road.
***
I plan a post this week about the "science" surrounding the Golden Hour and some new research about ambulance response times.
***
postscript:
After writing the draft of this this morning, I took a nap (I'm allowed to sleep from 600AM until 800 AM), then was awoken by the tones and I immediately cursed myself because I knew by writing how I so rarely go lights and sirens, I would get payback for it. Sure enough, a man with advanced COPD and extreme anxiety and claustrophobia -- a terrible combination. I used or tried to use the following airway devices -- cannula, nonrebreather (neb mask, neb mouthpiece, ETCO2 cannula, neb mouth piece minus the duo neb (the albuterol was making him more anxious he said so I just went with humidified water), CPAP. Everything met resistance from him. He said he was a mouth breather so a cannula wouldn't work. He refused to have a mask over his face. Everything was too much or too little oxygen. I started with a combivent, gave some Solumedrol and ended up having to call for orders to give Ativan to calm him down and lower his 02 demand as he was going so worked up he was desatting. Halfway there, I had my partner put on the lights and sirens. The Ativan didn't kick in until the ED, but even then they had to give him more Ativan and were even considering intubation as I was leaving because the patient was still getting so worked up. A real EMS call, but not one likely to be written into a TV script.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Elmo's Song
I’ve written recently above the new advances that have made our care and lives easier:
Stretchers going from two man to one man to now power-operated.
Airway adjuncts like bougies, LMAs, and of course capnography.
Life Pack 5s to Life Pack 10s to LifePack 12 with 12-leads.
EZ-IOs.
I discovered another one just the other day:
18 month old has just had a febrile seizure, and while alert, she is very cranky. We have a neat gadget called a Pedi-mate which is a rollup car seat, that straps onto the stretcher and then attaches the baby just like a car seat.
It’s great! But while her physical safety is now assured, we still have some emotional issues.
The child still would clearly rather be held in mama’s big warm arms. Little Kiesha is crying and throwning a general fit. Now, having my own twenty-month old daughter at home, I know the key to ending a tantrum is distraction. Kids that age take everything in and as soon as they lock on to something new, they go from crying to laughing in a moment.
We have Tough Book computers for our electronic run forms. My service also has an internet aircard so our computer has access to the web. I have a new little notebook computer I use at home I bought so I could watch my daughter in the living room, while still staying connected – I can follow the Red Sox or check my email. I made the mistake of one night showing her U-tube so now whenever I open up the notebook, she comes over and says, “E-I-E-I-O,” which is her way of saying, “Play that Old McDonald had a Farm video for me, Dad.” Or she’ll say “row, row, row” for the Row, Row, Row, Your Boat video.
Back to the crying 18-month old. I realize I have on the bench seat next to me -- my Tough Book computer -- a compter with access to you-tube. The light-bulb goes on.
A few taps of the computer screen with the stylus and some quick typing and there we are:
On the screen, Elmo, the red furry little red monster from Sesame Street, is tickling the ivories and singing to his buddy Big Bird, “La-la-la-la, la-la-la-laa, Elmo’s song!”, and over the course of our transport a host of speciaal friends drop by --, Elmo, Barney, Dora and Diego, and others -- and Mom, me and Little Kiesha are all E-I-E-I-Oing and doing the itsy bitsy spider going up the water spout.
La-la-la-laa. La-la-la-laa. No more tears.
***
Postscript. Don’t have a service issued computer with internet access? Check with your partner, who may have a Blackberry or I-phone. They work well too.
Elmo's Song
Old MCDonald Had a Farm
Row Row Row Your Boat
Itsy Bitsy Spider
Stretchers going from two man to one man to now power-operated.
Airway adjuncts like bougies, LMAs, and of course capnography.
Life Pack 5s to Life Pack 10s to LifePack 12 with 12-leads.
EZ-IOs.
I discovered another one just the other day:
18 month old has just had a febrile seizure, and while alert, she is very cranky. We have a neat gadget called a Pedi-mate which is a rollup car seat, that straps onto the stretcher and then attaches the baby just like a car seat.
It’s great! But while her physical safety is now assured, we still have some emotional issues.
The child still would clearly rather be held in mama’s big warm arms. Little Kiesha is crying and throwning a general fit. Now, having my own twenty-month old daughter at home, I know the key to ending a tantrum is distraction. Kids that age take everything in and as soon as they lock on to something new, they go from crying to laughing in a moment.
We have Tough Book computers for our electronic run forms. My service also has an internet aircard so our computer has access to the web. I have a new little notebook computer I use at home I bought so I could watch my daughter in the living room, while still staying connected – I can follow the Red Sox or check my email. I made the mistake of one night showing her U-tube so now whenever I open up the notebook, she comes over and says, “E-I-E-I-O,” which is her way of saying, “Play that Old McDonald had a Farm video for me, Dad.” Or she’ll say “row, row, row” for the Row, Row, Row, Your Boat video.
Back to the crying 18-month old. I realize I have on the bench seat next to me -- my Tough Book computer -- a compter with access to you-tube. The light-bulb goes on.
A few taps of the computer screen with the stylus and some quick typing and there we are:
On the screen, Elmo, the red furry little red monster from Sesame Street, is tickling the ivories and singing to his buddy Big Bird, “La-la-la-la, la-la-la-laa, Elmo’s song!”, and over the course of our transport a host of speciaal friends drop by --, Elmo, Barney, Dora and Diego, and others -- and Mom, me and Little Kiesha are all E-I-E-I-Oing and doing the itsy bitsy spider going up the water spout.
La-la-la-laa. La-la-la-laa. No more tears.
***
Postscript. Don’t have a service issued computer with internet access? Check with your partner, who may have a Blackberry or I-phone. They work well too.
Elmo's Song
Old MCDonald Had a Farm
Row Row Row Your Boat
Itsy Bitsy Spider
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Thank You
Thanks to everyone who read my novel over the last several months and for all the generous comments.
I will be back to regular posting soon.
I will be back to regular posting soon.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Afterward
Capitol Ambulance was sold to a national corporation. Shortly after the state made them give up the South side of the city to Champion Ambulance in a deal brokered by politicians. The fire department has started going to all EMS calls as first responders, and may eventually go paramedic themselves.
Helen Seurat now runs Champion Ambulance, and continues to be active in the community. Her company has trained over fifteen Hartford residents to become EMTs, four are now paramedics. She remains close with the Ruiz family. Hector’s youngest boy is a top student in one of the public school system’s magnet schools.
Kim and I were married that fall. She works as a nurse now. I am still out in the street, though not working nearly as much as I used too. Last summer we went up to Maine and I showed her the town where I grew up. I was surprised people still remembered me. In the town square thirty years after his death, they had erected a small monument to the town’s sons who died in the war. I ran my fingers over Billy’s name and as I wept I felt I could again see his face and hear his words as we laughed and imagined about all the great things we would do.
Two months after Hector’s funeral, Troy Johnson was critically injured in a car accident. He spent the next ten years in a convalescent home by the Connecticut River. Linda Sullivan used to visit twice a week until she married and moved to California. I visited him once a year. The last time I saw him he sat erect in his wheelchair. His eyes gazed hard at me, but I never knew if he recognized me or even knew I was there or what I was saying. I told him that Linda had written to say his son had hit a home run in his first Little League game. She said he won a track race at his school, beating even the fifth and six graders, and that though he struggled at times with his studies, the girls seemed to all adore him. A picture of the boy was taped to his mirror. Troy Patrick Johnson Sullivan. He had his father’s mischievous sparkle.
Troy died last year. His father and I took his ashes and spread some of them over the playing fields at Thorton High and then took the rest up to Zion Hill and let the wind carry them out over the city of Hartford. He and Pat are together again – I like to think of them looking out for the people of the city, and looking out for the rest of us who still work the streets. It may not have been where they dreamed of ending up as boys, but it is who they became. It was their place in the world.
On Friday nights we still raise a beer at the mention of their names.
-the end-
Helen Seurat now runs Champion Ambulance, and continues to be active in the community. Her company has trained over fifteen Hartford residents to become EMTs, four are now paramedics. She remains close with the Ruiz family. Hector’s youngest boy is a top student in one of the public school system’s magnet schools.
Kim and I were married that fall. She works as a nurse now. I am still out in the street, though not working nearly as much as I used too. Last summer we went up to Maine and I showed her the town where I grew up. I was surprised people still remembered me. In the town square thirty years after his death, they had erected a small monument to the town’s sons who died in the war. I ran my fingers over Billy’s name and as I wept I felt I could again see his face and hear his words as we laughed and imagined about all the great things we would do.
Two months after Hector’s funeral, Troy Johnson was critically injured in a car accident. He spent the next ten years in a convalescent home by the Connecticut River. Linda Sullivan used to visit twice a week until she married and moved to California. I visited him once a year. The last time I saw him he sat erect in his wheelchair. His eyes gazed hard at me, but I never knew if he recognized me or even knew I was there or what I was saying. I told him that Linda had written to say his son had hit a home run in his first Little League game. She said he won a track race at his school, beating even the fifth and six graders, and that though he struggled at times with his studies, the girls seemed to all adore him. A picture of the boy was taped to his mirror. Troy Patrick Johnson Sullivan. He had his father’s mischievous sparkle.
Troy died last year. His father and I took his ashes and spread some of them over the playing fields at Thorton High and then took the rest up to Zion Hill and let the wind carry them out over the city of Hartford. He and Pat are together again – I like to think of them looking out for the people of the city, and looking out for the rest of us who still work the streets. It may not have been where they dreamed of ending up as boys, but it is who they became. It was their place in the world.
On Friday nights we still raise a beer at the mention of their names.
-the end-
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Chapter 48
Troy’s pickup wasn’t in the parking lot the next day when I got to work.
“Your partner booked,” Brian Sajack told me when I checked in to get the vehicle keys and radios.
“Is he okay?”
“Hmm. How to answer? Let’s say this, after he told me he wasn’t coming in, Linda comes on the same phone and says she’s booking off too. I’d say he’s doing okay. I didn’t write a reason down on the book off form. Don’s in a stew this morning.”
Just then Don Seurat walked in. “You know where Troy is?” he demanded of me.
I shook my head. “I heard he called in sick.”
“Did he say anything to you about booking today?”
“Last I knew he was coming in.”
“How about Linda?”
“Didn’t talk to her.”
He said to the supervisor. “How are the order-in’s going?”
“I’ve got Melnick coming in to work with Lee and Jen Dumont and Jared Goldberg are coming in. Scott Thompson and Ron Talit said they’d come in when they get off at the fire house.”
“Keep working the phones. And don’t accept any more book-offs.”
“What’s up with all that?” I asked when Seurat had left.
“You mean aside from Troy and Linda? We’ve got Senator Shrieb coming in to town to announce his candidacy and the Hector Ruiz funeral, which the words from the cops is might be a bigger parade than New York last gave the Yankees. We had to call Ben in on his wife’s birthday to replace Linda on the Shrieb standby. He’s on his way to the airport. Now Shrieb’s a presidential candidate, the little man’s getting secret service and the works.”
Melnick and I were told to station ourselves down by the funeral service in case there was any violence or anyone got sick. In the event anything happened we needed our response to be quick.
It was cloudy with an imminent threat of rain. The air was damp and the wind picked up occasionally and brought an unseasonable chill. The procession began at the funeral home on Wethersfield Avenue, turned left at Park Street and went all the way to Pope Park where an open air service was to be held. Shops closed down. People lined the streets. Many ran out into the road and laid flowers and offerings on the small flatbed truck that carried Hector’s casket, guarded by six mourning friends who wore dark suits. Hector’s family and friends rode behind. Many of the on-lookers joined in as the parade went past.
Marchers carried photos of Hector, other held signs. End the Violence. No to Drugs. Save our Streets. Some carried the flag of Puerto Rico, others the American Flag.
“I don’t get it,” Melnick said. “What’s the big deal? This guy was a hoodlum? How does he rate a funeral procession?”
“He’s a symbol,” I said.
“A symbol?”
“They aren’t mourning him,” I said. “They’re mourning what’s happening in their community, and mourning they can’t figure out how to stop the violence.”
“Put away the guns and pick up the books,” he said. “Get a job.”
I handed him the ambulance’s PA mike.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not wearing a vest.”
There were over two thousand spectators in the park. On the stage community leaders, ministers and people who knew Hector addressed the crowd. His grade school teacher read a poem he had written. His minister told of his struggles with faith.
Think what you want about Hector, about the gang-bangers and the violence, being there listening to the voices from Park Street, hearing their stories and their pleas, you couldn’t help but feel the pain of their struggle. These were people like anyone else. People who just wanted their children to grow up with a chance for a good life. One by one they spoke of their hopes, their dreams for a real world where they could just be left alone to live their lives.
Helen Seurat stood on the stage next to Papi Ruiz, and other members of Hector’s family. She spoke only briefly. “Hector adore su familia,” she said in a slow steady Spanish. “Pero de este amor, su famila vino a saber solamente dolor.”
Even Melnick listened.
“El era un hombre,” she said, “que perdio su camino.” He was a man who lost his way.
When the service was over, they carried Hector’s casket up the hill to the cemetery. They buried him and adorned his grave with flowers.
“Your partner booked,” Brian Sajack told me when I checked in to get the vehicle keys and radios.
“Is he okay?”
“Hmm. How to answer? Let’s say this, after he told me he wasn’t coming in, Linda comes on the same phone and says she’s booking off too. I’d say he’s doing okay. I didn’t write a reason down on the book off form. Don’s in a stew this morning.”
Just then Don Seurat walked in. “You know where Troy is?” he demanded of me.
I shook my head. “I heard he called in sick.”
“Did he say anything to you about booking today?”
“Last I knew he was coming in.”
“How about Linda?”
“Didn’t talk to her.”
He said to the supervisor. “How are the order-in’s going?”
“I’ve got Melnick coming in to work with Lee and Jen Dumont and Jared Goldberg are coming in. Scott Thompson and Ron Talit said they’d come in when they get off at the fire house.”
“Keep working the phones. And don’t accept any more book-offs.”
“What’s up with all that?” I asked when Seurat had left.
“You mean aside from Troy and Linda? We’ve got Senator Shrieb coming in to town to announce his candidacy and the Hector Ruiz funeral, which the words from the cops is might be a bigger parade than New York last gave the Yankees. We had to call Ben in on his wife’s birthday to replace Linda on the Shrieb standby. He’s on his way to the airport. Now Shrieb’s a presidential candidate, the little man’s getting secret service and the works.”
Melnick and I were told to station ourselves down by the funeral service in case there was any violence or anyone got sick. In the event anything happened we needed our response to be quick.
It was cloudy with an imminent threat of rain. The air was damp and the wind picked up occasionally and brought an unseasonable chill. The procession began at the funeral home on Wethersfield Avenue, turned left at Park Street and went all the way to Pope Park where an open air service was to be held. Shops closed down. People lined the streets. Many ran out into the road and laid flowers and offerings on the small flatbed truck that carried Hector’s casket, guarded by six mourning friends who wore dark suits. Hector’s family and friends rode behind. Many of the on-lookers joined in as the parade went past.
Marchers carried photos of Hector, other held signs. End the Violence. No to Drugs. Save our Streets. Some carried the flag of Puerto Rico, others the American Flag.
“I don’t get it,” Melnick said. “What’s the big deal? This guy was a hoodlum? How does he rate a funeral procession?”
“He’s a symbol,” I said.
“A symbol?”
“They aren’t mourning him,” I said. “They’re mourning what’s happening in their community, and mourning they can’t figure out how to stop the violence.”
“Put away the guns and pick up the books,” he said. “Get a job.”
I handed him the ambulance’s PA mike.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not wearing a vest.”
There were over two thousand spectators in the park. On the stage community leaders, ministers and people who knew Hector addressed the crowd. His grade school teacher read a poem he had written. His minister told of his struggles with faith.
Think what you want about Hector, about the gang-bangers and the violence, being there listening to the voices from Park Street, hearing their stories and their pleas, you couldn’t help but feel the pain of their struggle. These were people like anyone else. People who just wanted their children to grow up with a chance for a good life. One by one they spoke of their hopes, their dreams for a real world where they could just be left alone to live their lives.
Helen Seurat stood on the stage next to Papi Ruiz, and other members of Hector’s family. She spoke only briefly. “Hector adore su familia,” she said in a slow steady Spanish. “Pero de este amor, su famila vino a saber solamente dolor.”
Even Melnick listened.
“El era un hombre,” she said, “que perdio su camino.” He was a man who lost his way.
When the service was over, they carried Hector’s casket up the hill to the cemetery. They buried him and adorned his grave with flowers.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Chapter 47
Troy was a half hour late the next morning. I had already checked out the ambulance, including all of his ALS gear. I was gassing up the truck when he finally showed up. “I was worried about you,” I said.
He had deep bags under his eyes. “I stopped and saw Pat’s father.” His hands shook as he drank from his bottle of Coca-cola.
“How’s he doing?”
“Okay, he’s all right.”
“How are you?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Did you get some sleep?”
“A little.”
He still looked awfully pale.
“You sure you don’t want to just go home?”
He shook his head.
“This is where I belong.”
“You need something to eat?”
“I’ve got a sandwich.”
I didn’t question him further. I noticed he had a small ceramic box with him that he set on the console.
Our first call was for an elderly woman with a fever, who’d spent the night vomiting. The visiting nurse said, “I’ve already called in the report. They know all about her at Saint Francis. I promised her you wouldn’t try to stick her with any needles. You’d leave that to the nurses in the ER.”
I was putting the sheet across the stretcher when she said that. I turned to look at Troy. I awaited his explosion. “Thank you for your report,” he said instead, without sarcasm. He knelt down by the patient’s side and took her wrinkled hand. “Hello. My name is Troy. I understand you’re not feeling very well.”
His voice sounded a little mechanical, but not insincere.
“I’ve been a bit queasy,” the woman said.
Troy patted her hand. “Well, we’re going to do our best to see that you have a comfortable ride in to the hospital. I’m going to do a couple things on the way there. I’m going to take your blood pressure, listen to your lung sounds, put you on our heart monitor, and ask you some questions I know the nice woman here has already asked you. They’ll ask you the same questions at the hospital, but we’re doing it just to make sure you get the very best care. We want to get you healthy and get you back here to your lovely home as soon as you are well enough.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I hate to bother you.”
“It’s no bother at all. It’s our job, our pleasure.”
When we got to the hospital, Troy had an IV in her arm, running in normal saline to hydrate her. She was smiling like a schoolgirl. “Light as a ballerina,” he said as we moved her across to the hospital bed on the sheet. He said to the nurse “Mrs. Greenspan’s son is an internist in New York, and her grandson’s following in his footsteps in medical school.” He went on to describe why we had brought her in and his physical findings, and then he patted her shoulder. “I wish you good health. You’re in good hands here.” She looked up at him with a light that must have been similar to the one she shone on her grandson.
“What’s going on with you this morning?” I asked as we walked back down the hall.
“Just trying to be a good paramedic,” he said.
“Well, you reminded me of one.”
Around ten thirty, we were sent for an unresponsive at the funeral home on Wethersfield Avenue.
Cars were double parked on both sides of the Avenue. “Hector R.I.P.” was white-washed on their rear windows of several of the cars. Police patrolled the grounds of the funeral home. A line of mourners stretched out the door and around the block. Many wore tee-shirts with Hector’s picture them.
“Look,” I said. “Why don’t I call in that our engine died and they’ll send someone else? I don’t think it’s a good idea going in there.”
Troy shook his head. “It’s our call, it’ll be all right.” He got out of the ambulance, took the monitor and blue bag out of the side door, and then laid them on the stretcher that I had pulled out.
We moved in through the crowd which slowly made way for us. People were dressed in black, many weeping. There were more flowers than I had seen in one place before.
Troy wore his Yankees hat. I kept vigilant.
We were led through a hallway into the receiving room. Hector lay in an open casket. Papa Ruiz sat slumped in a wheel chair. People gathered around him.
“What’s going on?” Troy said.
Helen Seurat was there. She nodded to Troy. “He’s the father of the deceased. He is not responding to anyone. I told the family I thought it was emotional, but they are worried maybe he had a seizure.”
I saw Hector’s wife holding Hector’s son, standing with the other family members, all watching Troy.
Troy nodded. “Did he fall over or have seizure activity? Bite his tongue? Wet himself?”
“No,” she said. “He just lay his head forward and hasn’t moved since.”
The family pressed around, looking at us. There were several small children.
Troy looked down at the man whose eyes stared nowhere. Troy touched his forehead. “Warm,” he said. He touched a finger to his eyelids, which twitched. Troy looked at me.
I shook my head. Don’t do it, I thought. Show some respect.
Troy knelt beside the man, felt his pulse. But he wasn’t looking at his watch. He watched the man for signs of movement.
“Blood pressure cuff,” he said. He held out his hand.
I gave it to him. He wrapped the cuff around the old man’s arm, pumped it up, and then slowly letting the air out, took his reading.
“How is it?” a woman asked.
“130/70.” Troy said, “That’s good.”
“What is the matter with him? Did he have a stroke?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What is wrong?”
I watched him look around at the faces of the others in the room. He took his cap off. He hesitated a moment.
“Take him to the hospital. He could be dying,” a man said.
Troy shook his head.
“Look at him. He’s having a stroke. He needs to go to the hospital.”
Troy gestured to a little girl, who stood behind a woman’s leg. “Come here.”
The girl went to Troy. He nudged her toward the old man. He beckoned to a woman, who held a baby.
She approached.
He held his arms out for her to hand him the child.
He took the baby, and set it in on Papi’s chest, and moved the old man’s arms until he was holding the child. Papi held the child close to his heart.
Troy said to the others, “He doesn’t need to go to the hospital. He needs to be here with his family.”
Troy stepped back.
While everyone watched the old man, Troy picked up his gear and walked out.
That afternoon we sat at Kenney Park.
“So what do you think of me?” Troy said, finally.
I looked at his dark eyes. “We all do things we regret,” I said. “It’s how you deal with the aftermath that matters.”
He looked out at the park now, at the tree limbs swaying in the light breeze, the children playing down by the pond. I don’t know where his mind was.
At dusk we drove up to Zion Hill. He took the box off the console, and we walked up the incline. “Pat’s Dad gave me some of Pat’s ashes. I’m supposed to disburse him where I remembered him best. Allison spread hers at Kent Falls where they had their first date. His mother spread hers at the playground she used to take him to when he was little. His father spread his over the high school football field. I think they wanted me to spread them out in the woods or at the next Super Bowl. I’m going to spread them here. Those were all places he played. Here is where he lived. You can say none of this makes a difference, but it’s got to count for something.”
On the radio dispatch sent out calls. “463 to Main and Tower for an MVA. 451 take Ashley Street for the asthma.”
Troy opened the jar and held it aloft to the wind that swirled down and took the ashes and whirled them out over the city. “Look out for us, old friend,” Troy said. “We need it. Even Lee, here.”
After I punched out, I saw Troy talking to Linda in the parking lot. It was unusual for her to be there that late, but they’d needed her to fill the shift of a sick employee.
Troy and Linda got into separate cars, but drove out together. Instead of turning down toward New Britain Avenue, Troy followed her car out South Street toward Newington where she lived.
And as for me, that night I did not drive home. I went to Kim’s. I sat at the curb for awhile, and then shut off the engine and walked toward the front door. With a rising in my heart, I knocked.
The light came on. She peered out through the curtain, and then opened the door. I believe she saw in my face then what she had been looking for, what I had kept hidden even from my own heart. She took my hand and led me inside.
He had deep bags under his eyes. “I stopped and saw Pat’s father.” His hands shook as he drank from his bottle of Coca-cola.
“How’s he doing?”
“Okay, he’s all right.”
“How are you?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Did you get some sleep?”
“A little.”
He still looked awfully pale.
“You sure you don’t want to just go home?”
He shook his head.
“This is where I belong.”
“You need something to eat?”
“I’ve got a sandwich.”
I didn’t question him further. I noticed he had a small ceramic box with him that he set on the console.
Our first call was for an elderly woman with a fever, who’d spent the night vomiting. The visiting nurse said, “I’ve already called in the report. They know all about her at Saint Francis. I promised her you wouldn’t try to stick her with any needles. You’d leave that to the nurses in the ER.”
I was putting the sheet across the stretcher when she said that. I turned to look at Troy. I awaited his explosion. “Thank you for your report,” he said instead, without sarcasm. He knelt down by the patient’s side and took her wrinkled hand. “Hello. My name is Troy. I understand you’re not feeling very well.”
His voice sounded a little mechanical, but not insincere.
“I’ve been a bit queasy,” the woman said.
Troy patted her hand. “Well, we’re going to do our best to see that you have a comfortable ride in to the hospital. I’m going to do a couple things on the way there. I’m going to take your blood pressure, listen to your lung sounds, put you on our heart monitor, and ask you some questions I know the nice woman here has already asked you. They’ll ask you the same questions at the hospital, but we’re doing it just to make sure you get the very best care. We want to get you healthy and get you back here to your lovely home as soon as you are well enough.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I hate to bother you.”
“It’s no bother at all. It’s our job, our pleasure.”
When we got to the hospital, Troy had an IV in her arm, running in normal saline to hydrate her. She was smiling like a schoolgirl. “Light as a ballerina,” he said as we moved her across to the hospital bed on the sheet. He said to the nurse “Mrs. Greenspan’s son is an internist in New York, and her grandson’s following in his footsteps in medical school.” He went on to describe why we had brought her in and his physical findings, and then he patted her shoulder. “I wish you good health. You’re in good hands here.” She looked up at him with a light that must have been similar to the one she shone on her grandson.
“What’s going on with you this morning?” I asked as we walked back down the hall.
“Just trying to be a good paramedic,” he said.
“Well, you reminded me of one.”
Around ten thirty, we were sent for an unresponsive at the funeral home on Wethersfield Avenue.
Cars were double parked on both sides of the Avenue. “Hector R.I.P.” was white-washed on their rear windows of several of the cars. Police patrolled the grounds of the funeral home. A line of mourners stretched out the door and around the block. Many wore tee-shirts with Hector’s picture them.
“Look,” I said. “Why don’t I call in that our engine died and they’ll send someone else? I don’t think it’s a good idea going in there.”
Troy shook his head. “It’s our call, it’ll be all right.” He got out of the ambulance, took the monitor and blue bag out of the side door, and then laid them on the stretcher that I had pulled out.
We moved in through the crowd which slowly made way for us. People were dressed in black, many weeping. There were more flowers than I had seen in one place before.
Troy wore his Yankees hat. I kept vigilant.
We were led through a hallway into the receiving room. Hector lay in an open casket. Papa Ruiz sat slumped in a wheel chair. People gathered around him.
“What’s going on?” Troy said.
Helen Seurat was there. She nodded to Troy. “He’s the father of the deceased. He is not responding to anyone. I told the family I thought it was emotional, but they are worried maybe he had a seizure.”
I saw Hector’s wife holding Hector’s son, standing with the other family members, all watching Troy.
Troy nodded. “Did he fall over or have seizure activity? Bite his tongue? Wet himself?”
“No,” she said. “He just lay his head forward and hasn’t moved since.”
The family pressed around, looking at us. There were several small children.
Troy looked down at the man whose eyes stared nowhere. Troy touched his forehead. “Warm,” he said. He touched a finger to his eyelids, which twitched. Troy looked at me.
I shook my head. Don’t do it, I thought. Show some respect.
Troy knelt beside the man, felt his pulse. But he wasn’t looking at his watch. He watched the man for signs of movement.
“Blood pressure cuff,” he said. He held out his hand.
I gave it to him. He wrapped the cuff around the old man’s arm, pumped it up, and then slowly letting the air out, took his reading.
“How is it?” a woman asked.
“130/70.” Troy said, “That’s good.”
“What is the matter with him? Did he have a stroke?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What is wrong?”
I watched him look around at the faces of the others in the room. He took his cap off. He hesitated a moment.
“Take him to the hospital. He could be dying,” a man said.
Troy shook his head.
“Look at him. He’s having a stroke. He needs to go to the hospital.”
Troy gestured to a little girl, who stood behind a woman’s leg. “Come here.”
The girl went to Troy. He nudged her toward the old man. He beckoned to a woman, who held a baby.
She approached.
He held his arms out for her to hand him the child.
He took the baby, and set it in on Papi’s chest, and moved the old man’s arms until he was holding the child. Papi held the child close to his heart.
Troy said to the others, “He doesn’t need to go to the hospital. He needs to be here with his family.”
Troy stepped back.
While everyone watched the old man, Troy picked up his gear and walked out.
That afternoon we sat at Kenney Park.
“So what do you think of me?” Troy said, finally.
I looked at his dark eyes. “We all do things we regret,” I said. “It’s how you deal with the aftermath that matters.”
He looked out at the park now, at the tree limbs swaying in the light breeze, the children playing down by the pond. I don’t know where his mind was.
At dusk we drove up to Zion Hill. He took the box off the console, and we walked up the incline. “Pat’s Dad gave me some of Pat’s ashes. I’m supposed to disburse him where I remembered him best. Allison spread hers at Kent Falls where they had their first date. His mother spread hers at the playground she used to take him to when he was little. His father spread his over the high school football field. I think they wanted me to spread them out in the woods or at the next Super Bowl. I’m going to spread them here. Those were all places he played. Here is where he lived. You can say none of this makes a difference, but it’s got to count for something.”
On the radio dispatch sent out calls. “463 to Main and Tower for an MVA. 451 take Ashley Street for the asthma.”
Troy opened the jar and held it aloft to the wind that swirled down and took the ashes and whirled them out over the city. “Look out for us, old friend,” Troy said. “We need it. Even Lee, here.”
After I punched out, I saw Troy talking to Linda in the parking lot. It was unusual for her to be there that late, but they’d needed her to fill the shift of a sick employee.
Troy and Linda got into separate cars, but drove out together. Instead of turning down toward New Britain Avenue, Troy followed her car out South Street toward Newington where she lived.
And as for me, that night I did not drive home. I went to Kim’s. I sat at the curb for awhile, and then shut off the engine and walked toward the front door. With a rising in my heart, I knocked.
The light came on. She peered out through the curtain, and then opened the door. I believe she saw in my face then what she had been looking for, what I had kept hidden even from my own heart. She took my hand and led me inside.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Chapter 46
Troy looked terrible the next morning. I had to buy him some Scope so he could get the stench of alcohol off his breath. His eyes avoided mine. His face was pale grey.
Around noon, a sixty-two year old man dropped on a city bus. We were there in three minutes. He was in v-fib on the monitor. Troy shocked him at 200. He went flat line. I started CPR while Troy intubated him. I noticed the bag wasn’t reinflating quickly. Troy looked confused. Melnick and his partner had arrived to back us up. Melnick listened to the man’s chest as Troy squeezed the bag. He switched his stethoscope to the belly. “You’re in the stomach,” he said.
“What?” Troy said.
“Listen for yourself, or look at his belly. It’s getting bigger. You’re in the esophagus, you have to take it out.”
Troy tried twice more, but couldn’t get it in. I’d never seen Troy have such trouble. He’d never missed a tube before. Andrew had to push him out of the way and take over. Despite Andrew getting the intubation on his first attempt, the man remained asystole, and was pronounced dead at the hospital.
“What’s up with Troy?” Andrew asked in the EMS room afterwards.
“Nothing,” I said. “Everyone’s entitled to a bad day.” I walked away.
“Troy looks terrible,” Linda said that afternoon when we’d stopped back at the office to resupply and wash the vomit out of the rig. “I just asked him how he was. He completely blew me off.”
“He’s in a funk.”
“Did something happen?”
“He just missed a tube.”
“You’re kidding? Troy?”
“Yeah, he’s in a deep funk.”
“Do you think there’s anything I can do?”
“Call dispatch and ask them to go easy on us. Try to keep it BLS.”
“I can do that.”
“If we can get him through the day, maybe he’ll be better tomorrow.”
They posted us at Capitol and Broad next to 462. When a call came in they gave it to 62, then sent another car down to sit with us. The next call went to the other car. It went on like that for three hours. Troy didn’t even notice. When we were sitting there, Annie Moore came up and gave Troy her big smile. “Hey, handsome, I’ve feeling real lucky. I know today I’ll be a winner.”
He took out his wallet, handed her a twenty, and before she could say anything, used the automatic button to roll up the window.
“What’s up with him?” she said to me after she came had back around the corner from the liquor store as I was on my way in for a coffee.
“He’s moody,” I said.
“He’s gonna make me sad, but as long as he keeps giving me twenties, he’ll never break my heart.” She smiled at me as she stuffed the change in her pocket.
“I think you ought to take some time off,” I finally said to Troy. “Maybe take a whole month. You need to get out of here, clear your head of everything that has happened. People won’t think it’s strange.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You’re not doing anyone any favors coming to work like this. Did you even sleep last night?”
He looked straight ahead. He looked like a man condemned.
Around noon, a sixty-two year old man dropped on a city bus. We were there in three minutes. He was in v-fib on the monitor. Troy shocked him at 200. He went flat line. I started CPR while Troy intubated him. I noticed the bag wasn’t reinflating quickly. Troy looked confused. Melnick and his partner had arrived to back us up. Melnick listened to the man’s chest as Troy squeezed the bag. He switched his stethoscope to the belly. “You’re in the stomach,” he said.
“What?” Troy said.
“Listen for yourself, or look at his belly. It’s getting bigger. You’re in the esophagus, you have to take it out.”
Troy tried twice more, but couldn’t get it in. I’d never seen Troy have such trouble. He’d never missed a tube before. Andrew had to push him out of the way and take over. Despite Andrew getting the intubation on his first attempt, the man remained asystole, and was pronounced dead at the hospital.
“What’s up with Troy?” Andrew asked in the EMS room afterwards.
“Nothing,” I said. “Everyone’s entitled to a bad day.” I walked away.
“Troy looks terrible,” Linda said that afternoon when we’d stopped back at the office to resupply and wash the vomit out of the rig. “I just asked him how he was. He completely blew me off.”
“He’s in a funk.”
“Did something happen?”
“He just missed a tube.”
“You’re kidding? Troy?”
“Yeah, he’s in a deep funk.”
“Do you think there’s anything I can do?”
“Call dispatch and ask them to go easy on us. Try to keep it BLS.”
“I can do that.”
“If we can get him through the day, maybe he’ll be better tomorrow.”
They posted us at Capitol and Broad next to 462. When a call came in they gave it to 62, then sent another car down to sit with us. The next call went to the other car. It went on like that for three hours. Troy didn’t even notice. When we were sitting there, Annie Moore came up and gave Troy her big smile. “Hey, handsome, I’ve feeling real lucky. I know today I’ll be a winner.”
He took out his wallet, handed her a twenty, and before she could say anything, used the automatic button to roll up the window.
“What’s up with him?” she said to me after she came had back around the corner from the liquor store as I was on my way in for a coffee.
“He’s moody,” I said.
“He’s gonna make me sad, but as long as he keeps giving me twenties, he’ll never break my heart.” She smiled at me as she stuffed the change in her pocket.
“I think you ought to take some time off,” I finally said to Troy. “Maybe take a whole month. You need to get out of here, clear your head of everything that has happened. People won’t think it’s strange.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You’re not doing anyone any favors coming to work like this. Did you even sleep last night?”
He looked straight ahead. He looked like a man condemned.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Chapter 45
It was a cool evening after a day of late autumn rain. I was outside Hartford Hospital. I remade the stretcher and slid two long boards in the empty slots under the bench. We’d just brought in two patients from a minor motor vehicle accident, both claiming neck pain after being tapped by a Lincoln Continental. I was rolling up a nine foot strap by the supply closet when Troy came out, and said, “Let’s go. We need to go back to the office to change our 02.”
“I changed it this morning,” I said. “We have 1500 in the main. We didn’t even use any on that call.”
“Just head back there,” Troy said.
I got in the ambulance, turned the headlights on, and drove out the back way onto Retreat Avenue. Troy was silent as I turned left onto Washington, then took a right onto New Britain and followed that through traffic all the way to the office.
When we got back to the parking lot, Troy had me stop by his grey Chevy pickup. He took a duffle bag out of the passenger side door.
“What’s that for?”
“You can tell dispatch we’re clear,” he said.
Around ten-thirty, we swung by Capitol and Broad. Troy looked around, but not seeming to find what he was looking for, told me to circle the neighborhood. When he spotted Annie Moore standing in the doorway a few blocks up the street, he told me to pull over. Troy called to her.
“Tonight my lucky night?” she said. “You got five bucks for a girl on her birthday?”
“Your birthday was last month. Get in back.”
“I’m not done drinking,” she said. She showed her forty that had at least ten left in it.
Troy reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a fifth of Southern Comfort which he showed her. “Present from Sidney. Now get in back,” he said.
“This a trick?”
Troy stepped out of the car, and walked around to the back. He opened the door for her. “Sit on the bench. Go on.” He helped her up.
“Head over by the cemetery,” he said to me.
“You’re not going to rape and kill me are you?” Annie called from the back.
“No,” Troy said distractedly.
We drove into the cemetery. Troy helped Annie out, then gave her a blanket, the bottle of Southern Comfort and some crackers. “Go up and keep Sidney company for a couple hours and we’ll be back for you.”
“Oh, I’ll be good company,” she said, quickly taking possession of the bottle.
“You’re still here in a couple hours, I’ll give you fifty bucks.”
“It is my lucky night.”
“Just be here.”
“What are you up too?”
“Just taking care of business,” he said without looking at me.
At eleven thirty, as soon as we’d dropped off a psychiatric patient at Hartford, he told me to drive back to the cemetery. On the way, Troy checked his sugar, and then carefully ate a peanut butter sandwich. At the cemetery, Annie lay not ten yards from where we left her. Troy shined the ambulance spotlight on her. She was out cold, resting against a tombstone. He stepped out of the ambulance then, took off his uniform shirt and handed it to me. He reached in for his backpack, and then threw the backpack over his shoulder.
“Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“We get a call,” he said. “Tell them we just got flagged down for Annie.”
I looked at him closely. He didn’t avoid my eyes.
We stared at each other.
I offered him the radio.
He shook his head.
“I’ll be back after midnight.”
I watched him walk up the hill, and disappear in the darkness.
It was quiet in the city. 473 did an asthma on Westland Street. 456 a chest pain out in Newington. A police siren passed nearby, and then it was quiet. I couldn’t see anything up the hill. Mist rose off the pavement. A dog barked in the distance.
A shape emerged from the night. Troy was back. He wore a Yankee hat. I saw a welt under his eye. We stared at each other. He looked tired, but defiant.
He took off his muddy boots and stowed them in his sack, from which he’d removed another pair. He put his paramedic shirt back on, and then quickly ate a sandwich and drank it down with apple juice. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“We have to get Annie?”
“All right.”
“482,” I said into the radio. “We’re getting flagged down for a drunk here. Looks like Annie.”
“Okay 82, I’ve got you out.”
Jean Rushen, the triage nurse at Hartford, asked Troy about his eye.
“She clocked him,” I said.
“But she’s out cold.”
“With a bottle in her hand, she’s never out cold.”
“You should get that looked at,” Jean said to Troy.
He didn’t answer.
At four, right before we were supposed to get off, we were sent back to the cemetery. “Possible 78,” dispatch said. “See the PD on scene. Priority Two.”
There were five police cars there when we arrived. One officer told us, “It’s just a presumption.”
Troy slung the monitor over his shoulder and we walked up the hill to where we could make out the flashlights.
Hector Ruiz lay before a grave, his neck twisted at a horrible angle. I looked at the gravestone. Maria Ruiz.
“There was quite a scuffle here,” Denny Creer was saying. He shone his light on footprints. “They fought. The killer chased him around the grave three times, must have caught him, snapped his neck. Stabbed him in the gut. Left the knife in him. I doubt there’s prints on it. Somebody wanted him dead.” He looked at Troy. “You didn’t do it, did you?"
Troy looked at Creer with his dark eyes. I thought for a moment he might answer.
“We were on another call,” I said quickly.
“I was just joking,” Denny said. “Had to be gang-related. They’ve had a hit out on him. Pretty smart, I’d say. They knew he’d be coming here to see his sister. It’s the anniversary of her death. Can’t say as it’s a great loss. It’s a shame though. It’s just going to open up the OK Corral. Wild West time again. Keeps us all employed anyway.”
Troy wrote his name, date of birth and unit number on a piece of paper along with the time of presumption. He handed Denny the paper. Creer thanked him, and then turned to talk to his sergeant. I saw Troy carefully fold the six-second asystole strip he’d recorded and put it in his pocket. Troy looked down at the body. He spat on Hector’s face.
“I changed it this morning,” I said. “We have 1500 in the main. We didn’t even use any on that call.”
“Just head back there,” Troy said.
I got in the ambulance, turned the headlights on, and drove out the back way onto Retreat Avenue. Troy was silent as I turned left onto Washington, then took a right onto New Britain and followed that through traffic all the way to the office.
When we got back to the parking lot, Troy had me stop by his grey Chevy pickup. He took a duffle bag out of the passenger side door.
“What’s that for?”
“You can tell dispatch we’re clear,” he said.
Around ten-thirty, we swung by Capitol and Broad. Troy looked around, but not seeming to find what he was looking for, told me to circle the neighborhood. When he spotted Annie Moore standing in the doorway a few blocks up the street, he told me to pull over. Troy called to her.
“Tonight my lucky night?” she said. “You got five bucks for a girl on her birthday?”
“Your birthday was last month. Get in back.”
“I’m not done drinking,” she said. She showed her forty that had at least ten left in it.
Troy reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a fifth of Southern Comfort which he showed her. “Present from Sidney. Now get in back,” he said.
“This a trick?”
Troy stepped out of the car, and walked around to the back. He opened the door for her. “Sit on the bench. Go on.” He helped her up.
“Head over by the cemetery,” he said to me.
“You’re not going to rape and kill me are you?” Annie called from the back.
“No,” Troy said distractedly.
We drove into the cemetery. Troy helped Annie out, then gave her a blanket, the bottle of Southern Comfort and some crackers. “Go up and keep Sidney company for a couple hours and we’ll be back for you.”
“Oh, I’ll be good company,” she said, quickly taking possession of the bottle.
“You’re still here in a couple hours, I’ll give you fifty bucks.”
“It is my lucky night.”
“Just be here.”
“What are you up too?”
“Just taking care of business,” he said without looking at me.
At eleven thirty, as soon as we’d dropped off a psychiatric patient at Hartford, he told me to drive back to the cemetery. On the way, Troy checked his sugar, and then carefully ate a peanut butter sandwich. At the cemetery, Annie lay not ten yards from where we left her. Troy shined the ambulance spotlight on her. She was out cold, resting against a tombstone. He stepped out of the ambulance then, took off his uniform shirt and handed it to me. He reached in for his backpack, and then threw the backpack over his shoulder.
“Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“We get a call,” he said. “Tell them we just got flagged down for Annie.”
I looked at him closely. He didn’t avoid my eyes.
We stared at each other.
I offered him the radio.
He shook his head.
“I’ll be back after midnight.”
I watched him walk up the hill, and disappear in the darkness.
It was quiet in the city. 473 did an asthma on Westland Street. 456 a chest pain out in Newington. A police siren passed nearby, and then it was quiet. I couldn’t see anything up the hill. Mist rose off the pavement. A dog barked in the distance.
A shape emerged from the night. Troy was back. He wore a Yankee hat. I saw a welt under his eye. We stared at each other. He looked tired, but defiant.
He took off his muddy boots and stowed them in his sack, from which he’d removed another pair. He put his paramedic shirt back on, and then quickly ate a sandwich and drank it down with apple juice. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“We have to get Annie?”
“All right.”
“482,” I said into the radio. “We’re getting flagged down for a drunk here. Looks like Annie.”
“Okay 82, I’ve got you out.”
Jean Rushen, the triage nurse at Hartford, asked Troy about his eye.
“She clocked him,” I said.
“But she’s out cold.”
“With a bottle in her hand, she’s never out cold.”
“You should get that looked at,” Jean said to Troy.
He didn’t answer.
At four, right before we were supposed to get off, we were sent back to the cemetery. “Possible 78,” dispatch said. “See the PD on scene. Priority Two.”
There were five police cars there when we arrived. One officer told us, “It’s just a presumption.”
Troy slung the monitor over his shoulder and we walked up the hill to where we could make out the flashlights.
Hector Ruiz lay before a grave, his neck twisted at a horrible angle. I looked at the gravestone. Maria Ruiz.
“There was quite a scuffle here,” Denny Creer was saying. He shone his light on footprints. “They fought. The killer chased him around the grave three times, must have caught him, snapped his neck. Stabbed him in the gut. Left the knife in him. I doubt there’s prints on it. Somebody wanted him dead.” He looked at Troy. “You didn’t do it, did you?"
Troy looked at Creer with his dark eyes. I thought for a moment he might answer.
“We were on another call,” I said quickly.
“I was just joking,” Denny said. “Had to be gang-related. They’ve had a hit out on him. Pretty smart, I’d say. They knew he’d be coming here to see his sister. It’s the anniversary of her death. Can’t say as it’s a great loss. It’s a shame though. It’s just going to open up the OK Corral. Wild West time again. Keeps us all employed anyway.”
Troy wrote his name, date of birth and unit number on a piece of paper along with the time of presumption. He handed Denny the paper. Creer thanked him, and then turned to talk to his sergeant. I saw Troy carefully fold the six-second asystole strip he’d recorded and put it in his pocket. Troy looked down at the body. He spat on Hector’s face.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Chapter 44
Not a day went by that Troy didn’t drive by the abandoned building on Lawrence Street where Pat had been killed. Sometimes Troy had me park at the curb. He’d just sit there and stare at the place. I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was replaying in his mind what might have been had he been there. I don’t know whether he saw himself taking the bullet for Pat or maybe sensing something not right, hearing a creaking board in the dark house, in his mind he pushed Pat aside, dove to his right, then came running up the stairs, pursuing his fleeing assailant, tackling him, and then punching him senseless. Or maybe finding Pat shot, he put his finger in the hole in his heart, plugging the dike, and carried him out in his powerful arms, working his magic, getting him to the hospital where a surgeon could have time to work his craft.
We spent a lot of time driving slowly through the neighborhood. Troy would watch the street, eyeing the residents, the passersby, the hangers on. It was as if he were looking for a sign, a clue, something to make sense of who would do this deed.
One afternoon we went into the El Mercado on Park Street for an early lunch. El Mercado was a Spanish marketplace that included a supermarket specializing in Hispanic foods and produce, small merchants who sold beepers, Spanish musical tapes, and trinkets, a bakery, and several cafeteria style food vendors. I had just gotten my order of arroz con pollo, and Troy was ordering kingfish, when I noticed a man in a New York Yankees hat getting a box of pastries at the bakery stall. It was Hector Ruiz.
Troy saw the look on my face. He turned and saw Hector, who was walking toward us on his way to the back door.
Hector stopped stared at each other like they were both seeing something that had troubled them, but they weren’t yet certain what it was.
“Where’d you get that hat?” Troy demanded.
“Are you asking me?” Hector said.
“Yeah, I’m asking you. Where’d you get that hat?”
I glanced toward the market entrance. Denny Creer and another cop had walked in.
Slowly recognition crossed Hector’s face. “I know who you are now,” Hector said.
Now it was Troy who looked confused. I had a horrible recognition, but I dismissed it just as quickly.
“Who am I?” Troy said. “What are you talking about?”
The cops were walking towards us.
Hector stepped back, and retreated toward the back door.
“Hey, what’s good to eat here?” the other cop said.
“Try the chicken,” Denny said. “It’s Troy and Lee. What’s up guys?”
Troy was still watching Hector. He looked troubled like he was trying to figure out a calculus problem.
“You know who that is, right?” Denny said.
“I’m not sure,” Troy said.
“Hector Ruiz,” Denny said. “I’m surprised to see him in public. We just heard there’s a contract out on him.”
Troy’s eyes narrowed like it was all coming clear in his brain now. He nodded, but said nothing more.
“I think he’s the bastard who shot Pat,” Troy said when we got back in the ambulance. “He thought he was shooting me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I was going to testify.”
“I don’t know. I think that’s a reach.”
But I could see he was convinced.
That afternoon when we stopped at Capitol and Broad, Troy went over to the pay phone and called Victor. He turned his back on me and spoke in a hushed tone.
We spent a lot of time driving slowly through the neighborhood. Troy would watch the street, eyeing the residents, the passersby, the hangers on. It was as if he were looking for a sign, a clue, something to make sense of who would do this deed.
One afternoon we went into the El Mercado on Park Street for an early lunch. El Mercado was a Spanish marketplace that included a supermarket specializing in Hispanic foods and produce, small merchants who sold beepers, Spanish musical tapes, and trinkets, a bakery, and several cafeteria style food vendors. I had just gotten my order of arroz con pollo, and Troy was ordering kingfish, when I noticed a man in a New York Yankees hat getting a box of pastries at the bakery stall. It was Hector Ruiz.
Troy saw the look on my face. He turned and saw Hector, who was walking toward us on his way to the back door.
Hector stopped stared at each other like they were both seeing something that had troubled them, but they weren’t yet certain what it was.
“Where’d you get that hat?” Troy demanded.
“Are you asking me?” Hector said.
“Yeah, I’m asking you. Where’d you get that hat?”
I glanced toward the market entrance. Denny Creer and another cop had walked in.
Slowly recognition crossed Hector’s face. “I know who you are now,” Hector said.
Now it was Troy who looked confused. I had a horrible recognition, but I dismissed it just as quickly.
“Who am I?” Troy said. “What are you talking about?”
The cops were walking towards us.
Hector stepped back, and retreated toward the back door.
“Hey, what’s good to eat here?” the other cop said.
“Try the chicken,” Denny said. “It’s Troy and Lee. What’s up guys?”
Troy was still watching Hector. He looked troubled like he was trying to figure out a calculus problem.
“You know who that is, right?” Denny said.
“I’m not sure,” Troy said.
“Hector Ruiz,” Denny said. “I’m surprised to see him in public. We just heard there’s a contract out on him.”
Troy’s eyes narrowed like it was all coming clear in his brain now. He nodded, but said nothing more.
“I think he’s the bastard who shot Pat,” Troy said when we got back in the ambulance. “He thought he was shooting me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I was going to testify.”
“I don’t know. I think that’s a reach.”
But I could see he was convinced.
That afternoon when we stopped at Capitol and Broad, Troy went over to the pay phone and called Victor. He turned his back on me and spoke in a hushed tone.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Chapter 43
We responded for an unknown on Manchester Street in the Blue Hills neighborhood. “He was just right here talking, then he fell out,” the woman said.
The man wearing a grease stained mechanics uniform looked to be in his late sixties. He sat on the steel garbage can by the side of a one car garage as the woman and her husband held him up. He was unconscious. His breathing was irregular, his entire left side limp.
Troy looked at his pupils. “Right pupil’s dilated.” To the people, “What kind of medical history does he have?”
“He just a friend. He was in the hospital a year ago I know.”
“What’s he normally like? How did he get here?”
“He drove that car.” She pointed to an old Pontiac at the curb.
“Let’s get him to Saint Fran,” Troy said to me.
We rushed him to the hospital. Troy had me patch in a stroke alert. As I drove I watched him work with a flurry in the rear view mirror. He nasally intubated the man and put in two IVs. But as we neared the hospital, I could hear Troy talking to the man. When I came around back to pull the stretcher I saw Troy extubating him. The man coughed, and then Troy pulled the tube. The man looked at me and smiled.
“He’s healed,” Troy said.
His grip strengths were equal, his pupils back to normal. He’d had a massive TIA, a transient ischemic attack – a stroke that resolves itself. It wasn’t impossible, but I had never seen such a quick recovery from such total unconsciousness. I know it was crazy, but I had to believe it was Troy’s touch. While he had always been an exceptional paramedic, since he had come back, it was like he could do no wrong. In a space of a week we had three cardiac arrest saves. He had an aura about him now that made me feel he could save anyone by will alone.
Then we had a two-week lull like one no one had ever seen. There were no car wrecks, no shootings, and no cardiac arrests, at least none when Troy was on the clock. In those two weeks Troy delivered five babies -- four Patricks and one Patricia. The day the baby girl was born he bought a box of cigars and passed them out to all the crews on the road. He even passed out a box to the drunks in front of the Laundromat on Vine Street.
But Troy, who seemed to be trying almost too hard to make up for Pat’s loss, occasionally suffered from unpredictable mood swings that bordered on manic. I didn’t know if it was just stress from all that had happened or if he was on the verge of a true crisis. I watched him carefully.
He was pale, his eyes dark. He seemed very irritable. People would just ask him questions like how about the game last night and he’d snap at them in a tone that said leave me alone. I don’t care to be talked to by you. “What’s eating him?” they’d ask me. I’d just shrug, and say “That’s Troy these days.”
The morning was one where fender benders were breaking out all over town. We’d pull up, and people would be sitting there slumped in their seats, trying to look like they were in pain, while the other driver – of a Cadillac or a Volvo -- paced about, talking on his cell phone telling work he’d been in an accident and would be late. We’d walk about checking the cars for damage, not seeing any. “Guy’s got neck pain, wants to go to the hospital,” the cop said.
I felt the tension building in Troy all day. We were called to the home of a double amputee, who was running a fever and the visiting nurse said he needed to be evaluated at the hospital. “He just needs a ride to the hospital,” the nurse said. “I’ve called ahead, they’re expecting him.”
“You called 911 because he has a fever?” Troy said.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“You’re dam right it is. We came here lights and sirens for difficulty breathing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I told them he was stable.”
I interjected then. “It’s not your fault. The problem is with dispatch. Generally though, if it’s not an emergency, call this number.” I wrote the non-emergency down on a paper I handed her. “You’ll get an ambulance promptly. It just won’t come lights and sirens.”
Troy was still stewing as we left for the hospital.
“Since we got called,” he said to the man. “I’m going to have to put in an IV.”
“Let them do it at the hospital. I’d rather you didn’t,” the man said.
“Look,” Troy said. “We’re a 911 ambulance. I’m a paramedic. This is my job. You don’t want anyone to take care of you, call a taxi next time.”
“But I have no legs,” the man said.
Troy looked even more annoyed that the man had zinged him so innocently.
“Get a handicapped van to take you,” Troy snapped back.
“Can I get you a candy bar? I said afterwards.
He took out his glucometer and had me watch as he pricked his finger. The result came up 160.
He walked away.
That night Kim and I were in front of the fire at my place. We’d had a few beers, and while in the past we would have fallen into the bed, tonight we were both heavy in our thoughts of our world in Hartford, and how it seemed like Troy and maybe all of us, might be coming apart.
“You need to talk to him,” Kim said. “He looks up to you. You might be able to get through to him.”
“He isn’t open to anything right now. The very thought that people are thinking about what he’s feeling is driving him away from them.”
“Linda says he won’t even talk to her.”
“Sometimes men hold things inside. It’s our way.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“I know that.”
I put my arm around her and squeezed her.
“I love you,” she said.
I held her there in front of the fire and stared into the blazing wood.
The man wearing a grease stained mechanics uniform looked to be in his late sixties. He sat on the steel garbage can by the side of a one car garage as the woman and her husband held him up. He was unconscious. His breathing was irregular, his entire left side limp.
Troy looked at his pupils. “Right pupil’s dilated.” To the people, “What kind of medical history does he have?”
“He just a friend. He was in the hospital a year ago I know.”
“What’s he normally like? How did he get here?”
“He drove that car.” She pointed to an old Pontiac at the curb.
“Let’s get him to Saint Fran,” Troy said to me.
We rushed him to the hospital. Troy had me patch in a stroke alert. As I drove I watched him work with a flurry in the rear view mirror. He nasally intubated the man and put in two IVs. But as we neared the hospital, I could hear Troy talking to the man. When I came around back to pull the stretcher I saw Troy extubating him. The man coughed, and then Troy pulled the tube. The man looked at me and smiled.
“He’s healed,” Troy said.
His grip strengths were equal, his pupils back to normal. He’d had a massive TIA, a transient ischemic attack – a stroke that resolves itself. It wasn’t impossible, but I had never seen such a quick recovery from such total unconsciousness. I know it was crazy, but I had to believe it was Troy’s touch. While he had always been an exceptional paramedic, since he had come back, it was like he could do no wrong. In a space of a week we had three cardiac arrest saves. He had an aura about him now that made me feel he could save anyone by will alone.
Then we had a two-week lull like one no one had ever seen. There were no car wrecks, no shootings, and no cardiac arrests, at least none when Troy was on the clock. In those two weeks Troy delivered five babies -- four Patricks and one Patricia. The day the baby girl was born he bought a box of cigars and passed them out to all the crews on the road. He even passed out a box to the drunks in front of the Laundromat on Vine Street.
But Troy, who seemed to be trying almost too hard to make up for Pat’s loss, occasionally suffered from unpredictable mood swings that bordered on manic. I didn’t know if it was just stress from all that had happened or if he was on the verge of a true crisis. I watched him carefully.
He was pale, his eyes dark. He seemed very irritable. People would just ask him questions like how about the game last night and he’d snap at them in a tone that said leave me alone. I don’t care to be talked to by you. “What’s eating him?” they’d ask me. I’d just shrug, and say “That’s Troy these days.”
The morning was one where fender benders were breaking out all over town. We’d pull up, and people would be sitting there slumped in their seats, trying to look like they were in pain, while the other driver – of a Cadillac or a Volvo -- paced about, talking on his cell phone telling work he’d been in an accident and would be late. We’d walk about checking the cars for damage, not seeing any. “Guy’s got neck pain, wants to go to the hospital,” the cop said.
I felt the tension building in Troy all day. We were called to the home of a double amputee, who was running a fever and the visiting nurse said he needed to be evaluated at the hospital. “He just needs a ride to the hospital,” the nurse said. “I’ve called ahead, they’re expecting him.”
“You called 911 because he has a fever?” Troy said.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“You’re dam right it is. We came here lights and sirens for difficulty breathing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I told them he was stable.”
I interjected then. “It’s not your fault. The problem is with dispatch. Generally though, if it’s not an emergency, call this number.” I wrote the non-emergency down on a paper I handed her. “You’ll get an ambulance promptly. It just won’t come lights and sirens.”
Troy was still stewing as we left for the hospital.
“Since we got called,” he said to the man. “I’m going to have to put in an IV.”
“Let them do it at the hospital. I’d rather you didn’t,” the man said.
“Look,” Troy said. “We’re a 911 ambulance. I’m a paramedic. This is my job. You don’t want anyone to take care of you, call a taxi next time.”
“But I have no legs,” the man said.
Troy looked even more annoyed that the man had zinged him so innocently.
“Get a handicapped van to take you,” Troy snapped back.
“Can I get you a candy bar? I said afterwards.
He took out his glucometer and had me watch as he pricked his finger. The result came up 160.
He walked away.
That night Kim and I were in front of the fire at my place. We’d had a few beers, and while in the past we would have fallen into the bed, tonight we were both heavy in our thoughts of our world in Hartford, and how it seemed like Troy and maybe all of us, might be coming apart.
“You need to talk to him,” Kim said. “He looks up to you. You might be able to get through to him.”
“He isn’t open to anything right now. The very thought that people are thinking about what he’s feeling is driving him away from them.”
“Linda says he won’t even talk to her.”
“Sometimes men hold things inside. It’s our way.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“I know that.”
I put my arm around her and squeezed her.
“I love you,” she said.
I held her there in front of the fire and stared into the blazing wood.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)