Headline

 The headline in the paper catches me by surprise. “Iraq War Officially Ends.” With all the speculation leading up to the Invasion 10 years ago, the debate over weapons of mass destruction, then the shock and awe invasion, the fall of Bagdad, the Mission Accomplished banner, the resulting urban combat, the ICDs, flags flying at half mast. The Jessica Lynch story, the Iraqi prison scandal, the capture of Saddam, more urban combat and ICDs, more flags flying at half mast, it seems odd that the war is over just like that. There are no celebrations I know of, no couples kissing on Main Street, nothing seems to have changed. It is on the front page right there, but it has all the impact of a story buried deep in the paper. It is over? Was there a big battle we won or did we just decide enough is enough?

We get dispatched to the VA for a patient seeking detox. There are Christmas decorations in the lobby. A staff member wears a Santa hat. The doctor fills us in on our patient. The man admits to drinking a fifth of vodka a day. He apparently drinks nonstop. He is seeking detox. A nice man, the doctor says.

The patient, wearing brown fatigues, is sitting in a chair in the exam room. He is a giant – I’m guessing six six, two forty - but he struggles to get up from the chair. His body is stiff and his face contorts with pain as he moves. He hasn’t had a drink for three hours now, and already I can see the shakes in his big hands. We help him on the stretcher and try to get him comfortable. He says laying flat is best. He seems tense. I can see scars along his head and neck. He tells me has four purple hearts. He points out where shrapnel is still in his body. I ask him questions about the war. He was in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He was says he was part of an elite team that was there even before the invasion. He talks about dressing up like a sheik, wearing his beard long, gathering information. He tells funny stories about giving suitcases of heroin and bottles of Viagra to war lords for information. He had been in the army since he was he was 18. Almost twenty-five years.

For him he says it was all about his men. He has no interest in politics. Whether Washington or the chieftains he bribed for information and support, he says the nature of politicians is to change with circumstances to ensure their own survival. His loyalty was to his men, but with his injuries, he says he is of no use to them anymore. He is out now on 100% disability. “I haven’t been home but for two days since I got out,” he says. “I couldn’t stay there and let them see me like this. I live on the road now. I’ve got pain constantly and I can’t close my eyes without nightmares. I never drank till I got out. Now I can’t stop. I need help bad.”

I give him some fluid to ease the dehydration and 2 milligrams of Ativan to help with the withdrawal symptoms.

At the hospital, he thanks me, and I quickly thank him.

The paper can say what it wants. War doesn’t end.

Come on, People

 The young woman says her knee has given out. She thinks it is dislocated, but you can’t tell because you can’t even see the knee. She says she is five hundred pounds. She can’t get up on her own. One ambulance crew can’t do it. Try pulling her up by the arms and you will pull them right of their sockets. And if the sockets held, your backs wouldn’t. Also, we are on the third floor. No elevator. Tight corners in the apartment, lots of heavy furniture.

But then help is here. Now there are four of you. Throw in 10 mg of morphine and you have the start of a plan. The patient has said if you can just get her up to her feet, she may be able to hop down to the ambulance. Wishful thinking perhaps. Ever the optimist, I am. And if she can’t hobble, if you can get her to her feet, you can at least have her in a chair while you figure out your next move.

You go to old reliable to get her up. Get a board under her, strap her to the board. Sure she is hanging off both sides, but that’s what double belts are for. But first, you splint the knee. How do you splint a knee that wide. A KED -- wrap it around the knee like it is a torso. Now, its time to lift. Put one person on each side, one arm under the patients arm and the other holding a hole in the board. A third person at the feet to keep the person from sliding off the board as you lift it. And you, squatting down at the head end, and with a big grunt lifting, driving your legs up, as the two on each side, pull. Leverage. You have her standing in no time, and the four of you hold her up. My leg! My leg hurts! she says. So you quickly go to Plan B. The two chairs you have placed just to the side, and you quickly unstrap her and pivot her onto the chairs, where she now rests and lets out her breath. And then you turn and look behind you and see eight family members crowded into the room – every one of them holding a digital camera or video recorder, recording your every move.

You look at them and hold your hands up? You say nothing. You think what’s with the cameras, people, seriously? Is this to make fun of your sister? Is this to sue us? I admit that while I love my job and love the people of the great city where I work, in this moment, I am profoundly disappointed in these individuals.

The other medic on the call speaks to them professionally and succinctly and they put the cameras away. I am still shaking my head.

Come on, people.

***

The bottom line on the call was an hour and a half scene time, and only with an assist from our first responder friends at the fire department (who had not been dispatched to this call) and a hunt for a Stokes basket large enough to fit her into and with much pushing and hauling and moving of furniture and turning tight corners and going down a narrow stairway with wobbly wooden stairs, did we finally make our way outside. The other medic ended up taking the patient in, while I attended to and transported an injured responder. I haven’t yet found out whether or not the patient’s knee was dislocated. And as far as I know, we haven’t turned up on You Tube.