Why yes, all of our antique street boxes do still work…

…and here’s why.

No, seriously.

Click that big image. LIKE Magnum Boots on Facebook (why haven’t you already?), then LIKE their status update about the 12th Day of Christmas. Total time: less than 30 seconds. Impact: $1 to a worthy charity.

After you LIKE it I expect you to share it on facebook and twitter. They should reach this goal by lunch.

Merry Christmas from HMHQ!

Every single time I have been sent on a wild goose chase by radio based on a cell phone caller’s brief description of something fanciful has been erased from my memory ( OK, most of them. Well, some. Alright, the last 2 dozen)because of something they did recently.

Something that got them a phone call from me to say thanks.

I’m in the Captain’s buggy for the night and having a decent string of interesting calls when my screen comes alive steering my towards a reported suicide.

The text of this run reads like a teenager’s text message both in content and presentation.

In part shorthand is a scenario describing a person who’s son was online with another person who told another person they were going to kill themself and that a fourth party had supplied certain pharmaceuticals to make that request a reality.  Did you follow that?  Imagine your kid comes in and tells you Bobby saw on facebook that Jimmy said Ed was going to kill himself.  Now imagine you’re telling 911 that.

On scene with half the police watch (with beanbag gun!), an engine and one of my favorite ambulance crews, we’re wandering the laberynthine apartment complex looking for the unit in question.  Radio shoots back with a corrected unit number which sends us in the other direction.  For those of you not in the business, this is one of the first giveaways of a BS call.  Radio advises us they’re on the line with the cell phone prodiver who is actively pinging the phone and is giving a 91% probability the phone is currently inside the billing address.  They can do that?  Yup, they can do that.  Whether or not the owner of said phone is there they’re still in Beta testing on I’m told.

We finally find the unit in question and wake the occupants only to find they did not request us.  As PD turns to go the medic asks an important question:

“Are your children at home?”

They look at each other and then back into the unit. After a brief pause they answer with a question, “yes? why?”

PD’s ears are up and they’re in the unit faster than you can say exigent circumstances.  They search the unit and find our patient semi-conscious, deep under the influence of medications supplied by a friend.

He had snuck out, ingested the medications, then snuck back in to drift into the ether, but not before sending out a cryptic message on social media that was seen by someone who cared.

That person told their friend who told their parents who took it serious enough to call 911.

And my dispatchers took it serious enough to dig around and find out where the patient was and get us there as fast as they could.  And it made all the difference in the world for this family.

I tip my helmet to the voices…

Way to go, Radio!

I have been told by many a patient and parent that our mere arrival at a scene calms folk.  As if we were the reinforcements sent for by the last surviving members of a forward squadron, pinned down by enemy fire.  They hear our horns and calls and smile, because we’ve arrived to make everything better.

But what do we do when our reinforcements fail to turn the tide of the battle?

I’ve written before about dealing with parents when their children are under your care and we’ve also discussed the proper way to deal with death notifications, but what do we do when the two situations are the same incident?

A widow is someone who loses a husband, an orphan has lost their parents but there is no term for a parent that loses a child.  And for good reason.  It is one of the things we don’t talk about at dinner parties or at the water cooler.  Losing a child is unimaginable.  There are no words that a Paramedic could tell me that would make me come to terms if my own children had died, so finding the words to tell a perfect stranger may leave us stuttering and stammering.

Falling back into the old comfort zone of “They’ve passed” or “They’re gone” will only get us into more trouble, as we all know, so be ready for the moment when all your efforts have failed.  It’s nice in PALS when every kid’s rhythm changes, you got IV access on the first try and other difficult situations are handled on a prop or verbally, but we end it there.  When was the last time your instructor played the part of the distraught parent?

During an emotionally charged call as the paramedic supervisor I contacted the mother of our patient in the next room to ask about past medical history and a lot of other things she didn’t want to talk about.  As she just began to calm I told her our standard “We’re doing everything we can right now…” when she hit me with a whopper I wasn’t ready for:

“Everything is going to be OK because you’re here now right?” the pure desperation in her voice was outdone only in her cold grip on my arms as she turned me square to her and looked into my face.

It is very important to be completely honest and leave no room for parents to begin to interpret your statement to mean something it does not.  If they ask you what you’re doing, don’t answer with the gauge of needle, but instead simple terms they can understand like, “we’re giving (the child) medicine and fluids and carefully monitoring their reaction to it.”

This mother asked me 2 questions I had received in various forms, but never this clearly.  Just as she asked “Is her heart beating?” my mind began to say “no” just as my mouth uttered “We’re beating it for her.”  “Is she breathing?” was met quickly with “we’re breathing for her.” and the rest of the conversation revolved around everything we were doing FOR her…not TO her.

Focus on what you’re doing to help, not procedures you have done to them.  Take the clinical edge off of your interventions and make it easy for a frightened mind to begin to understand and a breaking heart to come to terms with.

I always knew San Francisco was filled with the rich and famous, but I never thought I’d meet them in the course of my duties as often as I do.  Worst part is I can’t tell you which comedian’s neighbor I’ve been to and looked into his living room or which movie actor almost choked on a fish bone.  Oh well, until I can figure out how to clearly hide the events in details and time passed, I wait.  However, one night on the ambulance I had a run in with a very rich old woman who…well…let’s just say we had a good laugh.

THE EMERGENCY

Code three for the fall.

THE ACTION

Again we’re upgraded to meet a stopwatch, and arrive on scene of the swanky apartment building to the usual cadre of managers waving for us to quiet down.  Odd how they want us there immediately, but demand we keep the noise down because “this is a quiet neighborhood.”  Whatever dude…

After explaining very clearly that we will not be parking around the back, then walking back around the front to the elevators, we are led to the top floor.  You know the one, where the elevator requires a key and opens directly into the apartment.  No, that’s not the right word. Palace.  The top three floors of this building belong to one person and it looks like it was redesigned sometime in the early 70′s then left for us to find.  Almost like a time capsule except for the giant flat screen TV and staff scurrying around on cell phones advising someone of the impending transport of their elderly boss.

In the staff kitchen on the interior of the space (yes, there is a staff kitchen separate from the main kitchen) sits a woman in her late 80′s dressed for a party sitting in a chair at a small table.  Half a dozen folks in black shirts and ties are explaining what happened, not one of them starting at the same point in the events so I distract them by telling my partner was in charge and they shifted their attention to him.

Crouching down to say hello I’m met with an embarrassed smile and an introduction.  Her name is Mable and she stumbled over a rug in the hallway helping the staff clean up from this evening’s fund raiser.  At her age she shouldn’t be getting her own coffee, let alone clearing dishes especially with a hired staff on hand but “…it’s my house and I can do what I want…” she reminds me as if we’ve had this discussion before.

There is no injury, she has no complaint, she simply stumbled coming down the hallway and dropped a tray of glasses.  Everyone panicked and we got involved.  They carried her to the staff kitchen and told her to sit tight until we arrived.

She asked to stand and go have a martini and I was obliged to allow it, but only after I finished my chart.  As I confirmed her name my pen stopped and I said “How do you spell your last name?”

“L-E-V-I.”

“Oh, Levi*, like the jeans.”

“Yes, like the jeans.”

Holy crap.  I looked around.  Not like the jeans.  The jeans.  She laughed and so did I.  Unfortunately I had to decline the offer of the martini.  No gifts you know…

*not her real name, but the real one was just as bitchin’, I assure you!

I’m on my way to the airport for a nice long trip away from everything with the Mrs to celebrate our anniversary.  I may or may not have internet access, so I’m pulling HM out of the sidebar until I get back.

There are a few posts pre-done and scheduled to go up, but I’ll let you know when I get back.

Happy Travels,

Justin

In all the discussion, bickering and complaining about what EMS providers should be called (EMT, Paramedic, Ambulance Attendant, Steward etc etc) I got to thinking about the first part of my current title:

Firefighter.

Walk into a room in most places on the planet, say you are a firefighter and I think it safe to say everyone knows what you do.  It has something to do with a big red truck and water and red stuff.  The specifics aren’t important and where you work isn’t important.  Or is it?

If I walk into that room as my 18 year old self I am a Firefighter following a 40 hour volunteer firefighter academy.  40 measly hours, yet I carry the same title as my counterparts in San Francisco, New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, Boston who have spent upwards of 18 weeks on the material.  They have more hands on training, more book time and a greater ability to do the job, but our titles are the same.  2 completely different skill sets and levels of education, same title.  No one who calls the Fire Department wonders how many IFSTA Certified, NFA FireFighter Level II’s are coming.  They care about how many firefighters are coming because what they need are people who can do the job.

At a car accident, no one has ever turned to a friend and said “Quick, call the EMT-99s this person is injured!”  No one holding a cyanotic child screams “Help! I need 2 Nationally Registered EMT-Basics trained to the new curriculum!”

They shout one of 2 things:

“Call the ambulance”

“Call the Paramedics”

The Paramedics

I say we run with it.

I am in favor of calling pre-hospital care providers Paramedics even though there is a large gap in the training, experience and capabilities of the many levels from sea to shining sea.  They don’t see the shiny patch on your shoulder is different than your EMT partner, nor do they notice you only inserted an OPA as an EMT instead of an ET.

They need help. We are it.  They call us what we are.

The  Paramedics.

Heck even most of us in the job are unsure exactly what a Paramedic should be, so what a great time to come together as one for once.

To those who will immediately back off and claim, falsely, that they earned a different title than the EMT when they completed their 2 year Paramedic program, come back when you’ve completed your Bachelor’s in EMS and tell me if you feel the same way.

My name is Justin Schorr and I am a Paramedic.  I have been a Paramedic in my patients’ eyes for almost 20 years, even though my little slip of paper says only 10.

…and I deserved it. Man I hate it when Motorcop is right.

I was driving through the City when my phone rang and it was work.  Sometimes I forget to take the radio out of my jacket pocket, sometimes it’s the keys…etc etc, so I answered it.

Then they put me on hold for a minute, and that’s when me and the Motor passing the other direction made eye contact.

I hung up, he swung around and I pulled over and waited.

I knew it was wrong, time to drink the tea.

CityMC – “Do you know why I turned around?”

HM – “I was on the phone.  Shouldn’t have been.  No excuse.”

CityMC – “License please. I’m going to cite you, this isn’t safe.”

He wandered back to the motor and began to scratch out the cite and my phone is ringing again.  No way in Hell am I answering it now.

He returns to the car where I’m patiently waiting, hands on the wheel.

CityMC – “Your license and your insurance have different addresses, which is correct?”

facepalm.

HM – “My insurance, Sir.”

CityMC – “You need to get to the DMV immediately and get that remedied.”

HM – “Yes, Sir.”

He went back to the bike and was on the radio…no what is he doing? He’s on the phone.  I make eye contact in the rearview mirror of him laughing and smiling on the phone and he turns away from me.

A few moments later he approaches the window and offers me the complete cite and asks me to sign.

I signed, no argument, no stupid excuse, no denying the obvious.

Then he gave me back my license and told me it was my lucky morning, he had just gotten good news.  This would only be a warning.  I should take what I would have paid in the cite and go buy a new hands free set, or 2, and use them.

And I will.

It just goes to show that if you are honest and respectful, and if he gets a lucky phone call, maybe you’ll just get a warning.

Now if only medics could have the same kind of power in transport decisions…

Kilted to Kick Cancer continues to turn heads and open conversations with total strangers about male specific cancers.  More so than either myself, Motocop or the starter of all this TOTWTYTR could have imagined I’m sure.

A random woman in her “early 60′s” (had I seen her at work I would have guessed 70′s) asked about the kilt in an airport food vendor line.  I mentioned the campaign and our intent for men to get checked.  Suddenly, after having known me for less than 60 seconds, has mentioned her husband sometimes has blood in his semen.  He told her it happens to “men of a certain age.”  NEGATIVE GHOSTRIDER!  I told her to call her husband from the airport to schedule an appointment with his doctor ASAP.

This is the exact mindset that likely has this man past the intervention stage if he does in fact have prostate issues.  If only she could have bumped into a kilted man 30 years ago.

And that is the point here folks.  We need to raise awareness so that when the generation staring at facebook is old enough they know what needs to get checked.  Heck, how many folks go overdue on their oil change on the car, let alone keeping up with their own health and that of those around them.

Visit the links, share them with important men in your life and if you can spare a few bucks to help research, click the links below the Kilted to Kick Cancer logo there in the sidebar.  Next month everything will turn pink for breast cancer and the kilts will go back on the hangers (not for too long though, details on that soon), but the fact remains that this cancer is killing almost as many men as breast cancer kills women and we’ve only scratched the surface on even researching it.  Like Motorcop says, cancer is like a giant domino game.  Once one falls, the rest are sure to follow.

Kilt up, and if you don’t have a kilt, support a blogger who does!