Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Giving Up
The first time I met him, he was sitting in his boxers on the edge of his bathtub, blood spilling down his arm into the shallow water, his skin still damp from the shower. I knelt on the bathroom floor while I washed his arm off and dressed the wounds, and coaxed him into the fresh pair of jeans waiting on the edge of the sink. We draped his button-down shirt over his shoulders as he hid his arm from the other people in the apartment building, not speaking a word during the entire process.
In the quiet of the truck, he told me that he'd been trying to kick a heroin habit for the last year, that he'd just started methadone treatment and then the social worker took his daughter away. That life had finally given up on him.
I told him that he didn't have to believe me, but it'd been nearly a decade since the scars on my own arms were made, and things had gotten better. He just had to be stubborn.
*
The second time I met him, he was having an anxiety attack because he'd taken the wrong medication. The unknown pills belonged to a friend of a friend, and there were none left to bring to the ER to show the doctors. He wouldn't say it straight out, but we both knew they were illegal drugs rather than prescribed medicine. He'd gotten the two confused because the unlabeled pill bottle had been left on the kitchen counter where his pills normally were. He recognized me, but I didn't want to remind him of his rock-bottom, so we talked about how he was thinking of going to school again.
*
The third time I met him, he was lying supine on the floor of his bedroom, surrounded by empty pill bottles. He was still warm, but not warm enough. His pinpoint pupils stared empty at the ceiling as we manhandled him on to a backboard, attempting to keep compressions going as we carried him down 4 flights of narrow stairs. The monitor told us what we already knew, that electricity was useless, but we kept fighting until the hospital staff took over. We were stubborn. Life wasn't ready to give up on him, even though he believed that it already had.
But he had given up on life.
And he had given up on a little girl, who would have done anything to walk down the aisle one day arm in arm with him, no matter how many scars he carried beneath his black tuxedo sleeves.
*
In the quiet of the truck, he told me that he'd been trying to kick a heroin habit for the last year, that he'd just started methadone treatment and then the social worker took his daughter away. That life had finally given up on him.
I told him that he didn't have to believe me, but it'd been nearly a decade since the scars on my own arms were made, and things had gotten better. He just had to be stubborn.
*
The second time I met him, he was having an anxiety attack because he'd taken the wrong medication. The unknown pills belonged to a friend of a friend, and there were none left to bring to the ER to show the doctors. He wouldn't say it straight out, but we both knew they were illegal drugs rather than prescribed medicine. He'd gotten the two confused because the unlabeled pill bottle had been left on the kitchen counter where his pills normally were. He recognized me, but I didn't want to remind him of his rock-bottom, so we talked about how he was thinking of going to school again.
*
The third time I met him, he was lying supine on the floor of his bedroom, surrounded by empty pill bottles. He was still warm, but not warm enough. His pinpoint pupils stared empty at the ceiling as we manhandled him on to a backboard, attempting to keep compressions going as we carried him down 4 flights of narrow stairs. The monitor told us what we already knew, that electricity was useless, but we kept fighting until the hospital staff took over. We were stubborn. Life wasn't ready to give up on him, even though he believed that it already had.
But he had given up on life.
And he had given up on a little girl, who would have done anything to walk down the aisle one day arm in arm with him, no matter how many scars he carried beneath his black tuxedo sleeves.
*
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Good Aim
I like the challenge that gunshot wounds present. I like that they keep me on my toes as a provider. I like the load and go mentality of trauma.
I like the reassurance that people around here generally have bad aim.
I don't like single shots that create an injury incompatible to life.
I don't like recognizing someone we've fixed before, as my partner and I grant them one last measure of dignity, shielding them from the gathering crowd.
I don't like when the only person we transport from the scene is the family member who fainted at the sight of a simple white sheet spread over black asphalt, destroying life as they knew it.
I can't fix anything for anyone in this.
I like the reassurance that people around here generally have bad aim.
I don't like single shots that create an injury incompatible to life.
I don't like recognizing someone we've fixed before, as my partner and I grant them one last measure of dignity, shielding them from the gathering crowd.
I don't like when the only person we transport from the scene is the family member who fainted at the sight of a simple white sheet spread over black asphalt, destroying life as they knew it.
I can't fix anything for anyone in this.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Skin Gun
This may just be the most awesome thing I've ever seen.
Check out the National Geographic episode Monday February 7 at 10pm.
Check out the National Geographic episode Monday February 7 at 10pm.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Name
For the reader whom I have the misfortune of living down the hall from (and occasionally working with),
You creeper. When I said go read some work-related blogs, I didn't mean mine.
I named this blog when I thought my EMS career would be heading towards paramedicine, rather than back to working on a Bachelor's degree. After that, I kept the name to help keep an illusion of anonymity. Keeping you all confused as to what I actually was totally worked, right? Not. And it just sounded nice. :)
But I'm all growed up now and your reasoning makes sense. I like being an EMT-B.
So fine. You win. Name downgrade in the immediate future. Or as soon as I figure out all the logistics. Or on my 1-year blog anniversary next month. Or I'll just change the title/my name and not the URL, cause I'm awesome like that.
♥
PS: Now I definitely have to upgrade my license at some point. Just to mess with you.
...and you'll get your blackmailing extortionist cookies when I get home tomorrow.
You creeper. When I said go read some work-related blogs, I didn't mean mine.
I named this blog when I thought my EMS career would be heading towards paramedicine, rather than back to working on a Bachelor's degree. After that, I kept the name to help keep an illusion of anonymity. Keeping you all confused as to what I actually was totally worked, right? Not. And it just sounded nice. :)
But I'm all growed up now and your reasoning makes sense. I like being an EMT-B.
So fine. You win. Name downgrade in the immediate future. Or as soon as I figure out all the logistics. Or on my 1-year blog anniversary next month. Or I'll just change the title/my name and not the URL, cause I'm awesome like that.
♥
PS: Now I definitely have to upgrade my license at some point. Just to mess with you.
...and you'll get your blackmailing extortionist cookies when I get home tomorrow.
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