streetstoriesems

The career archive of a NYC paramedic

Month: August 2020

first aid, medical, medicine

The Polygamist

August 22, 2020 /

Along with smoking and poor diet there are other factors that can endanger one’s health and longevity. Although not cardiac in nature, one man’s poor lifestyle choices led him to call 911 for chest pain on several occasions. His heart problems began when he complicated his life by sharing a 700 square foot apartment with the three girlfriends he was juggling. “I’m a man who loves too much,” he would say. “I can’t help it. No one woman could handle all that I have to give. My heart is just too big.”

“He’s having a heart attack,” said one of the girlfriends as we arrived. She said it with no great urgency, just matter-of-fact, and directed us behind her. We entered an apartment whose decorating scheme centered around large storage container boxes doubling as furniture. In addition to the containers being used as tables and stools, one held a small toddler who would be pushed around the apartment by 5 or 6 other small children while we were there, all happily oblivious to the events going around them. The place was already chaotic and we hadn’t even met all the wives yet.

We found our 42 year old male sitting in a chair flanked by the other two women in his life. They were each holding an arm and stroking his hair. He was hyperventilating and clutching his considerable belly. A plethora of prescription bottles were found on a bright red plastic storage container that doubled as an end table.

“Please,” he said looking back and forth to each woman with a pained expression on his face. “Please get me a cold wet rag for my forehead.” The two ladies looked at each other for a few moments before one of them reluctantly got up. She must have known doing so would cause her to lose her spot. When she got up the woman who had answered the door took over the left arm position which clearly annoyed the woman getting the wet rag.

As we cleared some space for our equipment a chubby little arm attached to a curious little girl stretched out with a lollypop for me. As I declined, I told our patient, Miguel, how cute I thought his daughter was and how we shared a proclivity for sweets.

“Oh she’s not his.” said one of the girlfriends. “Only three of these are his, two with me and one with her,” pointing to the other older girlfriend.

“And another on the way,” said the youngest one, proudly patting her belly.

As we extended our congratulations we noticed the other two women looked at each other and rolled their eyes in displeasure. The younger woman saw this and smiled even more. There was definitely and underlying dynamic going on here.

“I got other children too,” said Miguel. “They just don’t live with me.”

This man had quite an extensive love life, obviously. What kind of charm did he hold? He definitely wouldn’t be considered attractive in the conventional sense. He was overweight and missing a front tooth in a set of broken yellow teeth. Hygiene didn’t seem to be an priority, including the food clinging to an oddly shaped handlebar moustache. How did this man have three women fighting over him?

And what of these women? What was in this for them? Were things that grim in the dating world? I felt that they could probably do better. They were more than moderately attractive with pretty faces. It seemed that Miguel had a ‘type’ in that all three of the ‘wives’ looked as if they could be sisters, or at least related.They were on the tall side, taller than Miguel, heavy-set and had long curly hair. Two of the women were probably in their late 30’s. The younger one was in her early 20’s.

As I attached our cardiac monitor to Miguel and took some vital signs my partner approached one of the older women and asked if they could assist by providing some basic information. The other older woman shoved her out of the way and said “Ask me. I’ve been with him 11 years. I know him better!”

The first one then shoved her way back over and said “Well I’ve been with him NINE years! So you should ask me!” Perhaps she was just bad at math or maybe the seniority rules worked differently over here. The two argued briefly over who should be giving out his information, each insisting that they were more knowledgeable, based on their many years clutching his arm and providing wet rags. Another tangent they went off on centered on how slow the other was in obtaining the damp rags and not holding the arm supportively enough. My partner looked over at me with the same pained expression Miguel had when we walked though the door. The younger one walked over with an ID or Medicaid card and attempted to hand it to my partner. One of the other ladies took it out of her hands and threw it on the ground.

“Stay out of this!” she told the newest wife. She shrugged and walked away, resuming her seat on a futon.

“Good luck,” she told my partner.

“I get heart attacks all the time.” Miguel said to me. He handed me his latest discharge paper from the local hospital. It was dated only a few days earlier.

“ACUTE ANXIETY” was the diagnosis. The paper showed he was prescribed another anti-anxiety drug with instructions to “reduce stress.”

“It feels the same now as it did then?” I asked. He nodded. “What was going on when this came on?”

“They was fighting.” he said casually.

“Ahhh…” I said.

“Oh that’s nothing,” he said. “They always fighting. Every day. This is nothing new.” Then he took off the oxygen mask we had given him and said very loudly towards the women, “But I love all my wives EQUALLY!”

The woman kind rolled their eyes a little but the nine year veteran looked at the younger one and said “That’s right! We are all EQUAL”

The youngest just patted her belly and nodded with a sly expression that made me think that she had a slight advantage over the other two.

I went through the medications that were next to the lamp on the storage container table and noted they were all for anxiety and acid reflux.

“Oh yeah,” Miguel said. “I get a lot of anxiety. And acid from anxiety. I had it a long time. I get disability for it.

“So you don’t work.” said my partner, not as a question but as a statement. “And you’re home all day. Here. With the wives. And they’re home all day too. With you. And each other. And you’re all just together. Here.”

Miguel nodded. The wife with 11 years pointed out that she and the 9 year wife don’t work either. “We are here all the time to take care of him,” she said. “He’s a very sick man. He needs help. That’s our job. But she works. She’s out working a lot of the time.” she said pointing to the youngest with contempt.

“Hell yeah!” said the youngest wife. “And be here with you all day? How do you think we pay for this place? And your QVC habit?”

The tension had just gone up a few notches. “Take me to the other room,” said the 11 year wife to the 9 year wife, “before I get arrested for slapping down a pregnant woman.”

“You do like the QVC.” the nine year wife told her as she walked away.

With the exam wrapped up all signs pointed to another anxiety attack, with some possible GI issues as well.

“So I don’t have to go?” asked Miguel.

“Oh no,” yelled my partner from the other side of the room. “There’s no way we are leaving you here.”

Miguel’s symptoms seemed to decrease considerably when we left the apartment. I found it strange that none of the women offered to accompany him but I learned later that a previous crew had made this a rule and it seemed to work out better for all involved to not have anyone go instead of having a huge fight over who would stay with the children and who would go to the hospital.

We returned to the same apartment a few months later on Valentines Day. The three wives had gotten into a brawl over the gifts Miguel had chosen for them. As another testament to his high desirability he had made sure it was the thought that counted, rather than the price of the gifts. The three women had each gotten some kind of NYC tourist trinket, the kind sold by street vendors. A clock highlighting the Statue of Liberty lay broken on the floor. Miguel’s love for NYC, or perhaps just NYC souvenir items, was an unsaid point of consternation, I felt. There was also a difference of opinion on the amount paid for each item with the consensus being that the little replica NYC taxicab cost more than the clock and the “I Love NY” t-shirt, which was 2 sizes too small for any of them. An argument ensued regarding the t-shirt with the recipient implying it was meant for one of the others as a hint that she was getting too large. It seemed lost on her that all three of them would have been considered too large by that reasoning. It was the same woman who had been confused about whether 9 or 11 was a longer duration of time.

Despite some scratches and disheveled hair none of the women wanted to go the hospital. Miguel did though. He practically ran to the ambulance. We suggested that his toxic home life may be to blame for his numerous hospitalizations and he acknowledged that it did. But he simply said “There’s nothing I can do about it. I am a lover. I cannot choose who I am.”

cartridges, weapon, war

10-13

August 22, 2020 /

After racing across the borough we had made it to the block our call would be on. We slowed down in an effort to locate the correct building. Finding address numbers from the street is not always easy. Down the road we could see someone sitting on their stoop. Since he made no effort to wave or flag us we assumed he was not associated with our call. When we reached his building we found that we were wrong.

He was probably around 16 or 17 years old and he got up angrily and made his way to our vehicle. He had an odd stomping type of gait that made it appear that his sneakers didn’t fit-and by the size of his sneakers it seemed true. His green athletic shorts appeared to be oversized as well. He also had on a tank top and a thick gold chain. He had messy hair and freckles and he was really mad.

He pounded on my window when he got to it. “Sure, take your time, bitches! Who cares if a man is dying upstairs? Right?” He backed off a little but he rattled me. My partner turned off the truck and got out. The kid started stomping over to the building thinking we were following. He turned back to look at us, furious that we weren’t right behind him. He gave us that “come on” look.

“We have to get equipment.” my partner said.

“Fucking just take your fucking time you lazy fucking cunts….Just let my uncle bleed to death why don’t you?” He came closer and lifted up his tank top to show us that he had a firearm. “I ought to pop the both of you so you could see what that’s like.”

My partner and I exchanged glances. “How about you open the door for us. We will be right there,” we told him. The kid was annoyed but apparently he didn’t think it was such a big deal to threaten people with a gun. He walked over to the door.

Instead of opening the side compartment where our equipment was, we opened the side door to the ambulance patient compartment and we both got in and shut the door behind us.

“10-13!” we screamed into our radio. This is a distress call for assistance. We gave our unit and location and requested police assistance immediately. We told the dispatcher we had been threatened with a gun and gave the description of the teenager. The dispatcher advised us to find a ‘safe place’ until police arrived.

The kid came back to the ambulance and began pounding on it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. He continued to curse us and I wondered what kind of protection the walls of this vehicle really offered us.

It seemed like a long time but it was really just a few minutes that we sat crouched down from the flimsy windows of the patient compartment. Our call for help was answered in a spectacular display as multiple police cars and ambulances pulled up to the scene. We continued to wait inside until we saw that the police had surrounded our potty-mouthed antagonist.

“Why are you arresting me? Arrest THEM! Those girls don’t care if my uncle is DYING.” he was yelling.

“Well,” said the cop. “If he was dying, you killed him by threatening the people who could have done something about it.” The loaded gun was secured and the kid showed no sign of remorse.

A lieutenant showed up after all the ambulances, which is automatic today but was not always the case back then. I recognized Lt. Larry from a station close to ours. I didn’t know much about him but he wasn’t very popular. His face was smiling and he seemed to be doing this ‘calm down’ motion with his hands. As he walked by he told everyone to go back into service. One crew offered to stay and check out the original patient. “That probably won’t be necessary,” he told them.

He came over to us and made a face that I read to be ‘oh you hysterical women, what have we done now?’ He asked us what the “fuss” was about.

“I guess you didn’t hear our radio transmission.” I offered. The implication that he hadn’t monitored his radio properly seemed to make him defensive.

“So you were threatened? With a gun?” he didn’t seem to realize there was a man being arrested for that very thing. We explained that yes, that is exactly what happened. “You mean it was just in his pants? So you even know what a real gun looks like? Especially if he never took it out?” This was incredible. What stupid girls we were for quickly thinking the worst and acting on it. “He was probably just trying to scare you. Is that why you didn’t go inside to check on the patient? Did you think about him? What about him, what’s he doing?”

A police officer heard what was going on and said “Are you implying that they should have ignored the threat? Are you saying that you’d risk having them shot and killed? You’re a terrible boss, a terrible human being. Honestly. I think you should leave.”

Lt. Larry turned to him and said “It’s easy for you to say. You have no idea. We’ve got calls holding. Look at all these ambulances here, all in one place. These girls are OK. Nothing happened.” He turned to us. “Now who’s going to go check on the patient? Did anyone think about him?”

The crew that had offered originally to check on the patient told him they were going. They asked some of the officers on scene to accompany them. It would turn out later that the uncle only had a varicose vein that had started bleeding. It may have looked dramatic but it was not life-threatening. If anyone had been overdramatic it had been us, according to Lt. Larry. It certainly wasn’t our man with the gun.

Lt Larry rolled his eyes but let them take over the call. “And so what are you going to do?” he asked us.

“They’re going to the precinct to make a statement.” said the officer.

“You mean he’s really arrested?” asked Larry. He said it kind of sardonically, as if some macho, he-men had made a show of things just to impress the ladies. Everyone was making a big deal for nothing. I heard from someone later that when he told the story to his peers he implied that the gun had probably not even been real, as if that really would have made any difference. He painted himself as the only rational person at the scene, concerned with getting units back into service and making sure the original patient didn’t file a lawsuit against the city.

“Yes. He’s really arrested. This is a felony,” said the cop. Lt. Larry raised his arms up in a big gesture of surrender to the overblown nonsense of the day.

The kid had been watching the exchange the whole time. As he got into the police car he started laughing and said to the cop, “Wow. That man really is an asshole.”

But I Could Die

August 20, 2020 /

The door was opened by a young child. Several children of various ages stood behind him, two in diapers. It was a little after midnight and they weren’t in bed. But I had long gotten used to young children being up when they, really all of us, should have been sleeping. We were all ignoring our circadian rhythms. One of the older boys made his way to the door, to act as spokesman for the rest of the group.

“We had a problem waking up our mom. That’s why we called 911,” he said. He led us to the bedroom where the young mother was laying in bed.

“They told me I should wait here, in bed,” she said. Who had told her, the dispatcher? “No,” she said. “The children.” She apologized for ‘bothering’ us and said she was fine.

We asked what had happened and the oldest boy, who we found out later was 11, explained that the kids were watching television but there was a problem with the remote. They tried to wake up their mother to fix it but she didn’t respond right away. They were very concerned she was unconscious because it took repeated prodding to wake her up. They had never seen their mother have such a difficult time getting up and when, after a few minutes, she did wake she seemed disoriented at first.

“We kept saying ‘MommyMommyMommy’ but she kept sleeping.” said one of the smaller children.

When we asked their mother about the incident she explained that she had been up for two days straight because of a very long list of circumstances, including repeated trips to the ER with one of the younger kids who had asthma. She went into great detail as to how hectic things had been and it was exhausting just listening to her struggles. I am always in awe of single parents and the way they juggle the needs of their children with the day to day needs of daily living. She had finally been able to lay down and despite having only gotten 45 minutes of sleep she had had very intense dreams. We asked her how she felt now and she said, simply, “Tired, just very, very tired.”

We did a short exam and established that she had excellent vital signs, no medical history and took no medications. She said that she had eaten properly, despite her rigorous schedule. When asked about the ‘disorientation’ she experienced getting up she said she hadn’t been confused but that her eyes had had some difficulty adjusting to the light. Her explanation was extremely understandable and reasonable. We were completely on board with letting her get back to sleep.

When the oldest son heard that their mother was getting ready to refuse transport to the emergency room he became very upset and pleaded with her. “But mom,” he said. “You GOTTA go. What if something happens?”

The rest of the children agreed. “You got to go get checked out! We don’t want you to get sick.”

“But mommy is not sick,” I explained. “Just tired. Sometimes it’s really hard to get out of bed when you haven’t slept in awhile and get woken up. She would probably feel better if she got some rest.”

“No.” said one of the children. “Hospital.” All of the others unanimously protested as well.

“I’ll get my coat,” said the mother.

I’m never one to discourage someone from going to the hospital but in this case I felt that her needs would definitely not be served by spending several hours in a waiting room only to be told it’s normal to resist getting up when your body is craving rest. I was sure that the mother knew that too.

“I really don’t want to go but they want me to and I don’t want them to be mad,” she said. I can understand giving in to pressure as a path of least resistance but the pressure here was being exerted by very young children. But if she wanted to forgo sleep to placate her children who was I to argue?

“It’s OK,” she said. “I should go anyway. You never know what could happen.” I understood it could be the sleep deprivation talking but she elaborated. “Next week or something, I could be on the bus and just die. I better get checked out.”

The premise that getting checked at an ER with no specific complaints could somehow prevent an impending, random death is something we hear often enough. The logic of it doesn’t really pan out. A busy staff dealing with the constant influx of emergencies isn’t generally able to do the entire battery of tests that would weed out a hidden life threatening problem.

She got dressed and called her neighbor to take care of the children while she was at the hospital. The neighbor was very concerned when she rushed over and I wonder what she was thinking when she hurried over in the middle of the night just to find out that there is “nothing really going on, I’m just getting checked.” The neighbor looked at her watch but even she agreed that ‘you never know.’

The two older boys instructed their mother that she was not to return until she was better. The mom smiled and nodded and we went to the hospital.

After the triage nurse took all the patient’s information and did her vitals again she was at a loss as to which category to place her in and what part of the hospital to send her to. She called over another nurse to ask what to do and, in seeing the mini conference, a doctor came over as well. The triage nurse asked the patient to give the story of events leading up to her arrival at the ER, which she did. The doctor became increasingly exasperated. “So you are tired?” he asked. She nodded. “And why are you in an emergency department and not at home sleeping?”

“Because my kids don’t want me to die.”

The two nurses and the doctor looked at each other incredulously. It always makes me smile when novices are introduced to my world.

“I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this,” said the doctor. “But one day you will die. But right now, there is nothing a reasonable ER can do you for you. There is nothing to fix, there is nothing we can change, there is no reason to change anything. Why don’t you just go home and get some rest?”

“I’ll just wait.” she said. “My kids will know that I came right back and they will be upset if I didn’t at least get checked out.”

“You are the parent!” the doctor was becoming increasingly frustrated. “You were checked out! We checked your vital signs, you have no issue to investigate further. I prescribe rest for you! Is that what you need to hear? Do you want documentation for your children? I will write a note if that will give you peace of mind.”

“Maybe it’s good now, but what if I’m in a store or something next week and something happens?”

The nurse signed my paperwork as the doctor stormed out and the other nurse shook her head. She directed the woman into the waiting area and just shrugged at me as she walked away. I came back to that ER several more times that night and each time the mother was still in her seat, wide awake and waiting.

music, toy, wind

The Kazoo

August 20, 2020 /

One of the worst parts of being a supervisor is being forced to answer an incessantly ringing phone. If you are a prank phone call enthusiast this fact allows for many opportunities to unite with your coworkers in a creative team-building activity that helps with morale. As someone who took part in so many of these exercises to improve station spirit, I knew one day when I took the promotion to lieutenant that I would eventually have to be at the receiving end at some point. So I accepted my inevitable pranking with professionalism.

At first I was disappointed in the lack of effort, then at the poorly thought out themes. I allowed for the fact the younger generations were more familiar with texting than calling but the fact that they still tried every once in a while should have caused them to come up with a better game plan. But eventually a formidable pranker rose to the fore.

The first round of calls involved someone trying to sell all of us chained to our desks a blender popular on the infomercial circuit. He called repeatedly causing most of my coworkers massive headaches as they were required to pick up the phone shortly after slamming down the receiver moments before. But I enjoyed engaging with him, acting immensely interested in buying a blender and asking for an extended sales pitch. My pranker was able to think spontaneously and keep up with my demands. My partner watched me during one phone call and started screaming at me to hang up. “It’s a scam!” she screamed. “A scam!” I completely ignored her as I prepared to give up my phony credit card number.

It was a nice change but just a step above amateur. But then one of my crews got the fantastic idea to hand their phones over to drunk patients after calling me. It led to some fun conversations. They eventually figured out the best person to give their phones to was a homeless man named Jorge.

Jorge used to ask me philosophical questions and answer me with completely unrelated topics.

“Hello, lieutenant.” he used to say. “Why do we need one million different kinds of wine? Do you think if someone was blindfolded they could really tell the difference? I call bullshit on that. Do you like vodka better? I do. Vodka makers don’t play the same kind of stupid games.”

“There’s like a million different brands of vodka.” I’d say.

“My doctor says I don’t get enough fiber.”

“Maybe they should put fiber in vodka. Vitamins too. Fortify it.”

“It’s been a long time since I had a smoke. I sure miss it.”

My crews would give me updates on Jorge from time to time since I never seemed to run into him on the nights I was on the road. I learned when he had broken a leg, when birthdays occurred, how many of the homeless women he was interested in and his luck with dating them. He was definitely one of the better regulars. One of my crews liked him so much they gifted him a kazoo.

For many nights thereafter I was serenaded on the phone by kazoo. Though I missed our intellectual discussions, I enjoyed the musical performances more. He really put his heart into them. My crews told me how much he loved learning to play new songs and give performances to anyone who would listen. Unfortunately one night, during a long drunken binge, he lost his kazoo. Or perhaps it was stolen by someone who did not appreciate his instrumental abilities. Either way, it made Jorge extremely sad.

When I found out about the missing kazoo I decided that it had to be replaced. Not only was I missing out on new Jorge material, I was sure the other lieutenants who worked the desk lamented the loss of our local talent. When I finally found one I carried it around with me and asked my crews to help me find Jorge so I could give it to him personally when I was on the road.

My crews called me the next night I was out and I met up with them. I got to meet my instrumentalist in person. He seemed like a friendly, happy man and I could see why so many homeless women found him to be a catch. Presented with my gift, he cried tears of happiness.

“The nurses,” he told me, “will be so relieved I can play again. The other patients in the hospital too. You helped so many to enjoy my songs again.”

I was grateful to share the gift of music with others.

After testing it out he took out his government-issued cell phone. It was a huge chunk of a phone, the kind most of us thought was a technological upgrade from the flip phone back when cell phones were just novelties. I watched him as he turned it on and went to his directory. I looked at his “recent calls” log and I saw the list:

911

911

911

(my station)

911

I discovered that he had called me on his own, not just when someone gave him their phone. It warmed my heart how my crews had set up perpetual calls for me. They were true professionals and I felt the torch had been successfully passed.

stork, baby, child

Fast Food Baby

August 9, 2020 /

The manager of a fast food establishment had called 911 to have a couple removed from one of their rest rooms. The police arrived and then requested EMS when it was discovered that the woman was in labor.

In one of the most bizarre situations I have ever encountered, the couple wanted to have their baby in the bathroom. When they heard the officers calling for an ambulance they had begged them to cancel us. No one quite knew what to make of the situation.

It was the first pregnancy for the woman and her contractions were far apart. She was a small, slim girl who, with her gingham dress, looked more farmer than fast food aficionado. She had the face of a teenager although her ID said she was 21. The mother-to-be, it turned out, had been brought up in one of the most expensive and exclusive neighborhoods on Long Island.

The boyfriend had probably not grown up in affluent circumstances. He had face and neck tattoos advertising gang affiliations and a long, wide scar on his abdomen that you could see through his wife-beater tank top. There was also a big gold chain that matched the grill on his teeth. We could only guess how their paths had crossed and how it had come about that she decided to have his baby in the bathroom of a place known for its belly bombers. It was his fifth, as he proudly liked to tell everyone from time to time.

The dad-to-be-for-the-fifth-time was ecstatic. It was his great idea to have the baby at the exact location where the baby had been conceived. He couldn’t understand why no one else thought it was a fresh, fun, original idea.

“Last month she was here, in the bathroom,” he said. “We thought the kid was gonna drop. But it was a false alarm and then we thought, how cool it would be if it had happened here.”

This time, though, they had planned it out by bringing with them a few towels, a baby blanket, and a hemorrhoid donut.

“We never wanted to have him in a traditional hospital,” said the girlfriend.

“People have their babies all time in different places,” said the boyfriend. “In kiddie pools, in their living rooms. We come here a lot,” he winked at his girl, “why not at the White Castles?” His vast experience as a father of four, as he fondly told us repeatedly, gave him more than enough ability to assist with the birth. He didn’t think they would have any difficulties.

“If we do,” he said, “we’ll call you back.”

Good lord…

When asked about pre-natal care she said that she had seen an ob-gyn but he was affiliated with a hospital on the eastern end of Long Island and it was much too far away. She said it was never even a consideration. Her boyfriend had had a bad experience in one. “A hospital is for sick people and I’m not sick. Having a baby is a natural experience. Bad things happen in hospitals and I don’t want my baby to be surrounded by a toxic environment as soon as he’s born.” I felt the bacterium swimming around in our surroundings constituted a toxic environment but I suppose she was being metaphorical.

Some of the people who were sitting and eating expressed support for this unusual set up. “What’s the big deal?” they asked. One woman got up and walked out in disgust, though. Who would have thought it would be so difficult to convince someone not to have their baby in a restroom?

“We even told the manager that we would name the baby after the restaurant if they let us do it.” said the boyfriend. This caused a sharp change in the girlfriends demeanor.

“Only the middle name, not the first!” she said.

I tried pointing out the complications that could happen and why a hospital would be the better choice. I told her to think about how many people had stepped on that floor only 3 inches below her inflatable donut seat. Consider the commitment a part-time minimum wage earning employee has to sanitizing a rest room utilized by junkies, I asked, hoping the visualizations I was creating were having an effect. When she cried out in pain I pointed out that the hospital could be helpful with pain management.

“She don’t need no pain management,” said the boyfriend. “Pain is what happens when you have a baby. I should know, I had four of them. It’s perfectly normal.” It seemed interesting to me that an apparent pharmaceutical entrepreneur was rejecting pain management.

We all just looked at each other with blank expressions. Even the strangers eating nearby, if they were within earshot, had the same expression. Support for the bathroom birth was dwindling. I could tell that even the girlfriend’s enthusiasm for the idea was waning as well.

I was curious if his other children had been born outside the hospital and he said no. Apparently, the other baby mothers in his life had all been vanilla in their approach to birthing. That’s why he loved this one more.

We spent a little more time arguing the pros and cons of hospital vs bathroom floor. The contractions increased and the woman eventually consented. This upset the father greatly.

“Oh come on!” he cried. “We had it all planned out. Think of how we could tell everyone we did something no one else did.”

“There’s a reason no one did it,” we pointed out.

Eventually he resigned himself to the idea that his trailblazing scheme had fallen through. He seemed so dejected and sad. He was going to have to settle for his kid being born in a sterile facility assisted by professionals with years of training and experience. It wouldn’t be anything to brag about, sadly.

The fast-food chain would have to abandon the marketing potential of a new name trend for babies. Everything had changed. Priorities were shifted. He decided he would meet her at the hospital later. He suddenly remembered he had other things to do.

En route to the hospital the woman told us he probably wouldn’t meet her at the hospital. He probably wouldn’t even visit. She didn’t seem too upset by this and said she understood why he was disappointed.

The staff at Labor and Delivery was friendly and encouraging and the mother-to-be seemed a little taken aback by the whole triage assessment and care process. She became more comfortable and seemed at ease with her change of heart.

The hospital staff was delighted to learn that they had beat out one of the biggest food franchises to bring this baby into the world. It led to big debates as the staff argued the merits of one chain over the other as they tried to figure out what to get for their next meal break.

While one of the nurses was helping us wheel her into one of the rooms she expressed distaste for their choice of restaurant. “It’s not even good fast food. That should have been the first red flag about your relationship,” she told her. “You should have tried harder to find a better man to be a single mother with. Someone who won’t feed your kids garbage when you drop them off on alternating weekends.”

hands, heart, couple

An Attempt at Matchmaking

August 9, 2020 /

It’s an interesting day when a rare opportunity presents itself that, with one small intervention, could change lives forever. I found myself in such a situation one day doing overtime in the daylight hours when a random observation combined with the kind of inspiration sleep deprivation brings had me believing that I could perhaps bring two lonely people together.

I had dropped off my patient at the hospital and walked down to the station that was nearby in order to use a clean restroom. It was mid-morning when stations are at their busiest. The day shift is when deliveries arrive, medical waste gets hauled away, the cleaning people take care of the facility and there are just so many more people working. When I walked in I noticed a large delivery of supplies was being dropped off by the person in charge of our stockpile management, a humorless man I’ll call Joe. I had never interacted with him personally but he was a dispatcher for a time whose voice only seemed to show any sign of happiness when he was giving out a late assignment. I knew my favorite lieutenants, who dealt with him more often, seemed to think his brusque demeanor had something to do with a lack of sexual activity.

His serious persona probably served him well as he made a lateral move to the less hectic world of supply distribution. It was unusual to see him personally unpacking as he had moved himself up to being the manager and had more of a desk position doing the ordering and scheduling. His chubby middle-aged body seemed very unaccustomed to the bursts of heavy labor suddenly being thrust upon it. He frequently wiped his brow of sweat and his limited supply of gray hair was in disarray. I wondered where the people who usually do the delivering were and how Joe came to be the one unloading boxes of gauze and medical tape.

As I continued through the station I came across Lt. Susan who must have also been suckered into doing daytime OT. She worked either evenings or the overnights and was a rare sight in the daytime as well. Lt. Susan was a lonely soul who had dedicated much of her life to this job and felt that it couldn’t run without her input. Despite doing everything that she thought they wanted she never got promoted but she she felt that this meant she was essential to the position she had. She persevered, doubling down on her efforts to correct perceived wrongs and strictly enforcing disciplinary rules. There were some who felt that Lt. Susan’s issues had their roots in sexual frustration as well.

A dedication to ones civil service job meant there was no time for personal maintenance or upkeep that went beyond a basic shower. She was a large woman with greasy hair of no discernible cut or style. Her ill fitting uniform pants were hemmed too short and she walked with an odd kind of limp.

As I exited the ladies locker room, Lt. Susan ‘caught me’ using the bathroom. She inquired if I was on a 10-100, the official designation for using facilities. I was not. She gave me a little lecture about proper signalling. Her speech implied that thought she was well within her rights to write me up she was going to let me go. This time. I considered myself warned.

Part of me felt mildly sympathetic towards this person who had nothing else in her life. She, sadly, had few outside interests other than her volunteer fire department, which was just more of the same.

Joe passed by with a box and Lt. Susan paid him no mind. As she walked back to her office it struck me how they both seemed to be lonely and unpopular with quickly diminishing prospects. When I got back to my partner I let him know I saw Lt. Susan, someone he despised with great passion thanks to her penchant for writing frivolous Command Disciplines against him. I mentioned seeing Joe as well and speculated that perhaps pairing them up might solve two problems. He agreed and we got to work.

It’s a slight advantage for people who work during the day to have stores that are open so you can get your matchmaking materials immediately and not have to wait for a day off or make a special trip. We went to the dollar store and purchased a dollar store version of a ‘Thinking of You’ greeting card. There was also a sale on granny panties.

We put some effort into making one of the panties look slightly used. We stretched out the elastic and washed them a few times to wear out the material a little. We decided not to go with the easy/obvious brown stain that less creative types may have been drawn to and instead concentrated on believable looking food stains that implied the garments usefulness as fine dining apparel.

When we were finally satisfied with the result we placed them in an interoffice envelope along with the card and it’s simple message:

“Dear Joe,

Thanks for the extra supplies. Next time stay for coffee!”

xo Sue xo

I imagined the face Joe would make when he stretched his arms to hold up the granny panties. Surprise? Flattery? Would he consider a romantic encounter with the eccentric spinster? Who is to say what his preferences were? We would always wonder about the outcome. Perhaps he would be disgusted by such a forward act of animal lust. But if it had led to the unlikely scenario that he considered setting up a romantic date night and in the even more unlikely scenario that Susan would agree to go out with him I would not have been disappointed.

toilet paper, toilet, paper

Quick Flow

August 1, 2020 /

The marketing people who come up with names for pre-colonoscopy prep medications probably think that they’re a funny group of creative geniuses. The products all seem to have names like “Quick and Clear”, “Flow Freely”, and “Coming Through” which should probably help the user mentally prepare for what is to come. But, sadly, this is not always the case.

When we reached the home of one such person, we didn’t know he was doing his pre-colonoscopy cleanse. His wife let us in and explained that the patient was in the bathroom and had been in there all day. But, she said, he’d be out in a minute. That minute turned into many minutes. When he did come out he had a face that told of agony and he said he had never had bowel issues like he had now. He had been on the toilet all day. Not knowing what was actually going on we questioned him about his eating habits and other possibilities that could have caused these issues. But then he told us he was fasting for a procedure the next day. What kind of procedure? A colonoscopy.

He was going in for a routine procedure because he had just turned 50. His MD had prescribed something called “Quick Flow” which was designed to completely empty his bowels. “Did you read the box?” I asked. He nodded. “It looks like this is supposed to happen.” We proceeded to do a quick exam and evaluation.

“Oh no,” said the man, “There’s no way this is normal. This is way too much. It made me sick. There’s something wrong.”

I studied the box. “I’m pretty sure this is exactly what is supposed to be happening.”

“How would you know?” he snapped. I asked if he had called his doctor. “I did,” he said. “My doctor wouldn’t even talk to me. The girl in the office told me everything was normal too. BUT HOW DO THEY KNOW?! This is awful. That stuff, they must have given me a bad box. I’m bringing it with me so I can show them at the hospital.”

He just needed to use the bathroom one more time before we went. We could hear him moaning behind the door. When he came out we made sure he really wanted to go to the hospital. He looked at us like we were crazy. “Of course! I’m a sick man!” he yelled. We eventually went to the truck and although we made it to the hospital quickly, as soon as we got there he ran out to use the bathroom in the ER. Unfortunately it was occupied.

“Nurse!” he begged the first person he saw, “Please, tell me where there is another bathroom!” She told him there was only one and directed him back to the occupied one. He went over and started pounding on it. “Please! Please!” he yelled. Soon his begging turned into anger. “What the hell are you doing in there?!” It was only a matter of time before a brawl ensued.

He had traded in his nice, clean, familiar bathroom for a less desirable one in a crowded hospital.

It turned out that there was another person at the ER at that time using a similar, snarky named product for the same reason. It was just one more person our patient would have to fight with over the same toilet. An ER doctor noted that they frequently get this situation. He rolled his eyes over it. I asked if maybe the procedure wasn’t explained fully but he shook his head. “This is the biggest thing they do, I’m sure they go over everything step by step.” He then asked me to read the box. It was very accurately spelled out in capital letters:

“WILL CAUSE SIGNIFICANT DISCOMFORT AND FREQUENT BOWEL MOVEMENTS. LEAVING THE HOME IS NOT RECOMMENDED.”

“The sad thing,” said the doctor, “Is that, because they’re here, a lot of them miss their appointment the next day. And then they have to do it all over again.”

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