Easy? Sure.

"This job is easy."  Said the man with his paramedic patch that had been sewn on less than 12 months ago.  "I mean, why do people think this job is so complicated?"

"Because it is complicated, that's why" came the reply with the more seasoned, yet not a veteran, paramedic.

"No, it's not.  This is easy.  I can't believe they pay me to do this job, it's so simple."

"How much time a week do you spend studying?"

"Why would I need to study?  I already finished paramedic school and passed National Registry."

"Exactly."

It's scary to think we can trust lives with some of these people. 

So much for social networking.

This social networking thing has gotten out of hand.  I have previously commented on one of them, here.  I have become quite disappointed in the childish behavior exhibited by my coworkers and colleagues.  I seriously thought higher of people than I should have.

One would think, with the seriousness of this profession, there would be a modicum of adult behavior, but no, some of us have decided to resort to name-calling and trash-talking.  This is supposed to be a field of adults, but we too often stoop to a high-school level with our behavior.  I have been guilty of it as well.  But not any more. 
So I cleaned up my Facebook friends.  No longer will I be "friends" with my coworkers, because, frankly, my coworkers aren't my "friends."  They are my "coworkers."  I may make a CCC Facebook page later, in an effort to expand my readership, but we will have to see. 

I know that several of my readers are my friends on Facebook, and I frankly trust them to maintain my anonymity, and to behave like the adults that I know they are.  So, if you are here, and you are there, then I consider you a friend, and I am glad to have you in my life.

6:1 is a pretty good ratio.

Accident with possible injuries with airbag deployment 2 miles away.

Whatever.

Slimm is away playing soldier this weekend, and I have partner of the day.  It's okay, though.  Even though he is an incredible idiot, he follows direction well, like "right" and "left" and "straight."

It's not too far away, and happens to be on the road we are currently on.  We would run into the wreck even if we didn't want to.

2 cars, both with front end damage, both facing the same direction.  How does that happen?  Damage isn't too bad.  And, low and behold, there is actually airbag deployment. 

As we drive by, and park in a safe spot, I count 9 people standing around doing nothing.  9 people.  2 cars.  Seriously?

"Who is driving which car?"

"Uh.  This guy is driving the white car, and the girl in the back of the black car was driving the blue car." 

Okay.  Wait.  What?  Whatever.  I'm on my way to the black car when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey, what took you guys so long?  We have been waiting 20 minutes.  And where are the police officers?"

"Which car were you driving, sir?" 

"Oh, I wasn't involved in the accident, I just witnessed it happen."

"Okay then.  Have a nice day."

Finally I get to the girl in the back seat of the car.  Initial impression: not a damned thing wrong with her.  And mildly cute.

Before I can open my mouth, someone pipes up.  A new person who I hadn't noticed on scene.  Oh, that's because she took it upon herself to stop at an accident with bullshit damage and jump all up in my scene.  I don't like her before he gets the first syllable out of her mouth.

"Are there any children involved?  Because I'm a pediatric nurse, and I can, you know, help out if you need any help.  If there are any children."

Well, fantastic.  I'm a 9 handicap.  Why don't you go grab my 6iron so I can hit make this approach shot? 


"No, there aren't any kids involved, but thanks."  But maybe you want to hang out in case someone needs their MMR booster.

Finally, I make it to the cute girl.  I mean patient.  I can clearly see the abrasions on her face from the airbags.  Nothing more than superficial.  I think she will make it.

"Hi, are you hurting anywhere?"

"No, I told that man not to call for an ambulance.  We just need the police department."

"Okay then.  Homey is going to take your blood pressure.  Can you sign here please?"

"Who are all these people?"

I have no clue, young lady.  No clue.  As we get in the ambulance to leave the dramatic scene, I spot an additional 3 people getting out of a car across the street and walking towards the crash. 

2 cars.  2 drivers.  No complaints.  12 bystanders.  Not much more bothers me than people who decide to insert themselves into my scene when they know they don't belong. 

12 ******* bystanders.

Don't stop, don't call

"Medic Sixtynine, respond to reports of an accident with possible injuries, Goofball Highway at Old Booger Hill Road.  Passerby advises there are 4 cars involved, unsure of any injuries."

Great.  This call sounds F-U-N.  And it's raining.  And Old Booger Hill Road crosses Goofball Highway at least 4 separate times within 6 miles.  In two distinct fire districts, covered by three different engine companies.

Lets run down why this call sucks:

1. Day after a holiday, at 8:30am.
2. In the rain
3. An unknown location
4. Some cellphone warrior was worried enough to call, but not enough to stop, and actually roll down the damned window and shout "Hey, y'all'rite?"
5. I haven't had my breakfast yet
6. I haven't had my nap yet
7 I haven't even put on my socks yet

We literally drive in circles looking for this wreck.  This cellphone warrior was kind enough to call 911, but couldn't give a description of the cars.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

We find a wreck.  A red SUV and a white Ram Truck. 

Not the wreck.  Fire says it "uppathattaway" about half a mile. 

Dark SUV, grey BMW, white sedan. 

Wrong wreck.  Turn around again, check another intersection of Goofball Highway and Old Booger Hill.

Find a wreck.  PD is on scene.  Eating a biscuit in his car.  (I am NOT kidding.)

"Hey, where y'all been?  We been waitin' on y'all for a while now."

"Shut up, Munch*.  Who's hurt?"

"Oh, ain't nobody hurt.  I done cancelled y'all 'bout five minutes ago."

I hate cellphone warriors.  And missing breakfast.

I put my socks on, and go in service.

Take the bag!

My service has a policy which requires the crew to take in the stretcher, cardiac monitor, and jump bag to every patient.  I have been in the habit of taking said equipment in, even without a written policy. 

While taking a cardiac monitor in to a 10 year old with a twisted ankle may be a little over kill, that's what the bosses want, so we do it.  Or at least I do.

It's also a good practice.  Seriously, what are you going to do for a patient who accidentally stabbed himself in the femoral artery with a turkey baster right before Thanksgiving dinner, and now there is blood squirting every which way, in the squash casserole, and all over the turkey, and the mashed potatoes, and your jump bag is 30 yards away in the ambulance?  And when that call happens (and we all know it will happen, to someone), you just know there is going to be a doctor/nurse/paramedic/personal-injury lawyer watching your big, fat, screw-up.

"Ma'am, can I borrow a towel from you since I'm too lazy to bring in my equipment?"

Take in the damned bag.  Take in the damned monitor.  Put it on the effing stretcher so your lazy ass doesn't hurt your lazy back carrying it.

I hate lazy people.

Hey! Didn't I see this house on TV?

I don't care for abdominal pain. They are generally the most lame calls ever. If your tummy hurts so bad that you need to call the ambulance, you had better be close to death if you want any sympathy.

We can't get in this house. Hoarder-style. Smell it from the street. It smells like rotting death covered in trash and human waste. From 40 yards away.

Seriously, I don't know how this house hasn't exploded from the sheer amount of crap stuffed inside of it.
Literally, this guy should be on TV. If you've ever seen Hoarders on A&E, then you have a good frame of reference for just how full of crap this house is.

If you have ever worked on an ambulance, you have a good frame of reference for just how full of crap this guy is.

This guy has abdominal pain (allegedly) that is so bad, he absolutely has to go to the hospital, but, oh, let him get some shoes first, and find a book to take with him. Mom, you can ride up front. I'm impressed with your lack of ability to find clothes that match with all that crap you have in your house. Hey, at least the clothes are clean, and I don't have to turn on the exhaust fan in the back of the ambulance.

Slimm advises me discreetly that Tummyacher just got back from the doctor's office 3 hours ago with pain med prescriptions.

Now he is known as Faketummyacherseeker.

Interestingly enough, I catch him peeking over his shoulder at me. I am, of course, sitting in the Captain chair, from which I frequently write my blog posts. Unless you are my boss, then I write them after I get home, on my own time.

Each time he looks at me (I am generally ignoring him, of course, because, frankly, I think he's full of shit), his whines and whimpers get just a little bit louder.

"What does the pain feel like?"

"Oh, it's awful. I can't really describe it. It hurts really bad."

"How bad on a scale of 1-10?"

"Twelve."

Obviously not a mathematician.  "Does anything make it worse?"

"Moving makes it worse. It's just terrible."

"Does anything make it better?"

"Usually Dilaudid makes the pain go away. OOOOhhhhhhh, ithurtsbad!"

Of course it does, Mr. Faketummyacherseeker, of course it does.