Buffalo Soldier

I can walk down the street, smile at an elderly lady, and then have a complaint filed against me for being patronizing and condescending. I change lanes without a signal and I’m writing an incident report for being reckless and haphazard. And I can arrive on the scene of a dead, retired pulmonologist, intubate him, medicate him, and get his heart pumping so efficiently that he has a pulse and blood pressure and tries to talk to me around the tube; then have to return to the office and justify why I didn’t run when the wife told me to hurry.

Well, it’s time for some changes. It’s time that I live in that brick house as opposed to the straw or stick one. It’s like Bob said, “Get up, stand up: stand up for your rights!” It’s time to be like Patrick Swayze and his band of renegade high schoolers and fight, guerrilla style, against those Soviet invaders.

WOLVERINE!

I turned the tables the other day. It was me who filed the complaint.

We got sent to a local hospital on a possible stroke. These days, all hospitals have these elite units of special farces...err forces. People, yet unable to pass the civil service exam for the respected position of police officer, who wear ill-designed, over-sized polyester pants with light blue, uncomfortably pressed, button-up shirts and stroll around a hospital campus with utility belts sans firearm. And some of them, probably the captains, or lieutenants, or chief inspectors, or whatever they're refered to in the minor leagues of enforcement, are allowed to ride bikes and wear knit pullovers that have SECURITY spelled on the back.

It was this goliath that tested my will and made me pick up a pen instead of rocks.

We arrived at the hospital and were securely “escorted” to the patient by two guards. Their radios full blast and airtime full of useless chatter. “Medics on scene”, one said to the other, who was watching us through the clear, full-length lobby window.

We approached the patient and quickly determined that this was not a stroke. The soft-spoken patient with Parkinson’s Disease carried around a typed letter stating that this disease was debilitating and too many times she was transported to the ED against her will for something that was baseline for her. Security believed she was having a stroke because it took three attempts to withdraw money from the ATM. The patient, frustrated that these key chain-clanging guards didn’t attempt to talk to her about what was going on, told us this happens all the time and that she didn't want to go to the ED. All she wanted to do was withdraw some money so she could go to Safeway.

At this point, I turned to the one with the marine-bowl-cut hair and explained what was going on and why we couldn't take her. "It’s called kidnapping. " My words drifted out of my mouth and danced precariously around his ears. Few words penetrated the skull and even fewer were processed. The guard remained confused. And once confused, he had the inability to not transfer that feeling of embarrassment to anger. He became quite...bitchy, for lack of better descriptors.

“You have to take her!”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing wrong with her and she doesn’t want to go. Did you not read the letter?”

We began to leave and I see the fog of light blue shirts huddle around the patient. They obviously, for some reason, didn't want her on their property and were rushing her to leave the premises. The Parkinsons restricts her mobility and, like a baby learning to walk, she is at times very uncoordinated in her mobility. I returned to help, help her from the hungry land sharks circling her, waiting for her to fall so they could quickly call 911 again. The important-feeling leader of the pack stood in the background; phone in hand, poised to call in another emergency.

I approached her. Broke through the smell of Axe and cheap aftershave and tried to console the patient.

“I tell you what”, I said. “I’ll break the rules and take you home. I promise I won’t take you to the hospital.”

The sharks eased off a little. One updated the mother ship with the status of this situation.

Adamantly and quietly the patient refused any help. She was flustered and frustrated. She wanted to leave but her legs wouldn't let her. If they didn't move in unison, in coordination, something was going to happen that she desperately feared. She tried her best to walk. Slowly, and unconfidently, she shuffled her way towards the sidewalk.

I, again, explained the situation. "There is nothing I can do. It’s called kidnapping."

It was at this point the knit-clad premise guard made his fatal mistake. He looked at me and said, “You need to learn how to do your job!” He then turned, keys slapping him on the hip, and stormed off like a third grader who dropped his ice cream cone.

“This is bullshit!” echoed off the minivans as the sick children were being secured into their carseats.

I looked at one of the plebes and demanded his name. I wanted his name and his supervisor’s name. I wrote it down and each letter seared itself into my memory. Security guard blank-blank. I called my supervisor to warn him of the interaction and that he may, for some unknown reason, receive a call from an angry, hostile security guard. He received that call.

My captain went to meet with him. And after the guard verbalizeed all the nice things I did for the patient he began to realize he was out of line. He admitted to being short and rude with the medics and said he shouldn’t have acted that way. Complaint resolved.

Nope. After having to write an Incident Report my captain said everything was resolved and asked if there is anything else I needed. Yes, as a matter of fact, there was.

“I would like to file a complaint about him!”