I wish I were dead now.
We approach this 10-story apartment complex on the wrong side of town. I've never been here before, so I don't want to make any predetermined judgments, although my Spider-senses are going crazy.
We were sent on abdominal pain. So, on one end of the spectrum I foresee an elderly lady with a history of high blood pressure sitting in an antique chair clutching her stomach, keeling over onto her own lap, complaining of the worst pain imaginable. And on the other end of the pendulum, is the dollar store clad addict fidgeting uncontrollably in a sparsely furnitured apartment coming down off of a 3 day crack high.
Man, maybe I should get a red spandex outfit and sling webbing from my wrists, because my superheroic powers of premonition were right on target. Kind of like Robin Hood's arrow piercing the shank of his competitors arrow in the bulls eye.
The apartment manager buzzes us into the lobby, through the plexiglased front door. This door has more than the normal wear and tear and is tattooed with names of people and gangs. Bits of blood stain the handle.
As we enter, we are approached by the small woman whose life is a probable constant up-hill battle. Given every short stick in the bunch, she still continues to trudge up that unbelievable hill of defeat and sorrow. Her aged face sags as she speaks. Her Velcro shoes stick to the floor as she returns to the office, her movement fluttering the paper warning signs and notes of revocation of tenants that collage the tiled wall next to her office. One hangs faithfully at the elevator doors informing everyone who passes "This is a Drug free zone." The crack users and dealers ignore it as they wander the lobby in their drug-induced fogs.
She asks what room number and we vaguely answer. We don't like telling people exactly where we are going because it is none of their business. We say, "5-oh-something."
"Is it 505? Because someone was here and wanted to go to that room. But she's on restriction and I told him "No". He intimidated me and raised his fist to me," she mumbled.
"Why, yes, it is. Are there a lot of shady people in and out of that apartment?" I ask.
She, again, nods her head and then is distracted by the little girl playing in the corner of the lobby. Her playground, secured by Plexiglas and tile, is uncomfortably similar to the prison exercise yard for convicts. Just an hour a day they, and she, are allowed to get some "fresh" air and stretch their legs.
We enter the metal crate that will lift us to the fifth floor. Polished metal surrounds us as new graffiti is gradually being scratched into the walls. The old stuff has been buffed out by maintenance with a Black & Decker sander. We exit the box and are welcomed by a lime green wall, one window -the only one on the floor, shines sunlight from the east.
#505 is found, between #507 and #503, just across from #502. The keys are still dangling in the lock from when she last unlocked the door, probably living life in third person -watching herself and her every move from a drug-filled hallucination.
I knock forcefully and she answers, "Come in."
I turn the knob and slowly push the door open, both myself and my partner framing the metal door. We enter like SWAT and slowly advance to the living room.
"Is there anyone else in here?" I demand.
"No, there's nobody else f*cking here," she slurs. She sits in front of a full ashtray, smoke penetrates everything. The walls seem heavy with nicotine.
I scan the room while she rambles. On the table a shard of glass, tinted black by smoke. A pencil, its lead tip stained black. Lighters, fingernail cutters, small postage stamp sized squares of clear wrap with white residue dusting the corners, and empty beer bottles.
"There's no need to cuss, I understand everything you're saying," I interrupt as she tries to dull her hyperactive senses.
"What drugs have you done?" I ask.
"None," she mumbles.
"Let me ask again. What drugs have you done?"
"None."
"That's bullsh*t and we both know it. I'm standing in an apartment that looks like a drug den. The lady downstairs told us she believes you guys do drugs, I see drug paraphernalia everywhere, your pupils are dilated, your heart rate is tachycardiac, you can't sit still, your teeth are rotting, and you won't answer my questions."
I look around, don't like where I am, and tell her, "Get up, let's go. I don't feel safe here. I don't like being in a drug den."
She stands, tucking her stained men's golf shirt into her cotton warm-up pants and asks, "Where are my keys?"
"In the door," I respond, "but you probably don't remember because the last time you entered your apartment your were probably high as a kite."
She doesn't respond and follows us down the hall and out the building.
She climbs in the back of the ambulance; I close the doors, turn the lights on, and strap her in. My partner is learning that she will probably be kicked out because of the threatening episode with her crack-head friend.
I sit there, gloved hands across my lap, and pity her. "How can you live like this?"
Random tattoos on her body tell stories of previous years. Names, quotes, and symbols all permanently stain her skin. She begins to talk. She begins telling me how she had been up all night smoking crack and drinking vodka. She tells me how her "friends" had robbed her and taken her money and her bus pass. She tells me how difficult it was to get this apartment and I tell her how quickly she lost it.
She cries, no tears, and tells me her story. She tells me she has pancreatitus and that is what has upset her stomach. I knew that, my spider-senses on number 11. She tells me I can't get a line in her, I do, and we leave for the ED.
"Why do I live like this?" she asks.
"I don't know, why do you live like this?" I imitate.
Silence.
"You need to change some things. Because at this rate you'll be dead in five years," I tell her.
Silence.
"I wish I were dead now," she whispers.
We were sent on abdominal pain. So, on one end of the spectrum I foresee an elderly lady with a history of high blood pressure sitting in an antique chair clutching her stomach, keeling over onto her own lap, complaining of the worst pain imaginable. And on the other end of the pendulum, is the dollar store clad addict fidgeting uncontrollably in a sparsely furnitured apartment coming down off of a 3 day crack high.
Man, maybe I should get a red spandex outfit and sling webbing from my wrists, because my superheroic powers of premonition were right on target. Kind of like Robin Hood's arrow piercing the shank of his competitors arrow in the bulls eye.
The apartment manager buzzes us into the lobby, through the plexiglased front door. This door has more than the normal wear and tear and is tattooed with names of people and gangs. Bits of blood stain the handle.
As we enter, we are approached by the small woman whose life is a probable constant up-hill battle. Given every short stick in the bunch, she still continues to trudge up that unbelievable hill of defeat and sorrow. Her aged face sags as she speaks. Her Velcro shoes stick to the floor as she returns to the office, her movement fluttering the paper warning signs and notes of revocation of tenants that collage the tiled wall next to her office. One hangs faithfully at the elevator doors informing everyone who passes "This is a Drug free zone." The crack users and dealers ignore it as they wander the lobby in their drug-induced fogs.
She asks what room number and we vaguely answer. We don't like telling people exactly where we are going because it is none of their business. We say, "5-oh-something."
"Is it 505? Because someone was here and wanted to go to that room. But she's on restriction and I told him "No". He intimidated me and raised his fist to me," she mumbled.
"Why, yes, it is. Are there a lot of shady people in and out of that apartment?" I ask.
She, again, nods her head and then is distracted by the little girl playing in the corner of the lobby. Her playground, secured by Plexiglas and tile, is uncomfortably similar to the prison exercise yard for convicts. Just an hour a day they, and she, are allowed to get some "fresh" air and stretch their legs.
We enter the metal crate that will lift us to the fifth floor. Polished metal surrounds us as new graffiti is gradually being scratched into the walls. The old stuff has been buffed out by maintenance with a Black & Decker sander. We exit the box and are welcomed by a lime green wall, one window -the only one on the floor, shines sunlight from the east.
#505 is found, between #507 and #503, just across from #502. The keys are still dangling in the lock from when she last unlocked the door, probably living life in third person -watching herself and her every move from a drug-filled hallucination.
I knock forcefully and she answers, "Come in."
I turn the knob and slowly push the door open, both myself and my partner framing the metal door. We enter like SWAT and slowly advance to the living room.
"Is there anyone else in here?" I demand.
"No, there's nobody else f*cking here," she slurs. She sits in front of a full ashtray, smoke penetrates everything. The walls seem heavy with nicotine.
I scan the room while she rambles. On the table a shard of glass, tinted black by smoke. A pencil, its lead tip stained black. Lighters, fingernail cutters, small postage stamp sized squares of clear wrap with white residue dusting the corners, and empty beer bottles.
"There's no need to cuss, I understand everything you're saying," I interrupt as she tries to dull her hyperactive senses.
"What drugs have you done?" I ask.
"None," she mumbles.
"Let me ask again. What drugs have you done?"
"None."
"That's bullsh*t and we both know it. I'm standing in an apartment that looks like a drug den. The lady downstairs told us she believes you guys do drugs, I see drug paraphernalia everywhere, your pupils are dilated, your heart rate is tachycardiac, you can't sit still, your teeth are rotting, and you won't answer my questions."
I look around, don't like where I am, and tell her, "Get up, let's go. I don't feel safe here. I don't like being in a drug den."
She stands, tucking her stained men's golf shirt into her cotton warm-up pants and asks, "Where are my keys?"
"In the door," I respond, "but you probably don't remember because the last time you entered your apartment your were probably high as a kite."
She doesn't respond and follows us down the hall and out the building.
She climbs in the back of the ambulance; I close the doors, turn the lights on, and strap her in. My partner is learning that she will probably be kicked out because of the threatening episode with her crack-head friend.
I sit there, gloved hands across my lap, and pity her. "How can you live like this?"
Random tattoos on her body tell stories of previous years. Names, quotes, and symbols all permanently stain her skin. She begins to talk. She begins telling me how she had been up all night smoking crack and drinking vodka. She tells me how her "friends" had robbed her and taken her money and her bus pass. She tells me how difficult it was to get this apartment and I tell her how quickly she lost it.
She cries, no tears, and tells me her story. She tells me she has pancreatitus and that is what has upset her stomach. I knew that, my spider-senses on number 11. She tells me I can't get a line in her, I do, and we leave for the ED.
"Why do I live like this?" she asks.
"I don't know, why do you live like this?" I imitate.
Silence.
"You need to change some things. Because at this rate you'll be dead in five years," I tell her.
Silence.
"I wish I were dead now," she whispers.
Comments
Never ceases to amaze me how often we can determine the nature of the call before arrival scene.
You cant teach experience.
Again a cracking post, felt like I knew the address and the patient.
love your blog.
wealthandtaste
Fried Pie.