Man, I love this job.
The lights slice through the dark night sky, the dispatcher on the radio sharply informs us to "wait for cover". The diesel engine grumbles as the automatic transmission struggles to keep up with the constant pressure on the gas peddle. As we cross over the large eight-lane highway on a small two-lane bridge, my partner turns all the switches on that transform our ambulance into a moving firecracker.
I reach up and turn the interior light off. My seatbelt constantly applying pressure to my chest as we skid left and swerve right. My feet, cramped in the foot well, ache from sitting for hours. I slide my elbow off the windowsill and push the small black button that cautiously rolls the window up. The sirens are echoing off the small, white houses sitting atop the hill that overlooks the highway. I straighten my back, sit up in my seat, slid my other hand down to the radio and gingerly turn up the volume.
The wailing changes from long, drawn out screams to sharp, quick blasts. The sounds reverberate off the artful metal accents of the new, contemporary lofts in the old, beat-up neighborhood. Although I've done this a thousand times before, my senses became sharper and my pupils dilate.
Then, like a harmonizing tenor in a church choir, more sirens approach in the darkness. I don't know where they are coming from and they confuse my senses. I struggle, like a fighter pilot in a dogfight, to look out all our windows and determine their avenue of approach.
We break through a triangle intersection and charge up hill, black smoke from the diesel polluting the mile high air. The new sirens assault our ambulance and are right on top of us. I glance in the side view mirror and my eyes squint as the flashing high beams of the police cruiser illuminate the rectangular mirror. He's going where we are going, and we both are racing down this dark, residential street to someone who has a weapon.
The dips in the road bottom the heavy ambulance out as we try and maintain our speed. The police cruiser, chasing us in the dark exhaust fumes, rides close to our bumper. I can almost make out the face of the officer.
We pull over, slightly, and allow the quicker and more maneuverable cruiser to pass. It's engine screams like a banshee as the transmission drops a gear and it rockets past us. Quickly, the red taillights and yellow flashing lights on the roof disappear into the distance. We try and keep up, but are just to heavy and slow. The large dips in the road seem to launch the cruiser into the night as he speeds away.
He shuts his lights and siren off and skids around a corner like a ballplayer sliding into home plate. We do the same. The fire engine awaits at an intersection, its occupants still fighting to stay awake.
The cruiser's driver gets out and we pull up behind him. He pulls his large mag light out from his seat and approaches me. Together, we begin walking the block looking for the out-of-control, suicidal person. The ambulance, and my partner, creeps behind us as we walk.
Suddenly, the officer begins to sprint. His hand on his holstered weapon, he quickly accelerates from me. I begin running, my hand on my awkward radio slapping me on the thigh. My partner slams on the gas and makes the large ambulance lurch forward. The flashing ambulance box turns the corner, as I cut through the yard, and is abruptly slammed into park.
The officer tackles the suicidal person. My partner, like a ballerina, falls out of the freshly parked ambulance as I hurdle patches of grass and concrete. Together, we land on the crazed person and help the officer restrain this angry person with a sharp putty knife.
She screams, kicks, fights, and spits. The dispatcher on the police radio becomes worried that no one has answered her call and sends out an emergency tone. Officers from everywhere in the city scream into their radios saying they are on their way. More sirens, from every direction, again confuse my senses. Lights illuminate the trio fighting the person on the ground as the other officers and their cruisers come to a loud, screeching halt. Burning brakes waft into the air.
We restrain the patient and load her in the ambulance. Still screaming and spitting and fighting I start an IV. It's like trying to brush the teeth of a rabid dog, but I successfully get one in her hand. The chemical restraint is beginning to course through her blood stream after being poked in her deltoid. Benedryl in the IV quickly makes her drowsy and tired. She fights to stay awake, like the firefighters before, and her screams slowly turn into moans.
I sit back, feet on the pram and blood on my gloves, and take a breather. The lights above my head illuminate the inside to the ambulance as two paramedics sit back and one patient begins to doze off into a heavy sleep.
My partner smiles at me and removes his gloves.
I smile at him and think,
Man, I love this job.
I reach up and turn the interior light off. My seatbelt constantly applying pressure to my chest as we skid left and swerve right. My feet, cramped in the foot well, ache from sitting for hours. I slide my elbow off the windowsill and push the small black button that cautiously rolls the window up. The sirens are echoing off the small, white houses sitting atop the hill that overlooks the highway. I straighten my back, sit up in my seat, slid my other hand down to the radio and gingerly turn up the volume.
The wailing changes from long, drawn out screams to sharp, quick blasts. The sounds reverberate off the artful metal accents of the new, contemporary lofts in the old, beat-up neighborhood. Although I've done this a thousand times before, my senses became sharper and my pupils dilate.
Then, like a harmonizing tenor in a church choir, more sirens approach in the darkness. I don't know where they are coming from and they confuse my senses. I struggle, like a fighter pilot in a dogfight, to look out all our windows and determine their avenue of approach.
We break through a triangle intersection and charge up hill, black smoke from the diesel polluting the mile high air. The new sirens assault our ambulance and are right on top of us. I glance in the side view mirror and my eyes squint as the flashing high beams of the police cruiser illuminate the rectangular mirror. He's going where we are going, and we both are racing down this dark, residential street to someone who has a weapon.
The dips in the road bottom the heavy ambulance out as we try and maintain our speed. The police cruiser, chasing us in the dark exhaust fumes, rides close to our bumper. I can almost make out the face of the officer.
We pull over, slightly, and allow the quicker and more maneuverable cruiser to pass. It's engine screams like a banshee as the transmission drops a gear and it rockets past us. Quickly, the red taillights and yellow flashing lights on the roof disappear into the distance. We try and keep up, but are just to heavy and slow. The large dips in the road seem to launch the cruiser into the night as he speeds away.
He shuts his lights and siren off and skids around a corner like a ballplayer sliding into home plate. We do the same. The fire engine awaits at an intersection, its occupants still fighting to stay awake.
The cruiser's driver gets out and we pull up behind him. He pulls his large mag light out from his seat and approaches me. Together, we begin walking the block looking for the out-of-control, suicidal person. The ambulance, and my partner, creeps behind us as we walk.
Suddenly, the officer begins to sprint. His hand on his holstered weapon, he quickly accelerates from me. I begin running, my hand on my awkward radio slapping me on the thigh. My partner slams on the gas and makes the large ambulance lurch forward. The flashing ambulance box turns the corner, as I cut through the yard, and is abruptly slammed into park.
The officer tackles the suicidal person. My partner, like a ballerina, falls out of the freshly parked ambulance as I hurdle patches of grass and concrete. Together, we land on the crazed person and help the officer restrain this angry person with a sharp putty knife.
She screams, kicks, fights, and spits. The dispatcher on the police radio becomes worried that no one has answered her call and sends out an emergency tone. Officers from everywhere in the city scream into their radios saying they are on their way. More sirens, from every direction, again confuse my senses. Lights illuminate the trio fighting the person on the ground as the other officers and their cruisers come to a loud, screeching halt. Burning brakes waft into the air.
We restrain the patient and load her in the ambulance. Still screaming and spitting and fighting I start an IV. It's like trying to brush the teeth of a rabid dog, but I successfully get one in her hand. The chemical restraint is beginning to course through her blood stream after being poked in her deltoid. Benedryl in the IV quickly makes her drowsy and tired. She fights to stay awake, like the firefighters before, and her screams slowly turn into moans.
I sit back, feet on the pram and blood on my gloves, and take a breather. The lights above my head illuminate the inside to the ambulance as two paramedics sit back and one patient begins to doze off into a heavy sleep.
My partner smiles at me and removes his gloves.
I smile at him and think,
Man, I love this job.
Comments
A nurse told me once, "you paramedics are just adrenaline junkies" in a snobby and condescending way. I never said it then, but I was thinking, "You would be too if you knew the fun we had."