If you don't want my help, why did you call?
It was my seventh call in five hours. And I was tired.
We sped from the south side of town to the north, cutting through lanes like a supped-up stock car. The evening traffic had made its angry way home and only a few, random stragglers strayed along the night streets. The four-lane highway was clear for but a few random headlights bouncing in the distance. My partner pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor and the engine's governor only allowed the ambulance to max out at 95 mph. The bright box whistled in the night air as we flew from one end of town to another.
We exited the highway and made a right on the large boulevard, the traffic seperating like Moses parting the red sea. The opticom above the stained light bar flickered into the future, causing the string of red lights ahead to turn green. We kept a steady speed, people ominously moved to the right, and we arrived on scene with the siren still echoing in the distance and the smell of burning brakes still lingering in the air.
I hopped out the uncomfortable seat and fell to the graveled lot. A black man stood in the shadows smoking a cigarette; it's cherry pulsating from bright red to a cool amber. We approached and he nodded.
We walked into the entrance of the fire department, which was also the entrance to the city's YMCA and the city's library. It was a large business building, tan on the outside with long, rectangular windows preventing any of its occupants from enjoying the nature that surrounded them. It was a peculiar place for a fire department, especially in such a large city, but the spray-painted signs didn't lie. It was just at the end of the ply board walkway.
Firemen in blue sweatshirts and tangled hair stood outside their front door. All of who were just asleep, and all of whom were trying to stay awake. One with a clipboard stood officially under a construction light penning any important history he found relevant. The newest of the crew, the boot, was kneeling beside a large, half-dressed angry man on a stairwell. I approached and with an obvious sigh of relief, the probie stood up, gave me a brief report, and moved back into the shadows.
An oxygen mask was strapped to the irritated man. He sat on the fourth step, resting his large feet on the first. He had no shirt and was only wearing a pair of denim jeans. Like a silk tie from Brooks Brothers, a scar hung from his neck to his chest. Below, like buttons on a dinner jacket, three scars sat horizontally on his large belly.
I quickly determined from his body language that he wanted nothing to do with anybody. He sat cussing and flailing and berated the very people he had walked to for help. I was disgusted with how someone who obviously wanted help refused any courtesies offered.
I approached and introduced myself. Repeated the story to him and he disgustedly agreed. I pointed over my shoulder and said, "Let's walk to the ambulance, then."
He stood, his 6 foot 5 inch frame towering over the sleepy group of people in front of him. He ripped the plastic mask from his face and threw it to the ground. "I don't need this shit, anymore!" he said.
I walked in front of him, he moaned and flailed and like a Broadway Star, exaggerated his condition along the fifteen-step trek. I continued walking. If he really wanted help, he knew where to go and knew how to get there. He cussed the night sky and punched his chest like a giant ape climbing the Empire State building.
"Sit there," I said, pointing to the bed with an already stained sheet on it.
"I need to do a couple of things"
His large frame engulfed the bed and his feet hung from the sides. His body quaked with each defamatory statement.
"Take me to the fucking hospital," he demanded.
"I need to do.."
"I said take me to the fucking hospital!"
I stopped what I was doing and tossed everything into the well of the bench. I was tired, sleepy as the firemen, and was in no mood to deal with this. I briefly thought about barking back but realized it would be a waste of time, like trying to rationalize with an intoxicated person. I leaned back against the blue, cushioned wall and looked him in the eye, "There's no need to be a dick to those who want to help you," I said.
He looked to his left and realized I was serious. He opened his mouth to say something, whether it was something nice or mean I don't know, because I was in the process of standing up and moving to the seat behind him. If he didn't want my help, he wasn't going to get it. And I certainly wasn't going to nestle up next to him and baby him like he probably always wanted his mother to do, but didn't.
So, we drifted from the scene and bounced down the road to his hospital of choice, one I wouldn't have necessarily chosen in the first place. He sat in front of me stomping his feet, wailing his arms, swearing to Jesus as he pounded his chest. I sat behind him, legs comfortably resting on the head of the bed doing my paperwork.
He played his cards early in the game and I called his bluff. A 35-year-old man acting like a 5-year-old child with the vocabulary of a 16 year old. If I was such a bother why did he call us? Why not walk yourself to the hospital? That way, you don't have to deal with sleepy firemen and "inept" paramedics.
I'll never understand why people are like that. They're sick, they call 911, and then they treat everyone around them like an unwanted child.
If you don't want my help, why did you call?
We sped from the south side of town to the north, cutting through lanes like a supped-up stock car. The evening traffic had made its angry way home and only a few, random stragglers strayed along the night streets. The four-lane highway was clear for but a few random headlights bouncing in the distance. My partner pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor and the engine's governor only allowed the ambulance to max out at 95 mph. The bright box whistled in the night air as we flew from one end of town to another.
We exited the highway and made a right on the large boulevard, the traffic seperating like Moses parting the red sea. The opticom above the stained light bar flickered into the future, causing the string of red lights ahead to turn green. We kept a steady speed, people ominously moved to the right, and we arrived on scene with the siren still echoing in the distance and the smell of burning brakes still lingering in the air.
I hopped out the uncomfortable seat and fell to the graveled lot. A black man stood in the shadows smoking a cigarette; it's cherry pulsating from bright red to a cool amber. We approached and he nodded.
We walked into the entrance of the fire department, which was also the entrance to the city's YMCA and the city's library. It was a large business building, tan on the outside with long, rectangular windows preventing any of its occupants from enjoying the nature that surrounded them. It was a peculiar place for a fire department, especially in such a large city, but the spray-painted signs didn't lie. It was just at the end of the ply board walkway.
Firemen in blue sweatshirts and tangled hair stood outside their front door. All of who were just asleep, and all of whom were trying to stay awake. One with a clipboard stood officially under a construction light penning any important history he found relevant. The newest of the crew, the boot, was kneeling beside a large, half-dressed angry man on a stairwell. I approached and with an obvious sigh of relief, the probie stood up, gave me a brief report, and moved back into the shadows.
An oxygen mask was strapped to the irritated man. He sat on the fourth step, resting his large feet on the first. He had no shirt and was only wearing a pair of denim jeans. Like a silk tie from Brooks Brothers, a scar hung from his neck to his chest. Below, like buttons on a dinner jacket, three scars sat horizontally on his large belly.
I quickly determined from his body language that he wanted nothing to do with anybody. He sat cussing and flailing and berated the very people he had walked to for help. I was disgusted with how someone who obviously wanted help refused any courtesies offered.
I approached and introduced myself. Repeated the story to him and he disgustedly agreed. I pointed over my shoulder and said, "Let's walk to the ambulance, then."
He stood, his 6 foot 5 inch frame towering over the sleepy group of people in front of him. He ripped the plastic mask from his face and threw it to the ground. "I don't need this shit, anymore!" he said.
I walked in front of him, he moaned and flailed and like a Broadway Star, exaggerated his condition along the fifteen-step trek. I continued walking. If he really wanted help, he knew where to go and knew how to get there. He cussed the night sky and punched his chest like a giant ape climbing the Empire State building.
"Sit there," I said, pointing to the bed with an already stained sheet on it.
"I need to do a couple of things"
His large frame engulfed the bed and his feet hung from the sides. His body quaked with each defamatory statement.
"Take me to the fucking hospital," he demanded.
"I need to do.."
"I said take me to the fucking hospital!"
I stopped what I was doing and tossed everything into the well of the bench. I was tired, sleepy as the firemen, and was in no mood to deal with this. I briefly thought about barking back but realized it would be a waste of time, like trying to rationalize with an intoxicated person. I leaned back against the blue, cushioned wall and looked him in the eye, "There's no need to be a dick to those who want to help you," I said.
He looked to his left and realized I was serious. He opened his mouth to say something, whether it was something nice or mean I don't know, because I was in the process of standing up and moving to the seat behind him. If he didn't want my help, he wasn't going to get it. And I certainly wasn't going to nestle up next to him and baby him like he probably always wanted his mother to do, but didn't.
So, we drifted from the scene and bounced down the road to his hospital of choice, one I wouldn't have necessarily chosen in the first place. He sat in front of me stomping his feet, wailing his arms, swearing to Jesus as he pounded his chest. I sat behind him, legs comfortably resting on the head of the bed doing my paperwork.
He played his cards early in the game and I called his bluff. A 35-year-old man acting like a 5-year-old child with the vocabulary of a 16 year old. If I was such a bother why did he call us? Why not walk yourself to the hospital? That way, you don't have to deal with sleepy firemen and "inept" paramedics.
I'll never understand why people are like that. They're sick, they call 911, and then they treat everyone around them like an unwanted child.
If you don't want my help, why did you call?
Comments
I particularly love hearing that from unemployed system abusers on Medicaid.
I like to lean forward and whisper to them, "Actually, it's the other way around. And I'm demanding my money back."
Your subject matter here is one I've read often in medical blogs -- the unappreciative, illogical patient.
Everyone is different, but here's my experience: I'd fallen in my kitchen and with the first attempt to move knew I'd broken something. My neighbor heard me call out for help and called 911. I lay quietly waiting and when I heard them at the front door yelled out to them how they could get in without breaking down the door.
A policewoman was with them (I lived alone). As I answered the questions put to me by the paramedic I was also responding to the pw about where my purse was, twisting my upper torso to point it out to her.
Then, the paramedic reached down to grab the material of my sweat pants on the leg that was injured. I immediately half sat up, stretched my hand and arm out over that leg and said "no, no, no". I do not know why I did this; he hadn't hurt me. But I remember doing it again as he reached toward that leg.
I have no recollection of being given a shot but the next thing I remember was coming to to see that they had a sheet under me and was using it to lift me onto a stretcher. I went out like a light again. Came to in the ambulance as he was placing a blanket over me and saying we'd be at the hospital in 10 minutes. Oh, that blanket was wonderful! So warm! And I said so, which seemed to surprise him.
In the emergency room I drifted in and out, answering questions, still sitting up and saying "no, no, no" if I was aware of that leg being moved, then passing out again as someone said "more morphine".
Finally woke once again feeling awfully tired and asked a presence in the room a bit peevishly when I would have surgery and was informed it was over and done with.
The thing is, unless it was because the bone break occurred in the leg most affected by polio which I'd had at age 6 months, and because before the age of 8 years I'd had several hospital stays and surgeries (parents never allowed to visit) and had not needed hospitalization since, unless it had to do with that, I have no explanation for my behavior.
Except for that first attempt to move, I never once experienced a pang of any level of pain until I got home and weaned myself off the pain meds because they caused constipation.
Okay, I'm thinking that after any sort of trauma people can behave irrationally, probably for lots of different reasons. I'm also thinking that experienced paramedics tend to respond according to what they think is going on. I like the way you handled the belligerant man. You weren't disrespectful, in my opinion. Still, trauma on the body causes weird reactions sometimes, don't it?