From: st871622@pip.cc.brandeis.edu (not him again)
Date: 11 Sep 1994 06:09:43 GMT
Subject: Another day ...

My alarm clock has a feature that I specifically bought it for:

One alarm setting will turn on the radio; the volume gradually 
increases until it's so loud that the speaker distorts the 60's music
station that it's set to. I hate 60's music - so does my downstairs
neighbor, who has a penchant for rapping his ceiling (my floor) with
a broom-stick, as a sign of his displeasure.

Why I am telling you this?

Seven-thirty in the morning. That's thirty minutes past the time I was
supposed to be at work. That's about an _hour_ past the time I set my
alarm to go off. That's about ten minutes past the time my downstairs
neighbor decided he'd had enough, and began to tappity-tap his morse-code
of hate to me. Only it wasn't really morse-code; it was more like:

*WHAM* *WHAM* *WHAM* "You fucking asshole!" *WHAM* *WHAM* *WHAM*

It was about that time that I decided to wake up. My head throbbing from
last night's drinking binge, I stumbled towards the alarm, shut it off.
After a few more taps to the ceiling, my neighbor finished with a loud -
"FUCKING ASSHOLE!" There was silence. Then the phone rang. I stumbled to
this new source of noise - and pain, and answered:

"Uhh, hullo?"

"Tae, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

It was the dispatcher. 

That's how my day began.

I got into work half an hour later. All the ambulances were out doing
calls. I walked into the dispatch office. Shift change had taken place
long before I woke up; the only person to talk to was Kevin, the 
dispatcher.

ObAside: Kevin has the dubious honor of making me puke once. Several
years ago, he noticed a large lump in the middle of his chest. Convinced
that it was nothing more than a large cyst, he asked me to drain it
for him, as he was too cheap to go to a doctor. After assembling the
appropriate equipment, I made a small incision at the base of the cyst.
A thin stream of green pus mixed with blood shot out of the wound, a
smell reminiscent of sour milk and rancid seafood rose to my face. The
smell was so overpowering that I retched and eventually puked. In my
defense, I will say that I recovered enough to finish the procedure;
squeezing the cyst to make sure that all of the pus was evacuated from
the cyst.

After exchanging a few pleasantries with the dispatcher:

"How's the wife?" 

"Hate the lying bitch."

"How're the kids?"

"Goddamn rug-rats - can't stand'em."

"How's that urinary tract infection - still hurt to pee?"

"Fuck you."

my unit - Medic 11, backed into the garage. The guy that'd stayed over
for me looked haggard. I quickly walked over to relieve him of his keys
and radio.

"What did you go out for?"

"Diff breather - two-hundred and fifty pounds - third-floor carry-down."

"Um, well - thanks for staying for me."

"Fuck you."

Seeing as this would be the tone for the day, I quickly checked the 
truck out, hoping to leave the base as soon as possible. We went in 
search of coffee - the fluid-replacement of choice. Just as we were 
pulling in to the nearest "Dunkin' Donuts," we received our first call 
of the day:

"Medic 11 - respond priority one  for a man 'in pain.'"

"That man better be 'in pain,' or he will be," roared my partner as he 
backed out of the parking lot. The entire company knew that my partner
was on Prozac. It didn't seem to be working. As he ranted during the
response, all I could think about was the day-glo orange and pink sign
that rapidly shrank from my sight - and with it my only hope for 
salvation on what was turning out to be a real stinker of a day.

We arrived at the address. Engine 2 was several blocks away, it's air-
horn doing double-time, trying to clear the morning traffic. I grabbed 
the 'medical bag' and oxygen tank, while my partner slung the cardiac 
monitor over his shoulder. His rants had become subdued - now an 
occasional mumble. Little snippets of "... just wait..." and "...they'll
be sorry..." under his breath added to general misery. We walked up a 
few steps leading to the front porch, and took positions just left and 
right of the door. I rapped on the door with my flashlight:

"Hello - anyone call for an ambulance?"

No response.

I turned the door-knob; the front door swung-in smoothly, revealing a 
set of stairs and a long narrow hallway, which lead to what appeared 
to a kitchen. Giving my partner, a "what the hell" look, I entered the
hallway.

"Hey - anybody call an ambulance?" I shouted, as I tried to decide 
whether to go down the hall, or proceed up the stairs. My partner was 
still outside, trying to decide whether to enter at all. Just then, we 
both heard a muffled voice coming from the end of the hall. We followed 
the voice to a closed door. Taking our positions on either side of the 
door again, I knocked:

"Hello - did you call an ambulance?"

"Who's out there?  do you want?"

I opened the door, and saw an elderly man, wearing nothing but briefs,
standing next to a bed. He was facing away from me.

"Did you call for an ambulance?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you turn this way and look at me?"

"I can't move, it hurts."

By this time, Engine 2 had arrived, and I could hear the roar of the 
diesel engine through the open door. Feeling a little more safe, I 
entered the room, and approached the man. I saw why he couldn't move:

He had been impaled on one of the bedposts. Somehow, this man had a bed
post rammed up between his anus and scrotum - while in a standing
position. I kneeled in front of this older man, in what could have been
misconstrued as a private exchange between priest and penitent, in order
to get a better look an the injury. The man was wearing briefs, it's 
fabric had also been pushed through the skin along with the bedpost. There was a little spotting of blood on the briefs - and the largest
'skid mark' I'd seen in recent times. The underwear were a uniform gray,
with spots of dark dried urine. He was wearing them with the maker's 
label out - a faded "Tuesday" written in permanent marker on the
elastic. I asked him what had happened. 

"I don't know. I got up, and ... I don't remember."

The tops of the other three bed posts were conical in shape, with a 
smooth blunt tip at the top. I shudder to think how much force it took
to have such a blunt object pierce the skin. My best guess was that the
man, in an attempt to get out of bed, actually got _on_ his bed, then
slipped off the side of it, impaling himself in a standing position.

That deep question answered, we now had to figure out how to get him
off the bedpost. The standard procedure in dealing with impaled objects
is to leave it in place, stabilize the object to minimize further
injury to the patient, and transport. Obviously there are exceptions to
the procedure. I couldn't see myself loading the bed and patient in the
back - though in retrospect, it may have been a spectacular way to end
my career in EMS.

The fire department offered to cut part of the bedpost off, to minimize
the amount of bedpost I'd have to take with me. Another ... interesting
option, one that involved a chainsaw. Again, a vision of a spectacular
end to my career. No, that wouldn't do.

The man, after standing stock-still for the better part of twenty 
minutes, was beginning to tire; his legs now visibly shaking. It was
quickly decided that we'd place a 'scoop' board behind him, and strap
him to the board while he was standing. After securing him to the board,
we would lift him off the post. 

As we were strapping him to the 'scoop,' the man suddenly said - "You'd
better hurry."

"I know you're tired, sir - we'll have you out very soon."

"No, it's not that - I gotta use the bathroom."

I didn't even ask him whether it was a 'number 1 or 2,' I didn't want to
know. We silently picked up the pace, working feverishly to strap him
to the board. Then we lifted him up and off the bedpost, which he 
acknowledged with a sudden intake of breath, and a loud moan. We then
carried him out of the house and into the waiting ambulance. 

There was a slight pause as my partner and I decided who would ride in
back with him. My bloodshot eyes met his angry, Prozac-enhanced ones
in a silent battle of wills. I hesitated - and lost. I climbed in back,
saying a little prayer.

Every bump on the road caused the patient to groan, and me to pray a 
little harder. A particularly violent bump caused me to look towards the
front of the ambulance. I could see sheer, malicious delight in my
partner's eyes in the rear-view mirror, as he glanced back every so
often to enjoy my misery. The sudden realization - a 'Zen' moment, if
you will, that he was _deliberately_ aiming for bumps on the road, filled
me hate even as my newfound respect for him grew. Cunning bastard.

We arrived at the hospital, and backed into the ambulance bay. We tried
to carry him into the emergency department as quickly as possible, but
as we crossed the threshold of the ER doors, the patient let out a long,
wet-sounding flatus, followed by a stream of runny, dark diarrhea. We
didn't stop, merely shifting our positions to avoid the spatters of
shit that hit the linoleum floor. We're nothing,if not professionals.

The rest of the day sucked. Too.

- Tae