It had been a sweltering hot day that turned into an equally hot and sticky night, with not even a breeze to provide relief. One of those days where the uniform seems to made out of merino wool and undershirts get soaked through before you leave the base.
"Code 4, difficulty breathing to Local Cheap-Ass Trailer Park" comes in the middle of our coffee run, my partner is one of those crazy people who would still be drinking coffee if the entire city was on fire. The trailer park is full of helpful people who wave us in opposite direction at every intersection, it's not hard to figure out the the general layout is circular, but thanks guys! We pull off the main road into a rutted laneway, followed close behind by the fire department.
A robust woman stands in front of a tiny trailer, waving her arms and pointing frantically inside. I wonder where our patient is? I climb the tiny metal stairs into the trailer, my eyes adjusting to the darkness inside despite the late summer sun shining in the windows. I can hear a terrible sounding wheeze/rattle combo from my right, and I turn to see an equally robust man half-reclining on a tiny bed - on an elevated platform. How on earth did he even get up there? This is going to be a tough extrication, the man is large enough that he would have to turn sideways to get through the doorways, there is no chance any sort of stair chair would fit, and he can't lay even remotely flat for the tarp.
As I assess him, as my partner is too large to fit into the space, it is quickly clear that he needs oxygen, medication and the hospital before his asthmatic/COPD lungs give out completely. The problem is, there is absolutely no space to work and it is so hot and humid you can practically see the moisture in the air. Being in this tiny trailer is not helping his lungs any, we gotta get him out. That, however, is the real problem here.
With the smallest firefighter (who still dwarfs me) pressed in far too close for the temperatures, we get his legs swung around and help him slide off the platform onto the stool he uses to climb out of the weird tiny loft. As soon as his feet hit the floor, his legs buckle and we take all of his weight as we side-step our way to the little hanging ladder and fresh air. There is no way he can climb down himself, and no room to get any equipment or any help in, so fire dude and I exchange glances. "You good?" "Yup, you?" "Let's do this." Together we lift him into a fore and aft position and carry him down the ladder, my hamstrings and quads burning with every step and reminding me how much more I need to appreciate my giant leg muscles. Thankfully at the bottom there is plenty of help, and we are happy to pass off the weight while we stand in the shade and drip half our body weight in sweat.
The air conditioning in the truck has worked wonders on the way to the hospital, and we arrive with nary a wheeze in sight. As we help him into his hospital bed, he muses, "Next time it's this hot, maybe I'll stay home in the air conditioning." We agree that may be a good plan, and clear the hospital with visions of ice cream dancing in our heads. 'Tis not to be though, as hot summer nights are not the quietest of shifts and we get nailed for another SOB call halfway to DQ.