I was teaching a lesson on head injuries a while back, ending with scenarios, as usual. The scenario I came up with involved a person riding their bike, swerving to miss a cat named Fluffy, and hitting a tree. One of the members had brought her small son with her, who was sitting quietly in his corner and raptly watching Mommy treat the patient. She called me a few days later to tell me the following story...
Driving home down a country road with Kenny in the back seat, I noticed a small rabbit jump out of the ditch just in front of the car. "Oh no!" I thought, "It's Fluffy, and if I swerve I'll hit a tree and get a head injury!" With the scenario from training in my mind, I stoically held course, hitting the rabbit but staying on the road and away from the trees. Hoping Kenny hadn't seen anything, I kept driving as if nothing had happened.
Childish laughter from the backseat surprised me as Kenny spoke up, "Mommy, it was Fluffy! You killed Fluffy!!" He got a kick out of it, but I had to open my big mouth, "No, honey, Fluffy was a cat, that was a rabbit." So much for making it better, the laughter stopped and his eyes welled up in tears, "You killed the Easter Bunny! Mom, you killed the Easter Bunny!" Now he was bawling his little eyes out, "Good move", I thought, mentally kicking myself. "No, no, honey, that was way too small to be the Easter Bunny, he's much bigger!" This thought placated my crying son, and he turned off the waterworks, only to start giggling again. "Mommy killed Fluffy! You did, you killed Fluffy!" Apparently hitting a cat is funny, but killing the Easter Bunny is a horrific crime.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Next Step
"Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." ~Confucius
I love volunteering; treating patients and being in uniform are two of the most enjoyed parts of my life. I love being on duty, seeing new things, meeting new people, facing challenges and always adapting to new situations. I would do this every day if I could, I can think of no other career I would prefer. This brings me to my next step, since I graduate university this spring.
I have been accepted to the Paramedic Program at one of the best colleges in the area, I will begin the 2-year process this September. I am ridiculously excited, I've been wanting to do this for a while. I know the job is not all fun and excitement, I've already been bled on, puked on, frozen in the winter, boiled in the summer, bored out of my mind and so exhausted I couldn't sleep when my shift was finally done. I just love it, I can't explain why or how, I just do.
My goal is to kick butt in the program, since everything that I don't learn will come back to bite me on the street. I know my degree will generally count for squat, I need to work my tail off to be good, nay, to excel as a paramedic on the street. Although I'm not giving up my volunteer position, this blog will inevitably begin to chronicle my progress through school and calls I get while on the road with my preceptors. I'm excited for the change!!
I love volunteering; treating patients and being in uniform are two of the most enjoyed parts of my life. I love being on duty, seeing new things, meeting new people, facing challenges and always adapting to new situations. I would do this every day if I could, I can think of no other career I would prefer. This brings me to my next step, since I graduate university this spring.
I have been accepted to the Paramedic Program at one of the best colleges in the area, I will begin the 2-year process this September. I am ridiculously excited, I've been wanting to do this for a while. I know the job is not all fun and excitement, I've already been bled on, puked on, frozen in the winter, boiled in the summer, bored out of my mind and so exhausted I couldn't sleep when my shift was finally done. I just love it, I can't explain why or how, I just do.
My goal is to kick butt in the program, since everything that I don't learn will come back to bite me on the street. I know my degree will generally count for squat, I need to work my tail off to be good, nay, to excel as a paramedic on the street. Although I'm not giving up my volunteer position, this blog will inevitably begin to chronicle my progress through school and calls I get while on the road with my preceptors. I'm excited for the change!!
Monday, March 16, 2009
The call comes over the radio and Ryan and I respond to a fall in the front lobby of the hockey arena. An elderly woman has taken her walker down the escalator and ended up falling down the last few steps. I take the call and carefully start assessing her, the poor woman has a slight mental impairment, a host of medical problems and is frightened and shaking like a leaf.
I check her shoulders and neck, running my fingers along her collarbone to assess stability. I check both her arms, running my hands down the bones to feel for deformities or swelling, watching her face for grimaces or any other indication of pain. All I find is a tender bruise starting to swell up just above her elbow; pulses, mobility, sensation, grip strength and everything else is normal. I check everything, running through the full assessment just to be sure. As I release her from my care, I tell her all I found was the bruise on her arm, but to go to the doctor and get checked out later if anything continues to hurt. Completely confident in my assessment and treatment, I fill out my paperwork and contently return to our seats in the stands to watch the end of the game.
Two weeks later, she approaches me at another game, her arm encased in a very supportive sling. "You know my arm that you said was just bruised?" She says with a slightly accusatory tone, "It turns out I broke my collarbone. I went to the doctor and it hurt more than all of my surgeries put together." Slightly dumbfounded, I stammer out an apologetic response while trying not to second-guess my basic assessment skills. As we part, I turn to Ryan in shame, "I thought I nailed that call, I checked everything! She had no pain, no swelling, no deformity, no instability, no nothing!" I barely hear his consolatory response as I'm lost in my own embarrassed thoughts.
I know I wouldn't have run that call differently if I came across it again, but I still feel bad that I missed it. I thought my skills were oh-so-good, I was getting cocky, especially in front of the newer members. I guess we all need to be knocked back to earth occasionally, even if its by something as simple as a broken collarbone.
I check her shoulders and neck, running my fingers along her collarbone to assess stability. I check both her arms, running my hands down the bones to feel for deformities or swelling, watching her face for grimaces or any other indication of pain. All I find is a tender bruise starting to swell up just above her elbow; pulses, mobility, sensation, grip strength and everything else is normal. I check everything, running through the full assessment just to be sure. As I release her from my care, I tell her all I found was the bruise on her arm, but to go to the doctor and get checked out later if anything continues to hurt. Completely confident in my assessment and treatment, I fill out my paperwork and contently return to our seats in the stands to watch the end of the game.
Two weeks later, she approaches me at another game, her arm encased in a very supportive sling. "You know my arm that you said was just bruised?" She says with a slightly accusatory tone, "It turns out I broke my collarbone. I went to the doctor and it hurt more than all of my surgeries put together." Slightly dumbfounded, I stammer out an apologetic response while trying not to second-guess my basic assessment skills. As we part, I turn to Ryan in shame, "I thought I nailed that call, I checked everything! She had no pain, no swelling, no deformity, no instability, no nothing!" I barely hear his consolatory response as I'm lost in my own embarrassed thoughts.
I know I wouldn't have run that call differently if I came across it again, but I still feel bad that I missed it. I thought my skills were oh-so-good, I was getting cocky, especially in front of the newer members. I guess we all need to be knocked back to earth occasionally, even if its by something as simple as a broken collarbone.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Discord
The performer revels in the adoration, the screams and cheers of thousands of fans. He hears them scream his name, sing every lyric of every song and raucously applaud everything he says or does. I hear the scream for help, the cry of a frightened fan with blood running down her face. I hear security shout for me as yet another person staggers out and collapses against a pole, or is carried out by anxious friends. I hear the same stories time and time again, from nearly every patient who walks through our doors.
He sees them jump up and down with excitement, he sees the wide smiles on their faces, the signs splashed with his name and his T-shirts on every body. He sees attractive young women winking at him and smiling suggestively as they bare much in their concert attire. I see the police hauling yet another obnoxious drunk out of the crowd, tossing him out before he creates yet another patient for me. I see the blood hit the floor, drying into deep red-purple stains, a surprisingly beautiful colour against the dingy tile. I see knees buckle as people collapse, their pale and sweaty faces showing fear through their weakness. I watch the crowd closely, picking out those who will soon join me, seeing potential patients in every corner. I see a scantily clad woman fighting to stay upright on huge heels as she stumbles around in a drunken haze, eventually failing miserably and hitting the floor in a pile of skin, makeup and beer.
He smells the smoke from the pyrotechnics mingling with the odour of alcohol and sweat from the massive crowd. I smell the fruity tropical drinks in the vomit my young patient is spewing everywhere, I smell the alcohol on the breath of every patient who stumbles in. I smell smoke and blood, beer and vomit. The inescapable odour permeates my uniform and my hair, searing itself into my very pores.
He feels the thunderous bass shaking the stage beneath his feet, he feels the touch of frantic hands against his feet, his legs, his hands. I feel the grip of a drunk young woman on my hand, her fingers locking through mine in a desperate attempt to regain stability. I feel the swelling grow in a broken nose, I feel my sweat on my forehead as I try to stem the ever-rising tide into the first aid post.
He sings of the glories of alcohol, I see none of it. The young women who came in attractively dressed now slump to the floor, skirts riding up and shirts hanging low, with no control over themselves. Men who come in quietly leave with an escort of blue, or stumble out in a cloud of profanity. I spend the entire evening treating what alcohol has done to these people, and can't help but realize the discord between my experience and the ones glorified in his songs.
He sees them jump up and down with excitement, he sees the wide smiles on their faces, the signs splashed with his name and his T-shirts on every body. He sees attractive young women winking at him and smiling suggestively as they bare much in their concert attire. I see the police hauling yet another obnoxious drunk out of the crowd, tossing him out before he creates yet another patient for me. I see the blood hit the floor, drying into deep red-purple stains, a surprisingly beautiful colour against the dingy tile. I see knees buckle as people collapse, their pale and sweaty faces showing fear through their weakness. I watch the crowd closely, picking out those who will soon join me, seeing potential patients in every corner. I see a scantily clad woman fighting to stay upright on huge heels as she stumbles around in a drunken haze, eventually failing miserably and hitting the floor in a pile of skin, makeup and beer.
He smells the smoke from the pyrotechnics mingling with the odour of alcohol and sweat from the massive crowd. I smell the fruity tropical drinks in the vomit my young patient is spewing everywhere, I smell the alcohol on the breath of every patient who stumbles in. I smell smoke and blood, beer and vomit. The inescapable odour permeates my uniform and my hair, searing itself into my very pores.
He feels the thunderous bass shaking the stage beneath his feet, he feels the touch of frantic hands against his feet, his legs, his hands. I feel the grip of a drunk young woman on my hand, her fingers locking through mine in a desperate attempt to regain stability. I feel the swelling grow in a broken nose, I feel my sweat on my forehead as I try to stem the ever-rising tide into the first aid post.
He sings of the glories of alcohol, I see none of it. The young women who came in attractively dressed now slump to the floor, skirts riding up and shirts hanging low, with no control over themselves. Men who come in quietly leave with an escort of blue, or stumble out in a cloud of profanity. I spend the entire evening treating what alcohol has done to these people, and can't help but realize the discord between my experience and the ones glorified in his songs.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Concerts
March seems to be concert month around here, which is a welcome break after the long, slow winter. There are several large ones approaching, and I find myself looking forward to the preparation, setup and organization of these events. I love being the control person, running the show from the pre-duty briefing until the debriefing at the end. I carefully set up my teams based on qualification and experience, sending them out to pre-arranged locations at the pre-arranged times. I rotate them often enough to keep them from getting bored, and shuffle them around to maintain coverage when calls start pouring in.
We prepare for the worst when setting up before every concert, our entire triage area is designed to manage mass numbers of casualties. We prepare a drunk section where they can vomit peacefully with limited mess, water is set up for the fainters and splints and backboards are laid out for the unfortunate souls who venture into the mosh pit. Our tent stands guard at the entrance, a post through which all must pass in order to maintain order and control. I brief the teams, giving them the layout of the show, times, attendance numbers, radio instructions and assignments. As much information as I have, I reveal. I want my responders to be fully informed, holding back information to preserve a sense of power and control drives me nuts, I always strive to be fully open.
Hopefully, this month will go smoothly and the concerts will prove yet again to be a learning experience for everyone involved. I do my part by making sure all the extra stuff is taken care of, freeing up the responders to respond to calls and treat patients to the best of their ability. Hopefully, having me at the helm and on the radio allows them to focus on their job and not worry about anything else. I love treating patients, but I'm loving the organization and dispatching side more than ever.
We prepare for the worst when setting up before every concert, our entire triage area is designed to manage mass numbers of casualties. We prepare a drunk section where they can vomit peacefully with limited mess, water is set up for the fainters and splints and backboards are laid out for the unfortunate souls who venture into the mosh pit. Our tent stands guard at the entrance, a post through which all must pass in order to maintain order and control. I brief the teams, giving them the layout of the show, times, attendance numbers, radio instructions and assignments. As much information as I have, I reveal. I want my responders to be fully informed, holding back information to preserve a sense of power and control drives me nuts, I always strive to be fully open.
Hopefully, this month will go smoothly and the concerts will prove yet again to be a learning experience for everyone involved. I do my part by making sure all the extra stuff is taken care of, freeing up the responders to respond to calls and treat patients to the best of their ability. Hopefully, having me at the helm and on the radio allows them to focus on their job and not worry about anything else. I love treating patients, but I'm loving the organization and dispatching side more than ever.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Politics and Patients
Standing on the balcony and watching the milling theatre crowd below, I am struck by a sudden realization. The politics don't matter, I can deal with the issues and squabbles that have plagued us recently, because I do this for good, unchanging reasons. I do it for the people below me, for the experience and joy of treating a patient, to help a person out in their moment of need. I can look every single person here in the eye and say, "I do this for YOU." I experience a new pride in the crest on my sleeve, a renewed joy at the rank on my shoulder, a feeling of fulfillment and joy in my job. I do this for the patients, they are what matter, nothing else, and I will stick with it.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Anger
I watch the concert from a safe distance with my earplugs in, but it is still deafeningly loud. There is more black than the average funeral, as weirdly pierced, spiked and tattooed teens wander aimlessly around, charging into the concert room when the main band comes on. Nosebleeds seem to be the order of the day, courtesy of the frenetic mosh pit and flailing arms. A slightly older guy comes storming out of the crowd, blood streaming down his face, his arms, his clothes, the floor. I sigh, glove up and grab a mess of paper towel. Here comes another one.
He storms over to the wall and kicks it, hard, then whips his sweater at the nearest garbage can. I shake my head at his display of temper and walk over when he appears to have calmed a bit. Handing him the stretch of paper towel, I touch his arm and beckon towards the first aid room. He storms into the room just ahead of me, then lets loose a curse and kicks my trash can, bending it in half and sending bloody gauze and other debris cascading over the entire floor. He then proceeds to brutalize the helpless wheelchair, cursing and yelling about the injustice of his nosebleed. "HEY!" I yell, angry that I will have to clean up after his mess, angry that he is disrupting MY safe place, MY treatment room. "WATCH IT!"
He turns with clenched fists and takes a few threatening steps towards me. Thoughts fly through my mind like lightening, "I'm about to get punched, Ryan is going to KILL him, this is going to hurt, WHY didn't I call in my partner or security???" At the same instant that he starts moving, I do as well. Stepping outside, I wave to the nearest security guard, who comes running. Still mad at the guy for being such an ass, I re-enter the room and lose it on him. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?" I shout at him, "SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP NOW, OR I WON'T TREAT YOU, I WILL THROW YOU OUT OF THIS ROOM AND HAVE YOU THROWN OUT OF THIS CONCERT! Now calm down, and sit your ass down, NOW!" He looks taken aback, and as the security guard enters, he finds a blood-covered man cowering on the cot. "Everything ok?" he asks. "Just fine," I answer, "He was just a little upset." He nods and steps out the door, leaving me with the patient who is now extremely contrite, apologizing for the mess, for his anger, even for his injury.
I help him stop the bleeding, clean the blood off his hands and face and send him on his not-so-merry way. The look on his face when I started yelling at him sticks with me, I can't help but laugh as I clean up the mess and remember his incredibly abrupt change in behaviour. I guess redheads have a bit of a temper after all. ;)
He storms over to the wall and kicks it, hard, then whips his sweater at the nearest garbage can. I shake my head at his display of temper and walk over when he appears to have calmed a bit. Handing him the stretch of paper towel, I touch his arm and beckon towards the first aid room. He storms into the room just ahead of me, then lets loose a curse and kicks my trash can, bending it in half and sending bloody gauze and other debris cascading over the entire floor. He then proceeds to brutalize the helpless wheelchair, cursing and yelling about the injustice of his nosebleed. "HEY!" I yell, angry that I will have to clean up after his mess, angry that he is disrupting MY safe place, MY treatment room. "WATCH IT!"
He turns with clenched fists and takes a few threatening steps towards me. Thoughts fly through my mind like lightening, "I'm about to get punched, Ryan is going to KILL him, this is going to hurt, WHY didn't I call in my partner or security???" At the same instant that he starts moving, I do as well. Stepping outside, I wave to the nearest security guard, who comes running. Still mad at the guy for being such an ass, I re-enter the room and lose it on him. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?" I shout at him, "SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP NOW, OR I WON'T TREAT YOU, I WILL THROW YOU OUT OF THIS ROOM AND HAVE YOU THROWN OUT OF THIS CONCERT! Now calm down, and sit your ass down, NOW!" He looks taken aback, and as the security guard enters, he finds a blood-covered man cowering on the cot. "Everything ok?" he asks. "Just fine," I answer, "He was just a little upset." He nods and steps out the door, leaving me with the patient who is now extremely contrite, apologizing for the mess, for his anger, even for his injury.
I help him stop the bleeding, clean the blood off his hands and face and send him on his not-so-merry way. The look on his face when I started yelling at him sticks with me, I can't help but laugh as I clean up the mess and remember his incredibly abrupt change in behaviour. I guess redheads have a bit of a temper after all. ;)
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