Archive for January, 2010

The heat from the freshly minted summer season was coming off the pavement in waves as we rocketed down the southbound Van Wyck Expressway. “Why did we get dragged down here again?” I asked while whipping the steering wheel to the left as we rocketed off the Van Wyck Expressway and down onto the Belt Parkway.

“The Far East is hopping and they dragged all the Jamaica units to The Rock already,” explained Freakzilla as he calmly pulled up the history of the call that was unfolding, “Add in the munies getting toned out no radio response. Time for their overtime tour change.”

Being pulled into another area was par for the course on 51D. Even though our official Place At Rest (PAR) was located in the 112th Precinct, the Computer Aided Dispatch System (CAD) that FDNY used incorrectly identified us as being in the 102nd Precinct. Due to its 1980’s antiquity the system would then recommend us first for a call that would be 9 miles away while a call that was literally around the corner from where we sat would go to another unit… while we were sitting there. Of course with the warmer weather came a higher call volume, more municipal units out of service from seasonal Line Of Duty Injury (LODI) leaves or vacations, and therefore we voluntaries were left to pick up the slack, which at times involved us traveling to places the computer estimated well beyond our usual under 10 minute travel time.

We still beat the computer every time.

Our journey ended on a softly lit street lined with manicured lawns in front of one family homes in a Queens/Nassau County borderline community. We parked in front of a fire truck that was disembarking the local firefighter first responders. Freakzilla pushed the button to signal our onscene status as I climbed down from the cab and walked around to the side of our truck. Slinging our combination trauma/oxygen bag across my back and grasping the stairchair in one gloved hand I began sauntering towards the side entrance where the firefighters were beginning to make a lined and orderly entry.

As I stepped onto the porch in the wake of the wafting scent of half-burnt barbecue I saw a slightly balding tall man with a grim scowl standing on the other side of the procession. His arm was wrapped around a softly sobbing woman. Once I reached the couple I placed my free hand on the woman’s arm and asked, “What’s going on?”

The woman looked up at me with red puffy eyes. She was incapable of speaking and turned to the man. With a somber voice he said, “Her sister is in the upstairs hallways. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s barely conscious.”

As I was about to question him further, Freakzilla interrupted me from the doorway, “Dawg, watch your step. These bags are full.” I turned towards the doorway only to watch him walk through and into what appeared to be a cloud of haze in the well lit house. I released my hand from the sobbing woman’s arm and moved into the entranceway of the home.

Once I stepped inside there was a definitive climate difference. The air was hot, humid, stale and rotten. I was standing in a large living room that took up most of the first floor of the house and was filled with white tied shopping plastic bags with a variety of print on them.

Thank You said one.

Come Again said another.

Where I was standing they were abruptly up to my waist and progressively rose to the height of the ceiling against what were supposed to be the front windows. I carefully followed a very narrow path that had been cleared leading to a staircase. As I began my ascent, bags started flying over the banister into the main room. Upon landing some of them opened and spilled their contents out.

Feces from one bag.

A take-out food tin with some sort of yellow goop from another.

“What the hell?” I asked not sure who, or what, was tossing this shit around.

“They’re all over. We’re just clearing a path to the patient so you guys can get her out,” explained a firefighter from the top of the staircase, “It looks like she hasn’t left here in over a year and at some point, the toilet stopped working.” I finished my climb and followed another firefighter’s pointing finger to the end of the hallway where Freakzilla was finishing a set of vitals on a pale hefty woman in a state of undress who was slumped against the wall on her toilet.

I unfolded the stairchair as he undid his blood pressure cuff. “We need to get her out,” he said unfolding the sheet that had been on the chair seat. “It looks like heat stroke but we can’t treat her here. There are fleas and roaches all over. I don’t know what else and I really don’t want to find out.” I nodded in agreement and moved in to grasp her under her arms. Once my hands were locked, my body pressing against her hot pile of flesh, Freakzilla nodded his head and scooped her legs. With a pull and a twist she was in our chair. After another quick adjustment we wrapped her in the sheet, more as a protection of her modesty than anything else, and strapped her into the chair.

I glanced around the cramped room. The wallpaper was peeling with dark brown stains from the ceiling down in long streaks. The mirror appeared to have spots of fungus growing on it, and was cracked open enough to reveal a medicine cabinet with brown medication bottles strewn on its shelves. “What’s in there?” I asked nodding my head towards the medicine cabinet.

He glanced back before saying, “It’s all empty psych meds. The scripts are over five years old. It’s definitely a cocktail for depression, maybe some schizophrenia or bi-polar on the side. I’m not sure what she’s supposed to actually be taking and I don’t think the family actually knows either. The guy told the firefighters its their first time here in over a year at least, if not more.”

I carefully pulled her out of the room and was able to swing her around so that I could push her instead. Freakzilla reached into the bag strapped to my back and pulled forth a non-rebreather mask, running the oxygen hose over my shoulder, and then he placed the mask over the patient’s face before stepping in front to lead the way.

“One David are you in here?” called a voice from the doorway, “It’s medic Four Young.”

“Yeah we’re coming down with the patient,” I called back, “We can’t treat up here. Get your truck set-up for a heat stroke.”

“Yeah we see the problem. We’ll meet you outside,” the voice called back. With that Freakzilla grabbed a hold of the bottom of the stairchair and we carefully carried the patient down while the firefighters made the original path wider so that we could wheel the patient out. Unfortunately once we got down we realized the path still was not wide enough as the new bags were pushing down forcing others further out. Instead of accidentally ripping one of the bags open and spilling its contents out to step in or roll through, we carried the patient right out the doorway and into the cool, crisp, and clean air outside.

As I came through the door I could hear a cracked voice screeching, “It’s not easy! Don’t judge me! It’s not easy!” cried the woman who had been unable to speak less than five minutes before. “Don’t you judge me! You have no right to judge! It’s not easy!” she continued to screech as Freakzilla and I carried her sister past her and down to the path that lead to the street.

“It’s not easy…” she sobbed as we rolled her sister to the waiting medic truck, …to love the mentally ill… echoed in the silence of my mind.

No. It’s not easy.

The stories on this blog are in compliance with HIPPA regulation. Identifying details have been changed to protect the patient’s identity. If you think I am talking about you, I assure you that I am not.

In March 2000 I opened The Parkway Hospital EMS Unit 51 David (51D). The unit was dispatched by the Fire Department Of New York Bureau Of Emergency Medical Service to emergencies and incidents that were called in through the New York City 911 system or from either the FDNY Fire Suppression Communications Center and the New York City Police Department. The unit served primarily western Queens from a home atom of 102A. The assigned Cross Street Location (CSL) for the unit to standby was at Queens Boulevard and Union Turnpike.

We were the only unit to come out of The Parkway Hospital for over a year and we entered into a cut throat territorial system from which we had to carve our piece. During my time there I worked primarily the overnight shift starting my week on a Thursday night and ending on a Sunday night. They were 12 hour tours, 48 hours a week, and 36 of those hours were usually spent with my partner known as Freakzilla… and I could have asked for no better. We were The Lone Wolves In The Wild Wild West.

With an average nightly call volume of 10+ calls, there were a lot of things we did. There were a lot of things we saw. There were a lot of people we touched… and who touched us with their stories. Due to things beyond our control, both political and budgetary in nature, in May 2005 Freakzilla and I took truck 5900 on it’s last ride as 51D. While the unit may not be in the system anymore, its spirit of having the knowledge, the ability, and the desire to get it done lives on…

Most people were surprised that there was no official head of the TSA when there was an attempted bombing of Northwest Airlines Flight 253 over Detroit last Christmas. The appointment was reportedly being held up by Congress. Last week Errol Southers withdrew from his White House nomination to head up the TSA. So now the White House has to go and find a new nominee.

I don’t know about you, but I am severely frustrated by the government’s lack of urgency in this matter of national security. I mean surely SOMEONE wants the job…

Yeah… I’m all about the monkies today… have a safe week…