Randy EMS Guys

Thursday, May 12 2005

A lot of EMS is about what some folk might consider “snap judgments”, but that term usually has bad connotations. Call it “quick thinking” instead.

What really needs to happen, often, is a lot of data needs to be sucked in and processed in a very short amount of time so we can stop staring and begin treating. For instance, at the scene of an auto accident, certainly everyone in the car is going to be treated to the best of our abilities. But some need help NOW while others can wait thirty seconds. This is the whole triage thing – worst goes first, and figure it out in 20 seconds or less.

The same twenty-second rule applies to mass casualty incidents (I’ve never had one). Victims are literally tagged, and the color of the tags indicates the severity of their injuries: Red is priority, yellow “soonest”, green “walking wounded”, and black means dead. The first EMS unit on the scene, not otherwise engaged, goes through tagging the victims instead of treating them – treatment comes from the units which follow.

What all this boils down to is that the”quick thinking” ability is Good, and so is naturally carried over into other aspects of the job. Sometimes, however, a hideous transformation turns “quick thinking on the scene” into “snap judgment at the station”.

This is well illustrated by some folk who insist on pigeonholing others, a sort of “First Impressions Gone Wild” effect which causes otherwise sane individuals to draw erroneous conclusions. For instance:

Beer Mary defines a “Randy Rescue” as the “New Guy with more shit on his belt than Batman.”

It is true that DTs has distended his shapely 34-inch waist by the inclusion of a few useful items which depend from his belt. And although he’s never been called “Randy Rescue”, it is also true that a firefighter has been known, occasionally, to ask, “Got enough shit on your belt, there, DTs?” This is the sort of comment which might call one’s clarity to question.

For it is to laugh – one such firefighter was later desperately seeking a seatbelt cutter when DTs passed over his leatherman tool, you’re very welcome.

Many a PD officer has been glad of DTs Enviable Selection of GloveWear when the vomitous drunk was headed to adult detention, rather than the hospital. Both latex and nitrile flavors, since some folk have latex allergies.

And while it is true that no fewer than five light sources may be found in various pouches, it is a canard that DTs carries enough candlepower to replace a tanning bed.

Anyone who derides the cell phone obviously has not tried to radio the hospital from our fair city’s “dead spots”. The digital camera in the same pouch is for you, fire guys, when the bambulance is staging on your scenes – we’re much too busy to take pictures of ourselves when it’s a medical call.

The rest of the stuff, trauma shears, penlights, pager – all standard issue, everybody has that stuff. And of course a good pen or two.

Damn! I am a Randy Rescue. If only my BDU trousers had any spare pockets, but alas, they’re stuffed with…

The Right Stuff

Saturday, March 26 2005

Sometimes I get the feeling I’m not as “into” EMS as are others. At least, not the stuff.

To illustrate: When one encounters a group of fire guys talking about their work, one will hear something like this:

FF1: “Did you hear Station 99 got a Fireblaster 3000?”

FF2: “I hear that has a OptiFoam Regurgitator – that must be sweet!”

FF1: “Yeah – at 66 million RPF it beats hell of the Piddlemeister!”

FF2: “Say DTs, what do you think of the Deluge Deluxe?”

DTs: “Um, it’s yellow?”

After a minute of silence, DTs realizes his coffee has cooled .5 degrees and must be recharged. He wanders off, to the great relief of all.

But I think I’ve figured it out. Fire is a young man’s game, that was my first clue.

This is their baseball cards.

In my not-misspent youth one had to maintain a familiarization with cars in order to join a conversation. Horsepower, colors, how many wheels, that sort of thing, whether Ford is better than Chevy or is in fact Found On Road Dead. If they are fast. Other minutia, I am sure.

Guessing that DTs often realized his Coke had warmed .5 degrees and needed more ice means you’re a good guesser, that’s all.

Or, okay, football teams – the names of the players, heated speculation as to whether they would, in fact, throw the ball at some point in the game, and what that might mean to the Scheme of Things.

Guy1: “Do you think the Wombats have a chance this year?”

Guy2: “Yes, if they score many points. If others score more, then, no.”

DTs: “Succinctly done – every game commentary ever, distilled into Essence.”

DTs is adept at reading The Look which means, “You’re ruining it. Go away. Perhaps your tea is cold.”

But all this is all right – whatever entertains, says I.

In the meantime, I am simply delighted that I can wander into my station and they’ll hand me the keys to my Monster Medic, a half a million dollars worth of stuff, and say, “Do as thou wilt.” – knowing, of course, that I “wilt” eagerly anticipate the tones and do the EMS thing.

Of course, I hear good things about the Lifepack 20…

Bringing Out The Bic Guns

Sunday, February 06 2005

At the end of last week’s duty I was approached by my new Captain.

“DTs”, he said, “We need your help. Can you be here Saturday to run the bambulance? Everybody who would normally be here is going to a Burn. Actually, this Burn has been planned for a long time, so I’m sorry about the short notice. Can you do it?”

I assured him that I would ask She Who Must Be Obeyed.

“A Burn?” asked SWMBO. “What’s that?”

“I have no idea. It’s a Burn, they said. It’s been planned, they said. But they didn’t have anyone doing the ambulance thing while they were gone. So they asked me.”

Permission was granted, so off Saturday morning I went, wondering about this Burn thing.

I understood that they’ve planned to burn something for a long time, the Captain practically admitted it. He was particularly vague about what it was they were burning, though. Could it be that the Fire Guys had said, “On February 5th we’re gonna light something up, boys. Come that day, put on your gear and mount up and we’ll ride around in the fire trucks and find something sweet. Bring hot dogs.”

Couldn’t they just? I have seen these guys at play. I decided that I wouldn’t rat them out when the PD arrived at my station.

“DTs, we caught these guys Burning stuff – what did you know about that?”

“These guys? They was here all along. We was playin’ cards – see all the cards? The forty of ’em just went to the bat’room a minnit ago.”

Indeed, one must cover one’s EMS bruthaz.

At 07:30 I arrived at the station, where parking for POVs was at a premium. The previous shift’s bambulance crew was still there – in theory they’d get off shift at 08:00. I checked out my equipment bags while noticing the fire guys excitedly getting their stuff together – filling air tanks, tightening straps, testing masks. My sincere offer of latex gloves to the younger fire guys, whose whole lives were yet before them, was met by blank stares. Fools. Go ahead and leave your fingerprints at the Burn, then.

Into the vehicle bay strode two gallant figures, incongruously dressed. Dressed much as I was – no fire gear marred their crisp blue uniforms. We exchanged wassups, when I was dealt a shocking surprise: These two were going to be the Bambulance Crew.

I tried to explain. “No, see, the captain wanted me here today while the guys, you know, went out (wink) on this thing (wink) they’re doing…” It was for naught. This crew was manning the rig at the station.

I was going to The Burn.

So this is it, then. Perhaps my silence on the subject thus far had been misinterpreted, or too few of the fire guys knew me well enough. The only way to keep DTs from spilling his guts to the authorities is to Bring Him In. Get soot on his hands – then he’s guilty as the rest of us. As added insurance, the two young ladies from the previous crew were accompanying me – pulling a back-to-back duty. The capstone? DTs will drive. Yes, this not only keeps his hands in plain sight at all times but eliminates any “I was in the back and didn’t know…” or “I was a helpless passenger…” pleas I might have tried.

We were off. I tried to keep the conversation light.

“So, this Burn. Neat thing to do, is it? Good wholesome fun, yes?”

The young lady in the passenger (“lead technician”) seat appraised my best “innocent” look.

“You’ve never been to a Burn before, then?”

“No, no, no, not me, no, never burned up anything, really, never lit a fire, well, in the fireplace, but – my own fireplace, in winter – but no, not to a Burn, as such, no.”

Well. Boy was I wrong about all that, then. Turns out they have an entire building made of concrete block and steel, three stories, into which they toss old shipment palettes and scrap lumber from lumber yards and stuff, and light it up, and run in and put it out. The Fire Guys practice laying hose lines, hooking things up, searching smoke-filled rooms for victims (mannequins, in this case) and rescuing them, knocking down the blaze, etc.

All above-board, all great practice, skill-building and good clean fun. Each time they start a fire in the building they choose a different location (basement, “kitchen”, attic, whatever) and the fire trucks have to come swooping in from down the street. They put the fire out while Higher Ups watch ’em, keep ’em safe, praise their skills and critique them later on how they could improve.

Each fire is called an “evolution”, and they did five or six before calling it a day. We bambulance folk were invited to go in and try it. Yours truly declined – “I know’s me place, guv’nor, and it’s hon the outside wif’ the patients, it is.”

Fact is, our presence was for safety reasons only, in case (let it never happen) one of our guys got hurt, which fortunately was not the case.

Some might conclude that all that good paranoia of mine was wasted, but it gave me a chance to see where my ultimate loyalties lie – which is, unsurprisingly to me, where I knew it would, with my fire guys.