We were enjoying the ride back to the station after the last call.  We are a “windows down team” who enjoy driving the streets and letting the wind ruffle our thinning hair.  The medical life can leave one feeling underexposed to God’s great out-of-doors, hence the before-mentioned remedy.  The ambulance radio crackled to life, adding its noise to the electronic squawks of our cell phone pager apps.  My partner and I looked at each other, wondering, “What now?”  County dispatch instructed a neighboring ambulance to cover our district, requesting a “lift assist” at Sunrise Apartments.  My partner toggled the radio mic and told County to recall the cover, as we were close enough to handle it.  I was working with Ben that day.  He could be called “Big Ben,” for he shades me a few inches in height and by an unknown number of pounds.  Size may not matter, but Ben and I have it, regardless.

We eased up to the entrance, squealing to a stop in front of the multi-storied, brown brick building.  We rolled out of our respective doors and met at the back of the truck, unloading the stretcher and the oxygen bag.  It was “only” a lift assist, but you truly never know.  Sometimes things go south in a hurry.  The room number was a familiar one.  We shoved the bright yellow and black insect-like stretcher up the walk, taking a moment to wave at the cheery group of aged residents congregating under the picnic table shelter sprawling in the bright green lawn next to the front door.  The residents here have provided us with many opportunities to both test our patience and practice our medical skills, as one must check both the “retired” and “low income” boxes to obtain residence.  I do not mention this with bias, as income levels unfortunately appear to be directly related to health literacy.  The automatic door of the complex swung its mouth open wide, like the fish that swallowed Jonah.  The door then closed, trapping not a rebellious and runaway preacher, but two innocent boys in blue.  Next stop, the elevator.

The trusty but creaky elevator must have been designed for fourth-graders, because the stretcher has to be collapsed just to fit.  Add 550 pounds of sweating healthcare providers and the elevator is full.  My Grandpa Schmidt would have said that it felt “clost” inside after the door squeaked shut.  The elevator groaned upward to the proper floor.  We exited the elevator, Ben knowing the turns to make on exit by heart.

After politely tapping on the door, we admitted ourselves to find our patient seated in her lift chair at maximum altitude, her modesty ensured by a voluminous purple nightgown.  Even though this is a “nonsense call” as we sometimes mutter, I can’t help but like this lady.  She takes care of her appearance and I have not found her to be odoriferous, sloppily attired, or improperly made up.  “Why, hello!” She breezed with a wide, lip-stick red smile.  “I’m so sorry to bother you boys, because I know you’re busy, but I just couldn’t get up!  I have to go NOW and I can’t wait until my helper gets in!”  Ben and I reached under her arms, gently boosted her to a standing position, and helped her to turn and drop into the waiting seat of her red electric scooter.  She toggled the joystick and directed herself to the throne room.  She was thankfully strong enough to slide herself from the scooter to the toilet, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation on every topic under the sun.  Ben stood outside the throne room door, his back to it in the name of patient privacy, while I wearily fired up the iPad and started to chart the call.  Ben is one of the best conversationalists that I have met, and he fielded our patient’s commentary without the slightest hint of annoyance.  Her business finished, our patient zipped back to her chair via scooter and Ben and I again helped her to stand and pivot to a safe seat.  It took some effort to end the flood of conversation and exit the apartment, but we managed to do so, collecting our stretcher from the hall and once more squeezing into the elevator.  We were disgorged by the automatic door and were immediately assailed with excited questions from the friendly crowd in the shelter, wrinkled faces adding the creases of smiles.  They wanted to know all about what happened, chirping like a cheery flock of sparrows.  We deflected the questions politely and basked briefly in the warm sense of neighborliness, letting the conversation wash over us.  We then said goodbye, loaded our stretcher, and re-entered our truck.  Comments that I am suspicious were directed at us trailed in our wake, followed by loud guffaws.  Ben keyed up the radio mic, notified County that we were clear and available, then looked at me and stated, “You know she really didn’t need us.  She was just lonely.”  Imagine with me what it would be like to be stuck up in the air in a tiny room in a big city, unable to leave.  Just the thought allows Lady Claustrophobia to begin wrapping her talons about my heart.

I am now taken back to memories of a similar call from my EMT-I precepting days.  My cynical instructor, who had just lit a cigarette, exhaled plumes of gray smoke through his nostrils and sarcastically grunted, “Good job, boys, good job.  Another life saved.”  Like the smoke from his nostrils, our truck wafted back over the city streets to the station to await the next call.  Perhaps we didn’t save a life, but I sincerely hope that two boys in blue made someone’s day a little brighter.