Jose

My medic for the shift was Catorra, a solidly-built, very dark African American lady in her early 60’s.  Catorra has a mile-wide smile, a hilarious sense of humor, and vivid story-telling skills.  She hones these skills for the entire shift, so things are always lively.  She was my first EMS partner in PA, and she enthusiastically took me under her wing.  I owe my PA EMS career to her and the night shift supervisor, a bald, muscled, gruff, goateed, and tattooed Afghanistan veteran whom I will call LD.  They are the type of people you want on your team when things hit the fan, as they exude both competence and confidence.  Both LD and Catorra are also considerate teachers in a salty language and no-nonsense sort of way, and somehow we three formed a friendship that continues to this day. 

It was one of those nonsense 0-dark-thirty transports.  “And I could be at home in bed, snug as a bug,” my mind foggily ruminated as we traversed dark streets.  But no, we were arriving Community Hospital to transport a psych to an inpatient facility an hour away.  I backed the white E450 box truck under the overhang, clunked the shifter into park, grabbed the hospital keys, and met Catorra at the back of the ambulance.  Ford 6.0 ‘Stroke fumes assaulted our lungs as we opened the creaking doors of the box.  I gripped the cold handles of the aging silver Ferno stretcher (or litter in PA-speak) and pulled.  The stretcher undercarriage hit the bottom of its travel with a metallic “clack!” and its unwilling wheels met the macadam.  The hospital’s dual sets of sliding doors squeaked a cheery “hello!” as they parted to admit us.  Security, who were evidently not feeling as chipper as the doors, gave us a cursory nod and examination as we strolled past, the stretcher in tow.

Our destination was PES, or Psychiatric Emergency Services.  PES security admitted us through a succession of locked doors, and we eased into the unit, stopping by the enclosed nurses’ station.  The tiny black-pony-tailed nurse in charge of our patient badged us in for a report.  I admired her courage.  I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to deal with mentally unbalanced humans if I was only 5’2” and 110 pounds.  She smiled a cheery “Hello!” and handed me a manila chart envelope.  “Your patient, Jose, is right across the hall.  He has been calm and cooperative, so you should have an easy ride!”  I filled out paperwork and received needed details.  The three of us then exited the secure area and met the patient in his room.  He was a minor, slim, sullen, quiet, and dark of countenance.  He dejectedly slumped on the stretcher and apathetically allowed Catorra and I to enfold him with a white hospital-issue blanket and click the seatbelts and siderails into place.  I smilingly introduced myself and my partner, receiving little acknowledgement in return. 

We softly rolled back through the security vestibule, halting once more before each door.  The maze of hallways came next, and soon we were out under the starlit heavens.  ‘Stroke smoke greeted us once again and the box doors squeaked open to admit Jose and I into their warm embrace.  I initiated a set of vitals as Catorra heaved her bulk into the driver’s seat.

The hospital disappeared after a series of corners, and the miles began to click away.  My conversation with Jose initially advanced in fits and starts, and then the dam ruptured.  He tearfully blurted out his story.  He was having a night of mischief out on the city with his compadres, strolling the streets, when one of their number discovered a handgun.  It was hurriedly snatched up and then passed around, with Jose ending up as the bearer.  As they recommenced their meanderings, the gun discharged, the round burning through Jose’s right calf.  A white bandage bore mute testimony to his story.  He bemoaned his misfortune, crying, “I’m such a worthless failure!”  The life he detailed was dismal, a stark existence in a city rowhouse, uninvolved and uncaring parents, no regular meals, no hope, no future.  Security and structure were foreign words.  No wonder he struggled to comprehend life’s purpose. The only bright spot in his life was an uncle who showed a little interest in him.  Tears flowed from both of our eyes as he wrapped up his story.  With a hand gripping his shoulder, I whispered, “Jose, I believe in you.  You can rise above this, and I have confidence that you can be a success.”  His next words ripped at my heart.  “Nobody has ever said anything like that to be before,” he sniffled, his deep brown eyes welling with fresh tears.  The rest of our conversation has faded from memory, but once again the call had long ceased being “just another transport.”

Our destination, Leaman Clinic, soon hove into view.  The Clinic at night looks like the perfect setting for a horror movie.  Aging native-stone structures bear mute evidence of the facility’s 70-year history and are set back from civilization down a long tree-lined lane. As you slowly dodge the speed bumps littering the drive, you wonder when you are going to hear a chainsaw and a maniacal laugh and see a shadowy specter looming up out of the gloom.  Thankfully, the facility seems to have quality staff who belie the eerie façade.

The truck squealed to a stop in front of the aging but still grand entrance, and Catorra’s toothy grin appeared in the smoky blackness at the back of the truck.  The Ferno protested upon being awakened, and sulkily rolled through the Clinic door.  The paperwork was given to the receiving staff, Jose dismounted our stretcher, and we exchanged parting words and encouragements.  Catorra and I were soon speeding down the deserted roads toward the warm station and rest.  A renewed thankfulness for God, my parents, and my own home was front and center in my mind until the clattering Powerstroke and humming Goodyears lulled my weary brain into a fitful sleep. 

I still think about Jose, and I wonder what he has made of himself.  I’ll most likely never know, but please say another prayer with me today for his success.

Praying at PennDot

He drives a faded maroon Ford Escort station wagon with peeling clearcoat.  He smokes.  He has a handicapped adult daughter.  And I believe he knows Jesus.

Those of you who reside in Pennsylvania and have a CDL have experienced the feelings of dread that arise within your heart when that white envelope is found nestled within your mailbox.  Lurking in the evelope’s interior is a notice that your CDL medical card is expiring.  Along with the notice is a stark warning of impending doom if your new card is not promptly received.  

The PennDot office experience was quite a shock for this uninitiated Western Kansan, and is the cause of the afore mentioned feelings of dread.  At the time I exited the Sunflower State, the Dodge City DMV office was considered crowded if there were more than 3 people in line ahead of you.  The PennDot office, as I found out, contained enough waiting souls to start a Western Kansas town.  A small novel such as “War and Peace” may be necessary to help you pass the time as you wait.

After declaring me reasonably fit and of somewhat sound mind, my doctor kindly instructed his staff to fax my new card to PennDot in Harrisburg.  Based on an experience of nearly losing my CDL, I decided to take my medical card into town in-person to ensure its safe processing.  I made a trip to Reading and the line stretching down the sidewalk quickly squashed any notions of a profitable day.  I resolved to awaken early on Saturday and drive to Allentown, where the lines are usually less disheartening.

I blearily hit the road early Saturday morning, forsaking breakfast and my customary cup of Joe in my haste to be the first one in line.  I ended up placing third in the race, but my caffeine-starved brain felt quite satisfied with itself.  Behind me in line were two ladies of darker descent, the older clearly acting as caretaker of the younger, who had special needs.  Their chauffeur sat in the lot in the faded maroon Ford wagon, parked next to my rusty tan GMC.  The younger lady soon left the line to sit with the man in the station wagon.  

PennDot opened their doors and business commenced.  I was speedily helped by a friendly worker, who cheerily stated that my records had already been updated.  Shocked, I happily arose and skipped out of the door.  As I approached my conveyance, the driver of the maroon Ford removed his cigarillo and belted a cheery “Good morning!”  I returned the greeting with a smile and a “Hello!” to which the driver commented on God’s beautiful morning.  I agreed, as it truly was one of Pennsylvania’s finest.  I climbed into my ride and prepared to leave, but I couldn’t shake the thought of the two souls parked next to me.  I vainly searched the dusty cab of my truck for some Gospel literature but came up empty-handed.  Thinking of the $20 in my billfold, I plucked out the bill, exited my vehicle, and hunkered down beside the Ford’s open window.  

“I see you have a responsibility,” I stated.  “Yes, I do,” he replied.  “My daughter is 30, but the doctors say that she’ll never mentally progress beyond 12 years old.”  I then told him about my mother’s diseases, her care needs, and her passing.  “We can’t make it without God,” I ended.  He agreed wholeheartedly.  I then passed the $20 through the open window and urged, “I’d like you to have breakfast on me today.”  He hesitantly accepted the bill with thanks.  I told him to take care and once more climbed into the cab of my “trusty rusty.”   Before I could select “D” I heard some toots of the horn beside me. 

My new friend soon stood outside my passenger window, which I rolled down.  He removed his porkpie hat and said quietly, “God moves in mysterious ways.  Can I have a prayer with you?”  “Sure,” I blurted.  He reverently bowed his head and began, “Heavenly Father, you have told me that people like this exist, but I have seen so very few of them……You see this man with his great big heart……Please bless him and his family today.  Amen.”  My eyes, no longer dry, lifted to meet his.  We exchanged parting words and I drove out of the lot with a watery view that windshield wipers couldn’t remedy, feeling humbled and unworthy.  I wish I could remember the entire prayer, but memory fails me.

I don’t believe Heaven will have a smoking section, but when by God’s grace I arrive, I will not be surprised if I meet a dark-skinned gentleman wearing a porkpie hat.

Lift Assist

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.