A Good Run for Your Money – Part 2

Author © Scott D. Zachary

The stark reality of my ludicrous endeavor struck me broadside as I slowly drove around behind the Anchorage Fire and EMS station. I intuitively knew I’d be involved in the thick of back-to-back chemical spills and mass-casualty incidents—death and body parts scattered everywhere.

Dressed in my brand-new, crisply ironed EMT uniform and jump boots, I walked to the main entrance at 6:45 a.m. that Saturday morning and pressed the buzzer.

So many extreme emotions rampaged through my mind and my heart that I couldn’t isolate any particular one to share. Horrible token images from my EMT training manual badgered my frazzled nerve endings. I imagined a firing synapse taunting the neuron receiver before sending over its fiery barrage. “Here’s another chainsaw coming your way, sissy!”

The razzed neuron stuck his chest out and motioned its beckon Rocky-style. “You ain’t so bad. Your mother hits harder than that!”

“You’re going down, boy!”

“If I hit the canvas, you’re going down with me, Sluggo!”

Clanging the ringside bell, Paul, my favorite part-time EMT instructor, opened the door and greeted me with a hearty handshake and a welcoming smile. Paul, a polished, charming man in his prime, led me through the emergency vehicle bay past a fire truck and an ambulance into their combination kitchen and dining room. He introduced me to the firemen, paramedics, and EMTs seated at the table.

“Have a seat,” Paul gestured. “Breakfast is about to be served.”

Pancakes! This ordeal is starting off much tamer than I pictured in my horrid premonitions. Chatting with the guys over breakfast lowered my expectations of cataclysmic disaster responses, but only slightly.

Paul was concluding his twelve-hour shift, so I wouldn’t get to ride with him. I followed paramedic Gary Doyle out to our ambulance, where I helped him inventory the ambulance equipment and medical supplies. Gary, a middle-aged man who exuded wisdom, tended to pause ever-so-briefly before he responded, as though measuring his words before speaking them. His professionalism and his calm, confident demeanor allayed my jitters substantially. We verified the condition and quantity of each bin of medical supplies: syringes, bandages, ointments, splints, respiratory masks, and nasal cannulas (a two-pronged tube-like nasal oxygen delivering device). Gary taught me about numerous other items as we counted, some that I had never seen.

Paul walked out of the kitchen and informed us that the assigned EMT called in sick, so he would be riding with us after all, or at least until they found a replacement. I felt much more at ease—I had a great team to learn from and to assist.

Gary accepted the first emergency announced on the radio. Our 16-year-old male patient had suffered an epileptic seizure. By the time we arrived on the scene, the young man had settled into the post-ictal state; that is, he’d already experienced a seizure and is in a state of recovery. I began to be Johnny-on-the-spot in my efforts to help Gary and Paul wherever possible without getting in their way. My self-consciousness evaporated as I dashed to each door and obstacle to clear a path for them to wheel the patient to the ambulance.

Paul drove. I assisted Gary with our patient in the back. Gary measured the boy’s vital signs, and I calmed his jitters and helped him to better understand his malady. The young man said he somehow knew the seizure was coming on, so he called 911 before it happened. I explained to him that he had experienced what’s called an aura, a sensation which warns one of an impending seizure. I answered several of the boy’s questions in a language he could understand while defining medical terms he had heard and some that he hadn’t. I could see that Gary was impressed with my knowledge. I didn’t tell him we had learned about seizures in class that week.

We transitioned the epileptic boy over to the emergency room personnel. I watched Gary log his documentation of the incident on his laptop. As he typed, I pointed out a couple of minor omissions, and he commended my meticulous attention to detail. I told Gary that meticulousness was ingrained in me throughout 32 years as a systems analyst and programmer. We talked about how most of the first two classroom lessons emphasized “Document, document, document!” Gary repeated Kathy’s corollary, “If you don’t write it, it didn’t happen.”

Our second patient that day was a grandfather who had been watching his granddaughter’s basketball game. He had fallen from the bleachers onto his arm and shoulder. Gary lightly fingered along the man’s forearm. I knew he was examining for point tenderness, the most reliable indicator of an underlying fracture. I asked Gary if he’d like me to fetch a splint and bandages from the ambulance to make a sling and swathe (a dressing that is used to bind the arm to the chest wall to stabilize the shoulder). The glimmer in his eye and his sharp nod sent me to the ambulance. I was conscious of the scores of eyeballs tracking my strut out of the gymnasium and back again.

“May I?” I asked Gary.

“Sure, go right ahead.”

I proceeded to attend to our patient as I proudly demonstrated my newly acquired skill of applying a sling and swathe. I wasn’t so proud when I realized that I’d broken the number one rule: always, always, always BSI (Body Substance Isolation). I had forgotten to put on my gloves! As I finished applying our patient’s swathe, I sheepishly muttered, “BSI.”

“I was going to say something,” countered Gary.

I’m sure if there’d been blood or other bodily fluids present, I would’ve instinctively put on my gloves. Nonetheless, I didn’t forget again.

Paul and I started to get the stretcher, and our patient refused, insisting that he was able to walk out with us. We walked toward the ambulance in front of the school, and our patient stated that he’d ride with his wife to the hospital. Gary had him sign the release papers. Two down.

The paramedics and EMTs from both of Anchorage’s EMS teams met for lunch at a pizza parlor. As the waitress served our drinks, our team was called to respond to a high-speed auto accident on the south side of Louisville. Gary and Paul jumped in the front, and I climbed into the captain’s seat in the back. The siren sounded. I mentally braced myself for scattered body parts. I strained to hear the crackling radio communication coming from the cab of the ambulance about our response. (I didn’t know at the time that there was a radio in the back that I could’ve switched on.)

The siren ceased, and shortly we came to a stop. I took a deep breath, opened the side door of the ambulance, and stepped out. I walked up behind Gary and Paul, who were walking nonchalantly toward a Pet Smart store. Their casual pace dumbfounded me. Paul cranked up my astonishment when he walked into the store, sat down on the floor, opened up a cage, scooped up an adorable puppy, and proceeded to play with him.

“What happened to the accident that we were responding to?” I implored.

“A closer ambulance got freed up and took our call,” replied Gary.

“Oh.” After a moment of recovery, I found my own adorable pup that wanted to play.

       We spent nearly two hours pampering puppies and wandering around in the store checking out the other critters and the fish aquariums. As we walked the aisles, Paul explained that when they aren’t busy responding, they could go back to the station to kill time, but the responders preferred to meander, conveying a friendly persona in the neighborhoods they serve.

We then drove over to Sam’s Warehouse and roamed throughout the store, selecting groceries for the kitchen at the station. “Gary,” I asked, “what would we do if we got a call while we’re shopping?”

“We’d tell a cashier as we run out the door. They’d understand.”

Gary spent time training me that afternoon on the EKG Life Pack. As we were closing the doors on the ambulance, Paul’s replacement Jerome arrived. He was a keenly ambitious, spirited young man studying to become a paramedic. He spent a couple of hours teaching me all about stretcher operations. I liked Jerome; in fact, I liked everyone I worked with at Anchorage Fire and EMS.

Gary said this Saturday was the quietest he could remember in all his years as a paramedic. After twelve hours, I only had two patient contacts out of the five that I needed. A reprieve—no body parts so far.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Monday evening, I walked into class and handed Kathy the Student Ambulance Observation Evaluation Form that Gary Doyle had filled out. It read: “Very interested, attentive, and enthusiastic about learning. Spent a large amount of downtime going over EKG Life Pack Unit and stretcher operations.”

“Wow!” Kathy marveled. “He doesn’t usually give out those kinds of comments. His critiques are normally tough. And he rated you with mostly ones to boot!”

That evening, I watched a few of the other students struggle to verbalize the medical and trauma assessment skills as they acted them out with their make-believe patients. My fright of public speaking might well be my downfall. My anxiety surged. I only had a few of my skills checked off by an instructor. I especially dreaded the medical and trauma skills; each consisted of 30 to 40 procedures that I’d have to regurgitate on the fly. These would vary depending on the scenario given. My overwhelming nervousness would cloud my thinking as I rattled off the appropriate steps in the process of demonstrating them.

Mr. Wizzle blurped a life ring up from my subconscious mind—Acronyms! I spent the next several nights concocting and memorizing silly acronyms to help me stay focused on the multitude of variable steps in the medical and trauma assessment procedures. The one I remember most clearly, even after three years, is FRIED BVD SAMPLER (a subset of the Trauma Assessment Skill):

       FRied = Focused or Rapid assessment

       BVd = Baseline Vital signs

              SAMPLEr = S.A.M.P.L.E history:

              S = Signs and symptoms

              A = Allergies

              M = Medications

              P = Pertinent past history

              L = Last oral intake

              E = Events leading to the injury or illness

Who could ever forget “FRIED BVD SAMPLER”? Not me. That was one of many acronyms I created to help me keep my place during the trauma assessment. I did the same for the medical. I devised insanely ridiculous and simultaneously unforgettable sentences using the first letter of each acronym to bring it all together. Bobbie gets a gold star for her limitless patience listening to me recite this insanity for many, many hours over the phone, her in Lewisport and me in Louisville. After hours of enduring my incessant repetition, I’d ask, “One more time?”

Bobbie always responded enthusiastically with “Sure!”

What an angel!

I ardently studied the following weekend for the fifth exam, but not quite as spiritedly as I did for the fourth. While taking this test, I was happy to see that there were more facts and terms instead of so many scenario-based questions. The instructors handed back our exams, and I scored 95—YAY!!

“Top score was Scott with a 97, followed closely by Scott with a 95—something about that name Scott,” Kathy announced without ever saying which Scott was which. I had a hard time keeping my composure while imagining Scott Paramedic’s disgruntlement over having to share his top spot inconclusively with an ex-Air Force officer. Oh, well.

From the first day of class, there were at least eight other smokers who gathered outside in the designated area once or twice during the four-hour class. I am now the last smoker left in the class. Our class of 36 students had dwindled to 24 with one more written exam to go. People were starting to scramble to get skills practice time with the instructors and to get signed off on the skills proficiencies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s a Sunday morning, my second day touring Louisville in the back of an ambulance. I’m assigned to accompany another sharp paramedic and EMT team, Sam and Dave, who also gave me the feeling that I was indeed a part of their team. Sam had a pudgy build and a sparkle in his eye. Dave’s tall, stout frame flashed a charismatic smile. Both self-assured men enjoyed their jobs.

We cruised the streets of East Louisville, and I again sat in the captain’s seat in the back. I learned that I could spin the captain’s chair around facing a small portal window that provided me a minuscule look out the front windshield. Occasionally, I could recognize a landmark here and there.

At that moment in time, I wished I could’ve worshipped God that morning at Southeast Christian Church where I usually attended. Not more than a minute or two after that thought registered, a garble blared over the radio up front, and the siren shrieked. Peering through my little portal, I recognized the entrance to Southeast Christian Church! God does indeed work in mysterious ways.

A sweet, middle-aged woman’s blood pressure had bottomed out. I assisted Dave in securing her to the stretcher. On the way to the emergency room, I placed a nasal cannula on her and helped Sam in monitoring her vitals. I told the lady about the uncanny timing of how I had wished that I could’ve gone to church a moment before we were summoned there. I thanked her for getting me to church. She laughed, saying she wished it had been under different circumstances.

I found my niche on these ambulance rides. During my previous outing, I discovered I had a knack for soothing a patient’s fear. Treating the patient and documenting the incident heavily taxed the paramedic’s time, leaving little opportunity to interact with the patient on a personal level. I was acquiring a new skill that would become much appreciated during my first Christian medical mission.

       I had the opportunity to talk with the admitting RN at each of the emergency rooms we visited. One of those ladies had recently gone on a Christian medical mission to Haiti. The others nurtured aspirations to volunteer for medical missions. I’d like to think they were even more inclined after I told them about my big adventure.

Dave, the EMT on our team, and I spent much of the afternoon in the station break room talking. He and I were both 55. Dave had served 35 years as an EMT and was anticipating his upcoming retirement; however, he had some reservations as he wasn’t sure what he’d do with all of his freed-up time. I supposed that it would be difficult to give up saving lives. Imagine being a hero every day!

       He asked lots of questions about my endeavor to become medically qualified in preparation for going on Christian medical missions. I told him I’d also been teaching myself Spanish and had memorized 33 Bible scriptures in Spanish. I asked him if he’d like to hear some of them, and he responded enthusiastically. I proceeded to quote and interpret scriptures, and after every half dozen or so, I’d ask, “Want to hear some more?” Dave would say, “Sure!” until I recited all 33 of them.

Dave also graciously watched as I practiced my trauma assessment skills, including my FRIED BVD SAMPLER. Dave thought my bizarre acronyms were hilarious, but, “They did the trick!” he reasoned.

The firehouse klaxon blared! It was our team’s turn to respond. I told Dave I couldn’t hear the radio from the rear of the ambulance. He said there was a radio in the back that I could turn on. Voila! That eased my tension level sensationally. Now, I would know what kind of emergency situation I’d be facing when I opened the door of the ambulance.

My fourth patient contact was a fourteen-year-old girl who was another seizure patient beginning to recover. The stretcher training that Jerome had given me came in handy because we had numerous steep concrete stairways to descend on the way back to the ambulance.

Late in our shift, Dispatch announced that a pregnant woman needed transport to the hospital because her water had broken. The young lady was laying on the floor behind the counter at a fast-food restaurant. We helped her onto the stretcher and rushed her to the hospital. I comforted her while Sam checked her vitals. We arrived at the emergency room just in time for her to deliver a baby girl.

Heading back to the station at the end of our twelve-hour shift, the dispatcher announced over the radio that a two-year-old had drowned in a bathtub. My heart sank as I heard Sam accept the assignment. Our siren squealed. I expelled a huge sigh of relief a moment later when another team intercepted the call, and our siren ceased. Having to transport the deceased infant wouldn’t have been nearly as disheartening as dealing with the parents’ acute trauma.

Sam wrote on my evaluation: “Very knowledgeable. Pleasant to have around.” And he gave me all ones!

I thoroughly enjoyed my ambulance rides with the Anchorage Fire and EMS teams. The only blood I saw was the blood samples the paramedics extracted from our patients. No strewn body parts. It just goes to show that one shouldn’t put too much stock in expectations.

Click here to read the conclusion of “A Good Run for Your Money”