High Five

I took a few minutes to get out of the ambulance.

Fuck, I thought, another sick person. This is why I never work BLS.

My partner and I were both exhausted. I hadn't had a day off in over two weeks, and here I was working overtime on an EMT ambulance, getting my ass run off with sick people and other assorted bullshit. The difference, ya see, is that as a paramedic, I only go on "high-priority" jobs where--theoretically at least--people are genuinely in need of help. EMTs get stuck with the "low-priority" jobs--the headaches and foot pains of the world. Really, BLS is the flotsam and jetsam of EMS. And it was running me into the ground.

My partner had already gone inside the building by the time I cracked open the ambulance door. I locked up and followed her inside, carrying the oxygen bag.

"What's up?" I asked the man at the front desk.

He pointed to another part of the building. My partner was kneeling down next to a man on the floor. As I approached, I noticed a small puddle next to the man's face. He was drooling profusely.

Hmf.

"They said he was feeling sick," my partner explained, reaching for the oxygen bag, "then he had a seizure."

I reached to open the man's eyelid's. His eyes were rolled back into his head and his jaw was clenched shut.

"Dude," I said, "I think he's still seizing. We better call for ALS."

ALS, by the way, is paramedics.

We slapped an oxygen mask on the guy and threw him on the stairchair (it's a chair with wheels, meant for carrying people down stairwells). My partner called for ALS.

As we wheeled the man towards to the ambulance, a Puerto Rican guy started yelling. "You fuckers are double parked. I need to get out, I can't move my car."

The man, meanwhile, was still foaming at the mouth, his body limp.

"Hey," my partner said, turning. "Did you lock the ambulance?"

"Yeah, of course." I said.

"Did you notice that it was still running?" she screamed, "and that keys are still in the ignition!"

"Oh," I rejoined bashfully. "Yeah. Umm. That's a problem."

Meanwhile, the Puerto Rican guy approached us. He had on a dirty white T-shirt and several gold chains. Chest hair curled forth from the nape of his neck. "Jou want to move your fucking ambulance?" he inquired. "I got to go see my girl and jour fucking bus blocking my way out."

I looked first at our patient, his head drooping off to one side, then again to the Puerto Rican guy. I stared at him blankly. Sirens sounded in the distance.

My partner crossed her arms, gave me a dirty look, then stared off into the distance, tapping her foot.

Our patient began sliding off the chair, hanging limply off to one side. Drool plastered his left side.

I called for a Boss to help us get back into the ambulance.

After a few minutes, the medics showed up. It was Pinky and another medic they call the Fist. They were working 6 Kilo, my normal bus.

As we put the man in their ambulance, he aroused a little, moving in starts.

"Okay, hold his arm!" commanded Pinky.

I grabbed the man's wrist as Pinky went for the IV. He nailed it. As Pinky reached the IV tubing, the man pulled hard. I threw myself onto him, pinning his upper torso against the wall.

"Do it! Do it!" I yelled, grabbing the man's elbow and pushing it in to lock it straight and decrease his leverage. The man grew violent, pulling hard and thrashing about.

Pinky taped the IV in place as the Fist drew up an IV flush.

Meanwhile, the Puerto Rican guy approached the back of the ambulance. "Jou guys gonna take forever on this fucking shit or what? What's it take to get jou fucking people to move your fucking ambulance?"

Pinky turned around. He had on a gold chain and a bulletproof vest. "Hey," he said, leaning out the back of the ambulance. "Go fuck yourself!"

Just then, a boss pulled up. The Puerto Rican guy began yelling at him too.

The Fist handed Pinky the IV flush. As he put the needle in the IV port, the man lurched. The needle came out, nearly stabbing me in the wrist.

"Sharp!" I yelled, pulling away.

Pinky put the needle back in the IV port. "I bet this guy's High Five!" he exclaimed.

The man began thrashing wildly. I grabbed his right arm, pulling it behind his head. Pinky pinned his other arm with his knee, flushing the IV with one hand, punching the man in the stomach with the other.

"Turn off the lights! Turn off the lights!" yelled the Fist as he peered out the back window to the boss standing outside.

I jumped back onto the man as Pinky threw the needle away and prepped an amp of Dextrose. He was calmed for a moment.

"What's High Five?" I asked, holding the man's arm.

"H.I.V." said Pinky, squirting little bit of Dextrose into the air.

"Oh." I stuttered. "I didn't know that."

The Boss peeked his he head into the back of the ambulance. He was a sentimentalist type. Seeing the Dextrose, he asked to administer it "for old times sake."

"Ok buddy," he said to the man, still flailing. "We're gonna give you some sugar. You're not doing so well. We're here to help you, to make you feel better."

I glanced up at Pinky. He eyed the boss strangely and with a faint look of disgust on his face.

The Boss tried to soothe the man as pushed the Dextrose, rubbing his arm and repeating calm phrases.

"Hold On!" yelled Fist from the driver's seat.

The ambulance surged forward, throwning me from the seat. The Boss spun around and fell onto the ambulance floor. Pinky meanwhile had both arms firmly planted on the ceiling rail. "Yeeeah!" he yelled.

I grabbed on the stretcher for dear life. The Boss looked slightly disheveled. "You guys...umm, could probably slow down," he peeped.

"What's that?" yelled the Fist, hitting a bump and sending us all flying again.

"You could slow down a little bit," the Boss repeated softly.

The ambulance screeched to a sudden stop--throwing us against the wall--then eeked forward at a slow pace.

"We're here!" shouted the Fist, slapping the dashboard.

The man still struggled, but to no avail: his hands were tied.

As we walked into the ER, the Boss followed, slightly pale.

It was social hour in the ER. We left our patient to himself on the gurney and approached the circle of EMTs and Paramedics. "Hey man," one of them asked. "What's going on?"

"Nothin'," said Pinky. "Just a High Fiver in Stat Ep."

We were greeted with a collective "Ohh" of recognition.

Later, Pinky approached me. "You cool with everything that went down on that call, man?" he asked.

"Yeah. Yeah." I said, "No worries. I know how it is."

"I think that sock to the gut knocked the wind out of him," he explained. "It helped a little, I think... Anyway, we should pick up a tour together sometime."

"Yeah. Definetly." I said, shaking his hand.

Back inside, the man had regained consciousness. "Hey Big Dog," I asked. "How ya doin'?"

"These ties on my wrists really hurt. Could you take them off?" he begged, sounding pathetic. I looked at him. He was confused; he didn't know what had happened. For the first time, he looked human. Miserable, but very human.

"Do you have HIV?" I asked.

"Yeah," he nodded, coffee-colored hair flailing forlornly on his head. "I do...Could you please take off these ties. They are really hurting me."

Comments

[Clark]

"Hi-Five." Never heard that before. I'm going to start using that.