Sammy

I've been avoiding this post for at least a week.

There's this guy that I've been picking up lately. His name is Sammy. The first time I had him it came accross as a Cardiac Arrest. We almost took out a cop car on our way there.

And there he was, walking in the street like an idiot, his mouth wide open, breathing exagerrated as though he was gasping for air. My partner had had him before many, many times. "I need oxygen! I can't breathe!" he would yell between breaths.

Lungs clear and equal. Oxygen saturation 100%. Diagnonsis: EDP (Emotionally Disturbed Person). That's shop talk for "Lunatic," in case you didn't know.

The funny thing about being in EMS is that you see enough EDP's that you learn to recognize them on site. The moment a person opens his or her mouth––and sometimes it doesn't even take that much––the diagnosis becomes clear.

I always have a hard time with EDP's. I just, I don't have any compassion for them when they call 911. I just don't care. They are a waste of my fucking time. Sometimes, a person wigs out cuz something bad happens and that's understandable. But the drunken lunatic that calls 911 twice a day––well, I really don't care if he gets run over by a truck. Really, I mean it. I just don't even view them as human beings.

The irony behind all this, of course, is that my mom would be one of them if things in her life had turned out differently. She is officially an EDP. Certifiable. But she is also a good person with a big heart.

But growing up with my mom prepared me--hell, predisposed me--to this job, to this line of work. Being a paramedic is about managing chaos well, and my childhood was, well, mostly chaos. Mom flipping out, breaking things around the house. Screaming at 3am and waking the neighbors. Crying inconsolably. You get the drill.

But that childhood made me who I am today. Now I thrive in chaos. It suits me well––it makes me comfortable.

But there are the EDP's themselves. I can't bring myself to look them in the eye as though they were human. I just, I can't do it. It would bother me too much. I'd rather hate them than let that happen. Nothing is worth that price.

Really, Sammy just needs a place to live where people will take care of him. He is not fit or meant for society, at least not when I see him. He is straight EDP––so far gone from the realm of the normal that there's no mistaking him. Everyone, even the neighbors, know he's crazy.

He was asking for oxygen, saying he was having an asthma attack. We had a student and she was preparing an albuterol treament.

"Hold it there kiddo," I said. "What's this guy's chief complaint? What's wrong with this guy?"

The student looked at me, slightly confused. "Shortness of breath," she said, nodding her head, "he says he can't breathe."

"Okay," I retorted, rolling my eyes, "but what do you see, what do you really think is wrong with him?"

"What do you mean?" she said, still lost.

My partner hopped into the mix, trying to talk her down from the ledge off which respectable, street-wise medics like us hope never to fall. "What's really wrong with him?" he asked, trying to rephrase things somehow. The whole exercise last five minutes and went nowhere. Finally, I lost it.

"The guy's a fucking EDP!" I shouted. "He's a fucking lunatic, and oxygen does not fix crazy people."

Meanwhile, Sammy started crying. "I need oxygen, please!"

I refused to make eye contact with him.

"Let me put it this way," I explained rather flatly, "what's going on my paperwork? Am I gonna write this up as a Diff Breather? Or as an EDP?" My student nodded as I said 'EDP.' I paused for dramatic effect. "So if he's an EDP then why the fuck are we giving oxygen!"

"But there's no contraindications for oxygen," she replied. I cut her off.

"We're feeding into this fucker's little game. He calls 911 because he wants attention, and every idiot who gives him oxygen and a nebulizer treatment is encouraging this shit. Remember, we dispense treatment because we think something's wrong with the patient, not because they ask for it. We run the show––not the patients, remember that."

We took Sammy to the city hospital. On the way, our student put an oxygen mask on him on the way there. I glared into the rear-view mirror with disapproval.

We walked him into the ER from the ambulance and made him carry the unplugged oxygen mask in his hand.

As we stepped inside, an EMT looked at us sidelong. "Okay, which one of you was it?" she said "Which one of you gave Sammy O2?"

I shook my head and pointed at the student. The EMT laughed. "And you guys let her?" she asked.

I looked away feeling slightly embittered. At the same time, the triage nurse pointed him to a seat and told him to sit down. He was going straight up to the psych ward, which made us and him happy.

That's all I wanted: Sammy away somewhere. I didn't care if it was in a psychiatric ward or a shallow grave. I just wanted him gone--and right now I'm tired and honest enough to say that I didn't care where it was.