Fun With Suits! · Life in Da City! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

Accident Letter

So, TINS, TIWFDASL, and responding to some sort of emergency or other. It was my day to drive, and I was merrily coding along. Approaching The Major North Bound Thoroughfare as I headed west bound, light and siren flashing and a-wailing, I slowed and observed cross traffic (who had the green light), stop on the rain slicked street.

That appeared encouraging. I began to accelerate through the intersection, when, lo and behold!, I beheld a driver swing into the center lane, pass all the stopped traffic, and proceed to strike the ambulance aft of the driver side dual rear wheels.

He had built up to fair clip, because he rocked the modular ambulance pretty good. Indeed, given my own momentum, the aft of the rig slewed to the right, and we entered a skid.

I corrected, steering into the skid, and noted in passing a pedestrian on the northwest corner determine that he did NOT want to remain standing where it appeared I was going to roll over, and so he started stepping lively toward the south.

Remember that “I corrected my skid” thing? Yeah, about that. It turns out that correcting a skid, in a, oh, let’s guess 5 ton truck, is not a fact, it is a process. So, when I had corrected our slewing-sideways-towards-the-northeast skid, we NOW had a slewing-sideways-towards-the-west-southwest skid. Less off axis, so there was that as an improvement, but our friend the pedestrian (remember him?), last seen high stepping to the south, did not think much of this as it portended his own immediate future. He demonstrated this understanding, as well as outstanding situational awareness, as he skidded to his own stop, about faced, and accelerated north.

I had noticed that we were skidding kinda sideways, in a west-southwesterly direction, and so, once again, I corrected, steering into the skid. Once that had been accomplished, we were merely proceeding catty-wampus, in a more or less northwesterly direction, and, it appeared, tracking our poor increasingly frazzled pedestrian friend as if we were a pedestrian seeking missile. With target lock.

Fortunately on several levels, all these gyrations had bled off considerable speed, and I was able to come to a complete, and rather abrupt, stop, short of squashing the pedestrian.

My partners were uninjured, as we had vicariously experienced many, many motor vehicle collisions, and had scant desire to recreate the experimental results we had witnessed. We were all buckled up.

While I was attempting to determine if my SVT (supraventricular tachycardia: an accelerated heart rate running around 150-200 beats per minute) was self limiting, or my new normal, Doug figured that (a) we were not completing this run, and (b) this might be a nice thing to share with dispatch. He did so.

We checked the other driver (who was fine), and awaited the police, city wrecker, and the inevitable chat with The Lieutenant. Fun times ahead, indeed.

The officer taking the report only had about 7,000 questions, and, once he was done, dropped us off at apparatus. There, we got to switch from our rig, into a back up rig. Back up rigs were too rickety to be in front line service, but not so obviously rattletraps that they could not serve as interim ambulances until our rig was repaired. Which in our case was likely to be sometime around the heat death of the universe.

We returned to quarters (with Doug driving!), where we awaited Lt. Evans. Once he had arrived, he directed me to write a letter (standard practice) detailing the events that had led up to our nice new truck getting bent up.

At this point I was the union’s chief steward, and was familiar with the contract. One of the provisions thereof was that any member, facing potential discipline, had the right to consult with a steward prior to making any official statement. I figured that, hashing this out with another steward might allow me to avoid talking myself into (harsher) charges (than I already faced for the collision).

Another peculiarity of Da City’s system, was that it appeared that the algorithm for assessing fault ran as follows. (each yes answer advanced you one more round) “Were you driving?” (Y/N) “Were you driving a city vehicle?” (Y/N) “Was that vehicle involved in a collision of any sort?” (Y/N)

“GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!”

No shit: on one call, I had parked the ambulance in the street, four way flashers flashing, beacons in operation, I and my partner were IN THE REAR OF THE AMBULANCE, when some jackhole decided that, as IMPORTANT as he obviously was, he could not wait for us to roll off, and had to depart NOW! In the course of snaking his way out of the parking spot right next to us, he nudged the ambulance bumper, causing the vehicle to rock on it’s springs.

Like a dummy, I reported it. To my astonishment, it took the Accident Review Board SIX FREAKING WEEKS to ascertain that I was NOT at fault.

So, with these lessons in mind, I was reluctant to make any sort of official statement without at least having another steward tell me I was doing it wrong. I said so the Lt. Evans, and said, “So, sir, I officially request that I be allowed to speak with a steward prior to making an official statement, as guaranteed in our contract.”

He gave me the stink eye. “You’re the chief steward, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, go chat with yourself , and write my damned letter. Now would be good.”

“Uh, sir…?” I began.

“Mr. McFee, I am making that an order. Do so, at once!”

“Yes, sir!”

I therefore drew up a piece of Fire Department letterhead, and composed the following letter:

“TO: Superintendent of EMS

From: Reltney McFee, EMT

Subject: Collision involving Medic 23 this date

Date (date)

Sir: Lt. Evans ordered me to write a letter regarding Medic 23’s collision this date. I requested the opportunity to speak with a union steward prior to making any official statement, and Lt. Evans ordered me to write you a letter at once.

This is that letter.


Respectfully, Reltney McFee EMT, Medic 23”

I pulled it out of the typewriter, placed my carbon copy in the desk, and handed it to Lt. Evans. “Here’s your letter, Lieutenant!”

He looked at it for a minute, and glared at me. “McFee, this is unsatisfactory. Write this letter, all over again, and this time do it right!”

“Yes, sir!”

I assembled another set of letterhead and carbon paper, and captioned the next letter as before.

My opening line was as above. I asked the Lieutenant, “Sir? What do you want me to write now?”

He said, “McFee, I’m not going to tell you what to write!”

I typed in, “Lt Evans told me to write, “ ‘McFee, I’m not going to tell you what to write!’ “

“What’s next, sir?”

“Goddammit! Stop that! Just write what happened in your accident!”

My next line of text was, “ ‘Goddammit! Stop that! Just write what happened in your accident!’ “

“Yes, sir? What is next?”

He glared at me. Again. “McFee, get up from that chair. Do not type another word!”

I stood. He asked me, “McFee, what do you think you are doing.”

“Well, sir, you ordered me to write a letter about an accident prior to my having the opportunity to speak to a steward about a matter that might result in my being disciplined. I complied with that order, and wrote a letter citing everything that I was willing to say at this moment. You did not find that satisfactory, and ordered me to re do it. I was rewriting it to your specification, when you abruptly stopped providing me directions. Sir.”

Again, with the glare. “It is now 1300 hours. You will have that letter, and I mean the letter that you KNOW you have to write, in my hands no later than 1700 hours today, without fail! Am I making my self clear?”

“Perfectly, sir!”

He stormed out.

I got his letter to him, after a phone consult with another steward.

Oh, yes, And I got a written reprimand for my role in the collision.

Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

Crash of a Small Plane

So, TINS©, TIWFDASL©, working a mid city house, “Power Shift” (1400 to 0200) with Doug and Ed. It was one of those shifts wherein dispatch seemed to feel compelled to send us on a magical tour of Da City. We transported folks to hospitals that I had never expected to see in person. East side, west side, all around the town, as the song goes.

So, we were SNR’d on our latest run (SNR= Service Not Required. In this case, because the nominal sick person wanted no part of going to the hospital, and was only too happy to sign the waiver and bid us goodbye.) Since we had been out to the east side of nowhere that shift, well, I figured the Patron Saint(s) of EMS wanted us to head east.

There we were, motoring northwest along Alternate Main Drag Road, when Ed, looking out my window, saw a column of smoke. I wheeled north on Major Northbound Roadway, and, paralleling the airport, radioed in to dispatch, inquiring if there had been a report of a working fire in our vicinity.

Nope, they hadn’t heard a word.

Being inquisitive sorts, we continued northbound, until, coming to the roadway that formed the northern perimeter of the airport, we turned west, since the column of smoke was indeed to our west.

We found it, two blocks over, and turned onto the street in question. I pulled up in front of the house next door to the involved structure, thinking that our friends the firefighters might feel the need to place their engines adjacent to the burning structure. I noticed a light airplane sticking out of the roof of the burning structure, and supposed that the two were related.

I had no idea of what street we were on, so I called to the civilians milling about, asking for the name. They provided it to me. Then, I paused. I could see the house number of the house I had parked in front of, but had no idea of the house number of the involved structure.

Yeah, you’re right. After 2-3 seconds of reflection, it struck me that, if I could identify the burning house from my location, the highly trained, very experienced, thoroughly professional firefighters likely could replicate my feat of high level cerebral functioning.

I radioed in to dispatch, “Medic (number) on scene of a fully involved house, aircraft crash, casualties noted in the yard. Please send fire and additional ambulances.”

Then I unassed the rig. Ed had already pulled one fellow, laying in the driveway between the involved structure and the neighboring one, around the uninvolved structure and out of the radiant heat pouring from the fire. Doug was just getting to the other patient on the ground, and we pulled him, also, into the lee of the neighboring house and into their fenced in yard.

Once relatively safe, we conferred: Ed wanted a couple of backboards so we could rapidly splint these guys and get the hell out of dodge. I hopped the fence, grabbed the requisite materiel, and tossed it over the fence.

Doug and Ed rapidly backboarded the one guy, set the head of the board on the fence, and then one of them hopped the fence, he and I finished the lift, and trotted him to the rig.

We returned, helped Doug complete boarding the second guy, and back to the truck we went.

Once both were strapped into the ambulance, we were off. Coincidentally, the first engines were about set up and beginning to flow water as we departed.

I do not remember the run to TBTCIDC. I DO remembergiving report, and the smoke smell we tried to clean out of the ambulance.

Funny thing. A couple of months later, I was visiting my brother in Alexandria, VA. Since he was working, I played tourist during the day. Now, this was 1983, around a year after the plane crashed into the 14th street bridge. The very bridge I had to cross into DC. As The Fates would have it, an aircraft– a big passenger jet– was landing as I was crossing the bridge. I don’t want to say it was close, but….I could count the rivets on the bottom, as it passed over my head.

Yeah, I didn’t break out in a cold sweat, or anything. Except, I did.

Pre Planning Your Scene

mURPHY rULES! (and how to try to stymie him)

Among the blogs I visit more or less regularly, is “Notes From The Bunker”, featuring the adventures of the thoughtful and experienced Commander Zero. Today (As I write this it is 5 Sept 2019), The Commander reviews thoughts on idiot proofing your kit, particularly your first aid kit. (see for yourself: http://www.commanderzero.com/?p=6547#comments , “Mylar After Two Years Of Exposure”) He makes a mighty compelling case for, in effect, double bagging your first aid supplies, and he has, indeed, harshly tested his packaging. He has not found it wanting.

Aesop of Raconteur Report (ANOTHER regular read! Find him here: https://raconteurreport.blogspot.com/ ) commented on the original post, (found here, from March 15 2015: http://www.commanderzero.com/?p=2511), and, as usual, his comments are insightful, practical, and reflect studies in Advanced Placement courses at The College of Hard Knocks. I reprint them here, because I don’t want you all to miss them.

“1) Any FA kit that isn’t waterproof is worthless. If not now, then when you need it, which is worse. As you’ve discovered, and as I did the first time I was working on a movie set on a rainy day. It’s a mistake you only make once.
2. Mylar is nice, but you can’t see what’s inside. Consider heavy-duty Saran wrap or equiv. as something still see-through, but easier to tear open than mylar or two-hand zip-loks.
3. If you’re any kind of handy with a sewing machine, turning mil-spec poncho materials into pack and bag condoms is a quick and elegant way to make your favorite bag far more water resistant. It also gives you options as far as external appearance, whether more camo’ed, or more non-descript than Tactical Timmy camo patterns in urban use around the unprepared muggles. YMMV.
4. Given your penchants anyways, you can get single-use heat seal clear plastic bagging material too, and simply resolve that if you tear something open for use, you’ll re-stock and re-seal it at the first opportunity.
5. As far as opening, putting a guard-protected single-edge razor or retractable box cutter in the top of the kit is never a bad idea. For some of the sterile wrap crap used in the ED, I need bandage scissors, trauma shears, and/or a hemostat (think ER pliers) just to open the goddam packaging, and that’s indoors in air-conditioned comfort, with two hands.


(THIS PART THAT FOLLOWS IS GOLD, RIGHT HERE!)

6. As a general rule, whether for first aid or any other kind of kit, anything that couldn’t be reliably used during a year’s service in the WWI trenches of the Somme probably isn’t proper kit to rely on, and you’ll find that out at the worst possible moment. Field-test your gear and eliminate the flaws now, when mistakes are free.


7. Just random curiosity, but for a bike kit, why not something along the lines of a screw-top or screw-twist together PVC pipe or somesuch thing, clamped/strapped/zip-tied/etc. to the frame? Bombproof, compact, and totally watertight, and you could size the tube diameter to the largest items, and adjust the length so everything fits. Just thinking out loud there.”

With that preamble, may I direct your attention to my own humble work, from mid June of this year? (https://musingsofastretcherape.wordpress.com/2019/06/14/do-it-yourself-emergency-care/ )

With Commander Zero’s (herinafter referred to as “CZ”) insights, and Aesop’s commentary, I have been stimulated to consider shortcomings in my own arrangements.

I have never had my own kit(s) fail as in Czs experience. Mine are presently indoors or in my vehicle trunk. Previously, for years, my kit rode in the back seat of my dual cab pickup truck. When we loaded up, kids, luggage and all, it went into a tote in the back of the truck, inside a camper shell. That has/had worked out alright for me. On the other hand, I have never done a rainy weekend FTX, either. THAT sort of adventure might have elicited Aesop’s perspective.

Since one of the objectives of much of my hobbies/avocations/off duty activities is preparing for unwanted possibilities, the next generation of my deliberations will be considering how I can benefit from the above insights, and integrate them into my own preps.

For example, if I am compelled to hike my happy ass home from work, due to EMP/Carrington Event/One Minute After/civil disorder/Zombie Apocalypse, what is the likelihood that it will be sunny and seventy outside, versus raining cats and dogs at night in a gale? (Select option “B”, if you please!) Or perhaps mid January, with ass deep snow and wind, at a daytime high temp of 1 degree (for our European readers, that approximates minus 17 degrees C)?

The “I don’t want to freeze my butt solid, to the ground” aspects are likely intuitive, to anybody who has lived in The Midwest for any length of time, but protecting your equipment from those conditions may not be so obvious. (To be honest, this particular aspect had not made it’s way to the front of my own consciousness, until today!)

Broadening this thinking to other aspects of, say, a “Get Me Home” bag, suggests that packing said bag in sub-modules might be clever, if said sub modules are water proof (or, at least, repellent). Again, as of present experience, I’ve had no issues with water etcetera damaging my medic bag, or anything in my “possibles trunk”. That’s fine, until my 13 year old vehicle develops a hole allowing water or whatnot into my trunk.

Or, until I have to hop home in the Oobleck Storm. (or whatever). In those settings, I will regret not acting on CZ’s or Aesop’s insights.

Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact · Pre Planning Your Scene

MAST Trousers

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy not so far away….no, wait. That is not quite right.

So, TINS©, TIWFDASL©, with my partner Doug, and we caught a run for a stabbing. This was a bit out of the ordinary, inasmuch as the preferred mode of interpersonal interaction (based exclusively upon my skewed sample of EMS patients in Da City) was labeled as “a GSW”, or less cryptically, “a shooting”.

In any event, we arrived to find a gentleman who was talking, kinda sweaty, but able to tell us the chain of events that led to our meeting, along with niceties such as his allergies, medications, and previous medical history. Oh, yes: with a solitary stab wound in his chest, just left of center, and around 4-6 cm removed from his sternal margin. (Yep, that means just what you suspect that it means).

We packed him up, after Doug, thinking ahead, had laid out the MAST trousers on the cot.

So, back in the mists of time, shortly after the demise of the horse drawn ambulance (I kid! I kid!), there was this tool, based upon the fighter pilot’s “G Suit”, called the Medical Ant Shock Trousers, or MAST Trousers (Yep, that does, indeed, stand for “Medical Anti Shock Trousers Trousers”. Go figure.) The principle was thought to be that, when you inflated bladders in the legs, and overlying the lower abdomen, you would increase venous resistance, and thereby minimize the amount of blood remaining in the lower extremities, and thereby increase venous blood return to the heart. Since that would increase pre load, and preload is one component of cardiac output, the thinking was that, if we could increase preload, we could increase cardiac output, and that would increase blood pressure. Generally, within certain limits, increased blood pressure in a trauma/shocky patient is held to be A Good Thing.

We were coding merrily along to TTBTCIDC (For those of you keeping score at home, that would be “The Third Best Trauma Center In Da City”). Mr Stabee and I were having a lovely conversation, after a fashion, until he got really quiet. Concerned, I checked his pulse and breathing, finding a considerably weaker, and faster, pulse than previously, along with diminished rate of respirations.

I hollered to Doug that our new friend was circling the drain, and both more alacrity on his part, as well as a heads up to the receiving facility might be really appreciated.

I wrapped him (the patient, not Doug) up in the MAST trousers, and inflated the bladders. Now, we had a protocol of inflating the bladders to pressure “X”, re- assessing the patient, and then either holding there, or adding more pressure. In the spirit of Spinal Tap’s Derek Smalls, I bypassed the intermediate steps, and inflated the bladders, metaphorically, to 11.

To my surprise, out stabbee awakened, and began to converse, asking “What happened?”I obtained a new set of vitals, and wrote them down, as we stopped at TTBTCIDC.

We trotted our friend to the trauma room, and, as I wheeled the cot out of the room, I heard the physician order, “Take those things off of him, now!”

I started to offer our valves and suchlike, in order to wean the pressure off of the bladders, rather than precipitously deflating them, but the sound of ripping velcro was my reply.

Shortly afterward, the code was called, and everybody who had not crowded into the room, now entered.

Before we were done cleaning up the truck and restocking our medic bag, the code had been called. Unsuccessfully.

Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Pre Planning Your Scene · Protect and Serve

The Leviathian Comes Alive!

So, one time we got dispatched to an unconscious person run on the east side. We arrived to see a number of police officers from DBCPD standing around. One of them pointed out a large slumped soul, leaning up on the steps on a rear stairway of some house.

He was not entirely flaccid, and he WAS breathing on his own, both desirable attributes from my point of view. Even so, leaving him to metabolize towards mobility appeared to be a bad plan, so Porthos and I attempted a hold-him-under-his-arms walking assist. It worked, sort of. Well, it appeared to be working well enough that we could maneuver him to the truck, and thence to TBTCIDC, where he could indeed metabolize to freedom, under the loving and watchful eyes of the TBTCIDC Emergency Department nursing staff. For bonus points, he would then not be our problem.

Porthos and I were making progress, of a sort, toward the ambulance, and the police were doing their police type stuff, when I got the bright idea that perhaps a whiff of an ammonia capsule might energize our guest.

Now, with the wisdom that comes with hindsight, THAT might have a good idea to, ya know, DISCUSS with my partner. That discussion might have elicited several beneficial outcomes, like problem solving IN ADVANCE, and anticipation of ways in which this brainstorm of mine might have turned horribly wrong, for example.

As might have become evident, I did NOT discuss this little plan of mine with my partner, and simply retrieved an ammonia cap from my pocket, snapped it, and allowed Mr. Leviathan to breathe deeply of the healing aroma.

He abruptly, and I mean RIGHT FUCKING NOW! Became considerably less stumbling, and way, way more energetic, shaking loose of my grasp on his arm, and turning on my partner.

This might be a good point in my tale to note that our guest was tall, and big, and outweighed me, as well as Porthos, by a considerable margin. If he should commence to some wrasslin’, well, whichever one of us was the object of his affections, would not enjoy being so objectified.

Porthos had noticed our guest’s reanimation, although he was a fraction of a second slower than I in so noticing, and so King King, our newly energized patient, was advancing upon my partner, hands outstretched, and backing Porthos rapidly into a corner.

I realize that things happen quickly, and it appears that time stands still, nevertheless those officers sure appeared to be statues, while this shambling wreck of a man-mountain was advancing, cornering my partner, presenting a clear and present danger of laying hands on him.

I found my Mag Light in my hand, and advanced, on my toes, behind him. My flash plan was, once he had indeed grabbed Porthos, well, I was going to go for that line drive, featuring his head as the baseball.

So, Ninja like, I was advancing upon Leviathan, Leviathan was advancing on Porthos, the cops were unmoving, and I, catlike, managed to step on his foot.

Good news: he forgot about Porthos.

Bad news: he figured that I was oh, so very much more deserving of his attention than my partner. He began to turn on me, so as to show me some love. Of some sort.

Good news: whatever was the source of his previous lethargy, it slowed his synapses, and so the insight that he would rather be thumping on me, rather than Porthos, took him a not inconsequential amount of time to process, and then to act upon.

Good news: Porthos took that opportunity to zig to Mr. Leviathan’s zag, and begin to beat feet to the truck.

Good news: I accelerated to warp speed promptly, and so managed to arrive at the ambulance about the same time as Porthos.

Good news: our officer friends were, themselves, in motion, and they converged on Mr Leviathan, and dissuaded him from pursuing any further laying-on-of-hands ceremonies.

Indeed, they were so persuasive, that they elected to transport our new friend to TBTCIDC, themselves.

Porthos and I had, well, I suppose you might consider it “a teaching moment” once we were back in service. My ears stopped burning after a couple of hours.

Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

“Speck’ ah got it figgerred out!”

So, TINS©, TIWFDASL© at Rural Community Hospital ED one fine summer afternoon, nothing exciting (for me, at least: the folks who were here for sutures, or chest pain, likely thought that their dilemmas were entirely more exciting than they would otherwise desire!).

So, this fellow trotted in, carrying a crying child. He announced that the child had cut his head. Our nurse aid escorted the gentleman to one of the carts, and started to look into the problem. I tagged along.

Quick witted, she promptly determined that stapling this child’s head would likely result in a net minima of drama and caterwauling, so she plucked up a surgical stapler, and some betadine, and began to clean up the lac.

The physician arrived, and she briefed him on her findings. Me? I occupied myself trying to get vitals, allergies/meds/medical history on the child from the (clueless) dad. Doc began to perform his own assessment, as the mother arrived.

This elicited another chorus of wailing, tears, and general drama. Predominantly from the child, although the mother contributed her own share. The physician informed the parents that he was planning to staple the wound, once my friend the nurse aid had completed her task of cleaning things up.

“Is that going to hurt him?” was the mother’s question.

My bad, I answered her truthfully. “Yeah, but it will only be 4 pokes. If we stitch it, there will be 8 or more pokes to numb it, and then another 8 or so pokes to sew it up.”

Likely, it was lost when I used the word “numb”. I suspect that she stopped listening at the word “numb”, and failed to do the math. “Oh, I don’t want him to hurt! Can’t you numb him?”

The aid tried her hand. “Well, yeah, but that will require 8 needle sticks, whereas if the doctor simply staples it, there will only be 4 pokes”.

Mom had One Thing on her mind. “I don’t want him to hurt!”

The physician tried. “Ma’am, nobody wants him to hurt. In fact, if I simply staple the cut closed, he will avoid something like 12 additional punctures, and the discomfort associated with those 12 punctures.”

“Please, numb him up! I don’;t want him to hurt!”

Resigning ourselves to our fate, I collected the lidocaine, syringe and needle, and my friend the aid swaddled the child in a blanket.

The kid promptly figured out where this was going, and he wanted NO PART of this ride. So, I set up the doctor’s suture set and lido, and joined the rodeo.

The kid screamed, and he flipped, and he flopped, and he writhed, and he twisted, and he turned. He shook his head, so I was detailed to seize his head, and immobilize it. Mom, to her credit, laid across her child’s legs, and dad laid across his torso, so the doctor only had to zig and zag over roughly 30 degrees of motion as he was injecting the local anesthetic into the margins of the wound.

Did you know that lidocaine, injected into your skin, burns? Yep, burns like a sonuvabitch, for a minute or two. Now, may I watch YOU explain to an 8 year old, that the burning will go away soon, and then things will be numb? Because, he was not listening to me at all, which, of course, assumes that any earthly creature could distinguish my speech over his screams, and cries, and shrieks, and general high volume protestations. Because, I could not.

So, once the doctor had established that the process was going to be pain free (because, of course, the anesthesia had been SO! MUCH! FUN!), the child was going to lay very still for the suturing?

Totally! And, the Democrat candidates for President are not vying to convince the electorate that they, only they, will be the BEST! At providing free stuff to non citizens, as well as college graduates who find themselves in the food industry.

Of course, no. Just, NO! More rodeo nursing, more Brahma Bull On the Suture Table.

Finally, at long last, we were done. The aid unwrapped the (limp)(sweaty)(hoarse voiced) child from the blanket, and we all stepped away, so Mom could hug the child.

She looked at us all, and said, “That was awful! Ohmigawd! I should have listened to you guys!”

I bit my tongue, and shuffled off to the nursing station, to complete my charting. The aid sat down next to me, and said, “Hey! I did my best!”

“That you did.” I replied. Then, taking on a stereotypical hillbilly voice, I continued. “Hyuck, hyuck! Ah’ve bin doin’ this here ‘mergency nursin’ thang for might’ near six, mebe seven weeks now! Speck’ ah got all figgerred out!”

Fun And Games Off Duty · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Pre Planning Your Scene

Car Fire

So, before Mallory and I had begun to live together, I had one of my ex partners, let’s call him Adam, as my room mate. Mallory would come over from time to time, and the three of us would chat, or share dinner, or simply hangout.

One day, she came into the house, and asked us to hurry out and see what was wrong with her car. Now, this was her baby, one she had purchased because, as she termed it, “I look so good driving that car!” It had been her very first new vehicle, ever.

So, Adam and I threw on some shoes, and trotted out to see what was the matter. She had told us that it was smoking, and once we got outside, it became clear why. The smell of burning plastic emanating from beneath the hood told the tale.

Mallory was starting to get excited, hopping around and beseeching us, “Can’t you guys do something?”

Adam looked the vehicle over, and asked her, “Do you REALLY want us to do something? If we let it burn, or call the fire department, then it will be totaled, and you can get a brand new one. If we extinguish the fire, you are gonna have to get all that burned shit replaced, and it may never be altogether right, again.”

Mallory was nigh unto break dancing by now, and simply couldn’t bear to see “her baby” burn up. Adam asked her again, simply to be certain, “Are you REALLY REALLY sure you want us to do something?Again, she pleaded with us to act. Adam looked at me, I looked at him, and we charged the garden hose, donned work gloves, and sprayed it down through the grill as well as we could. Once it had dampened down, I opened the hood, and stood aside, while he blasted it (or, at least, “blasted it” as much as one is likely to be able to, with a garden hose!). It was evidently sufficient to the task, for soon the smoke stopped, the smell abated, and we were unable to identify any further burning stuff after diligent search.

Mallory called her insurance company, they sent a wrecker, and she got a loaner.

Several weeks later, her car was returned to her. She subsequently had repeated complaints about this, that, or the other thing not performing properly. Soon, she turned to Adam, and admitted, “If I had listened to you, and let it burn, I’d be driving a new car by now!”