It's a busy night at the station; it's Wednesday, which is known by many to be the night of the clown cars. On any given Wednesday night, you're bound to have at least three and a half full crews ready to go. But, of course, nothing ever happens.
The county is quiet, save a few fire alarms here and there, but they all end unspectacularly.
I sit on the couch, yawning as I work on a cross-stitch. My fingers are numb, but I push the needle through again, watching as the teal thread slides its way through the fabric. Mesmerized by the rhythmic sound of the needle, I jump as our tones drop; I didn't even hear a pre-alert.
"Flu-like symptoms," I hear the dispatcher say, and I groan. It's BLS, and that means that the first run BLS crew is responding; just so happens that tonight, that crew is Eric and me.
"Station 1 copies," he says as I grab my coat. This house is way out in the boonies, and I sigh as I snuggle into the passenger seat sleepily. There's no rest for the weary, I remember as he lays on the air horn. Cars in front of us weave out of the way like small, frightened animals, and I grab onto the door handle. My eyes as wide as saucers, fearing for my life which is in the hands of a maniac driver, I grab my cell phone. "If I die en route," I text, "tell them it was Eric's fault. Seriously."
I do little more than glare at him after we arrive on scene, about 5 minutes later than we should have, due to his poor directional skills. I remind myself that it's not even worth it, and I grab the jump bag.
The dispatcher did not steer us wrong; inside we find a seventy-something year old man who has been nauseated for a few days, and has recently developed fever and diarrhea. A female neighbor who looks to be about his age comes into the living room and tells us that she just doesn't think that he should go another minute without seeing a doctor. It's flu season in the county, and I know that he'll be triaged upon arrival. Every other bed is taken by somebody just as flu-like as you, sir.
He doesn't want to go, because he doesn't feel very sick.
"I'm an old man," he reminds us, "old men get sick."
Like a burr in his side, though, his neighbor pushes him into going with us. I had been taking information down on the PPCR, and when Eric looks to me and says, "I'm assuming you want me to take this nice and easy to the hospital," I smile back at him and say "I sure will, partner." I push the clipboard to his chest as he looks back dumbfounded.
Climbing into the driver's seat, I hear our patient start to vomit. Yes, turnabout is fair play, my friend.


Anonymous said...

Hehe. Vindication is oh-so sweet.


Anonymous said...

Eric seems to be terrible at this job! He definetly needs to reevaluate his situation... some people are not cut out for this job. If you cant help out your team, then dont go on the call.

Branchville VFD

Scott said...

Yes, it sounds like Eric shouldn't be in health care. Perhaps McDonalds is hiring?

Odie said...

There's one bad apple in every barrel eh? There's one goon in our deparment that LOVES the "e-mail all" button on our volunteer managment site and quite often sends emails to the entire company deriding them for tiny little things when he's "guilty" of other major infractions that always seem to get swept under the rug.

People like "Eric" and our own personal goon at our station make stuff that much less enjoyable i guess.

Paula said...

I wanna know who Eric is. I'm not going to be in any of these. =\ Hopefully when I come see you I can run with you. =]

I love you.

EE said...

Shame, running code 3 for flu-like symptoms...

not good, not good.

I would have shoved my radio up his ass.