Steven Kelly Grayson - En Route: A Paramedics Stories of Life, Death, and Everything in Between

EN
ROUTE

A PARAMEDICS STORIES OF

LIFE, DEATH, AND

EVERYTHING
IN BETWEEN

STEVEN KELLY

GRAYSON

DEDICATION AND THANKS

To all of my partners, past and presentthis book is as much yours as it is mine. We know each others favorite restaurants and kids names. We know each others wives and girlfriends, and for the most part we try not to mention one in front of the other. We complete each others sentences, and we watch each others backs. If you see yourself in here and dont remember the call, or you remember the call but somebody else was my partner, its only because names, dates, and places have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, and to shield myself from the HIPAA monster.
To Kat Rickey and Lou Jordan, for believing.
To Susan LeJeune, for encouraging me to trust my own voice.
To Scott Millington: July 31, 1969 to July 26, 2005. Rest well, friend.

Contents

W HEN I FIRST started as an Emergency Medical Technician, I thought I had landed in an asylum and the inmates were running the place. The ink wasnt yet dry on my EMT-Basic card, and I didnt even have a uniform shirt on which to sew my new EMT patch. This didnt stop me, however, from purchasing every single piece of EMT equipment I could afford, and I brought them all with me that first night. If the opportunity presented itself for me to use my new window punch, or cut someones boots off with my new trauma shears, I was ready.

I was riding with an outfit called Chennault Ambulance, a new service out of Fort Sperry, Louisiana. Id tried several times to get an interview with Stat Medic EMS, the big outfit in this area, but they refused to give me the time of day. These guys at Chennault were former StatMedic employees, and rumor had it that they needed more people. From the looks of things, Id say what they needed were beds, and more room. There were EMTs sleeping on every horizontal surface in sight.

Please pardon the mess, the owner, Linda Graham, told me apologetically as I waded through piles of invoices, supply catalogs, run tickets, and government forms of every description. We just got started last week, and things are still a little hectic.

There was a man sitting on the living room floor amid an impressive pile of paperwork, and he looked up and smiled as we entered the room.

This is my husband, Bob, Linda said, motioning for him to get up. Bob, this is Kristys friend, Kelly Grayson. He just got his EMT card, and hed like to ride with us.

The more the merrier. Bob smiled warmly, shaking my hand. Has Linda given you the tour yet? Have you met everybody?

I was just about to do that, Linda replied, steering me into the den. There were two uniformed women sleeping on the couch and the divan.Bobby Jean Sanders and JoAnn Graves, Linda whispered, pointing to each of them. Yesterday, they drove our new ambulances from northern Arkansas to Baton Rouge to get them inspected, then turned around and drove back up here. Then they ran calls all night.

We tiptoed out of the den into the dining room. Along the walls, there were two folding cots with sleeping EMTs on them.

Mickey Sanders and Marianne Fowlkes, Linda continued, pointing to each of them. Mickey is Bobby Jeans son, and Marianne is a nurse. Weve been working nonstop for the past two weeks, Linda whispered conspiratorially as she steered me back into the living room, and everyones exhausted. We made the decision to start our own service on a Friday, and we ran our first call the next Monday morning. Its been chaos ever since.

How many trucks do you have? I asked.

Two, Linda answered proudly, running twenty-four hours a day. Theyre both used, but theyre dedicated to Chennault Parish exclusively.Linda went on to explain that everyone, with the exception of Mickey, was a StatMedic employee until two weeks ago. We all got tired of spending our time out of town, running transfers in the city while our own parish was covered by an ambulance thirty minutes away, she said bitterly.People up here dont need ambulances all that often, but when they do need them, they shouldnt have to wait almost an hour to get one. So, we started our own service. We dont know if well still be in business in six months, but were damned sure going to try. She plopped down on the couch and sighed.

We spent the next few hours talking about my EMT course, what I used to do for a living, my family, and generally everything under the sun. About an hour into the conversation, I began to realize that I was being skillfully interrogated, and I wondered how many people theyd tag-teamed this way. It was the most thorough job interview Id ever been subjected to.

At half past four in the morning, we were still talking when the phone rang. Bob, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, answered it. The emergency line, Linda explained as Bob wrote down the particulars. It looks like weve got a call. Bob hung up the phone and grinned.

Were going to 412 Benjamin Franklin East, he said, beaming. A lady having seizures.

Lets go! Linda exclaimed. This will be your first call, wont it? Before I could reply, she was out the door, waddling as fast as her short legs could carry her.

I sprinted for the rig, managing to jump in the back just before Bob roared off, spitting gravel from beneath the tires. The ride to 412 Benjamin Franklin differed from an amusement park roller coaster only in that I didnt have to pay for the ride and the roller coaster is far less rough. It was damned exciting, no doubt about it.

This is the real deal! I thought with growing excitement as Bob wove us quickly and unerringly through a maze of streets. This was what all the practice was for.

When we arrived at the address, I was the first person out of the truck. There was a man standing just outside the house, smoking a cigarette. He seemed remarkably unconcerned for someone whose friend or loved one was in the throes of a seizure. In EMT class, we were taught that seizures could be Bad Things.

In there, he grunted, holding the door open. Mama be seizin again. Before I could walk inside, Bob bumped me out of the way.

Let me go first, he said. You help Linda with the stretcher. Disappointed, I trudged back to the rig and helped her haul the stretcher up the steep driveway. Linda just grinned at me. She could tell I was excited.

In the house, Bob was checking vital signs on a rather large black woman wearing a huge, flowery muumuu. There was a dark patch on the back where she had apparently urinated on herself. The woman wasnt seizing, but her breathing sounded horrible.

Postictal, Bob said as if he expected me to know what that word meant. Why dont you suction her and apply some oxygen?

Note to self: Look up the word postictal in Tabers dictionary at your next opportunity.

I eagerly grabbed the suction unit and cleared the womans airway, then applied a non-rebreather mask.

Shouldnt we use an oral airway? I wondered. Maybe a bite stick, too? Shes snoring a lot. Maybe if I just tilt her head back like this, it will Ill be damned! It worked!

Linda beckoned me over to help her lower the stretcher. I fumbled with the handles, but couldnt quite seem to make it work. The stretcher was nothing like the ones we used in EMT class. Linda saw me fumbling around and quickly squeezed the proper handle, and the stretcher promptly crashed down to its lowest position.

Note to self number two: Learn how to work the stretcher, so you wont look like such a dumbass.

If you will get her legs, Ill get under her arms, Bob directed. Just pick her up on my count and well put her on the cot. As he counted to three, I wrapped my arms around the womans knees and lifted, soaking my polo shirt in urine in the process. Bob just smiled tolerantly as I looked in dismay at the yellow stain on the front of my white shirt.