We pick up a homeless regular for asthma. He’s never nice. He yells at me and cusses me out for taking too long because I’m trying to get his oxygen saturation, his breath sounds, his blood pressure, his rhythm, etc. before I give him medications. The key word here is “yells” because people with REAL shortness of breath obviously can’t do much talking, let alone yelling.
There’s this annoying little thing called an “assessment” that people who seek medical assistance never seem to understand. For instance, even though an asthmatic knows it’s an asthma attack, medical people still have to objectively determine that so that the proper, safe-from-lawsuits treatments are administered, and that takes a few minutes, which usually attracts a cacophony of accusations of inaction from everyone nearby. Nobody is deliberately keeping a treatment away from anyone, because the only thing we medical people want is to shut a patient up.
Anyway, I tell the regular to “shut the fuck up.”
He wants my name. It’s on my shirt. I say I’ll give it to him when we drop him off.
We drop him off at the hospital, and he repeats that he wants my name. It’s still on my shirt. Someone who calls 911 so often should know where my name is on my shirt. So I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an ex-supervisor who was fired and a made-up employee number, and handed it to him.