Code 3 for shortness of breath. XXX Street, apartment C. “Trying to get more details.”
It is 3am, and we’ve had about an hour of sleep so far.
“Spanish translator. No details yet.”
We arrive at the address within minutes. It’s dark.
“Hey, these apartments are all numbered, not lettered.”
“We’re at the correct address, right?”
“Hmm… yup. Maybe apartment C is really apartment 3.”
“Dispatch, can you call back the reporting party and confirm the address and apartment number?”
A neighbor sees us walking around with flashlights pointing everywhere, especially at all the doors. Why he’s up and about, I don’t know. I learned long ago not to waste brain space on that kind of stuff, especially in questionable neighborhoods.
“I think they left a few minutes ago.”
Exactly what emergency would cause someone to not be able to wait a few minutes for us after calling us and instead drive a private vehicle to the hospital, I don’t know. This I still haven’t learned not to waste brain space or blog posts on. I mean, kudos for taking yourself to the hospital for what I’m sure is not an actual emergency, but can’t you do that before you call 911 at 3am? Jesus.
Dispatch raises us on the radio.
“You can go back into service. The patient is at the hospital now.”
“I’m so glad we got up for this shit.”