Code 3 for man down.

Neighborhood regular. Almost falls over when he lets go of his shopping cart. Obviously drunk off his ass and clearly has no meaningful comprehension of the situation.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

After a long pause, “Noooo…”

“Why are you even asking, silly? Put him on the fucking gurney.”

He does not resist one bit, his legs probably so happy that they can relax for a second from the stress of holding him up.

“What hospital do you want to go to?”

“Fuck. Does it matter? Have you not picked up a really drunk guy before?”

“I don’t want to kidnap* him…”

“Fuck! Use your fucking head!”

*There has been an ongoing debate in the blogosphere about kidnapping. Frankly, I was barely able to stand reading the posts and subsequent comments because those insisting that EMS was illegally kidnapping people left and right and violating their “rights” just don’t seem like they work in the real world anyway.

I once heard this story about a woman, in some sort of instructor-type role, in an unnamed branch of emergency services. To make this story even more ironic, she wasn’t particularly well respected because she wasn’t really that good at her work to begin with.

Alas, self-awareness isn’t something many people possess. But then again, I guess, if you’re not self-aware, how are you aware that you’re not self-aware?

Anyway…

In a class for new hires, the story goes, she boldly proclaimed, “I expect more from women. I hold women to a higher standard.”

Really?

Isn’t this exactly what women have been complaining about MEN since time began in any profession, not just emergency services?

On the scene of countless so-called “medical emergencies” (uh huh…) across the world…

“Can I call my husband before we leave?”

“OK. Make it quick.”

Twenty-one seconds later…

“Alright, hang up, let’s go. You called 911 because you say you have an emergency… let’s hang up and go to the ambulance so we can drive you to the emergency room…”

“Good job.”

“Thanks. But, I can’t have a moment of being satisfied with myself, because I will always fuck something up later.”

Seven hours later…

“God damn it… I’m so stupid…”

It’s a miserable existence.

“I don’t feel good.”

“Well, yeah, that’s pulsing ventricular tachycardia. I’d be surprised if you did.”

“My heart is racing.”

“What were you doing when it started?”

“I was masturbating. I’m battling cancer and it keeps my energy up.”

“Really? Good for you. It makes me tired.”

This is a story that was told to me some years ago.

A woman went to her physician with vaginal itching for several days and one episode of some white discharge. The physician took an oral history.

“Do I have a yeast infection?”

“From what you’re describing, it doesn’t sound like a yeast infection to me. It could be bacterial. It could be other things. Let me prescribe you some medications.”

“Can you at least take a look since I came all this way?”

“OK.”

“Thanks.”

A speculum and an actual exam later…

“Err… you do have a yeast infection. Let me change that prescription.”

Today I picked up yet another drunk. We will never stop picking up drunks, yes. But this drunk I last saw probably 10 years ago. Not only is it sad that he’s still doing the exact same thing – getting drunk and wandering the streets – after 10 years, but it is also sad that I actually remember him.

“Why do you still do this?”

“I love this shit.”

An hour later, I step in a drunk, homeless regular’s poo, which is at least a day old going by its dry appearance. It apparently fell out of his pant leg onto the tailboard as he climbed into the ambulance and stayed there the entire ride to the hospital. My partner, who is standing at the back door as I step in it exiting the patient compartment, sees my foot follow gravity toward the large piece of poo but either can’t get the words out or simply doesn’t say anything, even though he has, up to this point in the shift, been talking non-fucking-stop.

Yes, I guess I still love this shit.

There’s a long wait at the emergency psychiatric* receiving facility. Our patient wants a cigarette. She has been completely cooperative, and is voluntarily here. My partner gives her a cigarette after asking me and the facility staff if it’s OK. I generally believe in the path of least resistance, and I suspect the facility does too.

We let the patient off the gurney and she smokes. The staff is aware of this, of her steady gait, of her ability to walk, of her absolute lack of medical issues. I even re-make the gurney now that she’s off of it.

So, the wait is over, and it’s time to bring her into the facility.

“You guys have to wheel her in on the gurney.”

“What the fuck? She’s already walking toward your door. And I already made the gurney!”

“It’s our policy. We don’t want her to fall or pass out or run away.”

“WHAT? Use your heads!”

Path of least resistance. Path of least resistance. Well, after some lip first. Assholes.

*Oxymoron

Code 3 for man down.

Drunk regular. Same corner.

Passive-aggressively whining that the cops should take him to jail instead, my partner says, “He’s just drunk. He has no medical complaint. When we get to the hospital, what am I going to tell the nurses when they ask what’s wrong with him?”

The cops don’t want him. There’s no drunk tank. There’s no system in place to refuse the transport.

“Surely it’s not the first time the hospital has seen a drunk homeless guy.”

“They’ll bitch.”

“Well, then – right or wrong – they clearly don’t have a good idea of how the real world works.”

Jesus… just put him on the gurney already.