Some asshole bureaucrat complained to our bosses at our agency that we sat down for a cup of coffee while on duty* in our response district, and the coffee shop – already not a fan of politicians, bureaucrats and small business-related red tape – found out.

So, the next time the same asshole bureaucrat showed up for coffee, the coffee shop told him he was not welcome because he was not supportive of us. I’d like to thank this coffee shop.

*No calls were missed during the consumption of said coffee, and everyone who did not need an ambulance ride for some silly non-emergency that day got one anyway.

Code 3 for the unknown.

A 96-year-old female hobbles down the steps of her mobile home. Despite her complaint, she insists on hobbling.

“Are you guys mad at me for calling?”

“Us? Of course not. You can call us whenever you need us.”

Code 3 for vomiting.

“Please take your jacket off, ma’am.”

“But I’m cold!”

Your next words should be:

(a) “Are you deaf? Take your jacket off.”

(b) “Please, ma’am, I need to take your blood pressure and put electrodes on you.”

(c) “Yes, yes, I know. That’s why people wear jackets.”

(d) “Cab drivers don’t ask people to take their jackets off.”

Funny little nuance about emergency services – we don’t literally work directly for the people who are nominally our employers, whether it’s a city/county/state government department/agency or a private company or whatever. Instead, we work for the people who call us.

At least, that’s how I see it.

Yes, I know who signs my paycheck, and I know whose policies and procedures I work under, but I don’t really work for them in the same way a subordinate works for a supervisor in a typical setting. So as far as our employers, especially chief- and upper management-types, are concerned, I must say that I feel no extraordinary loyalty to them, because the only people who really do matter are the people who call us, no matter how stupid they sometimes can be, and that’s where my loyalty lies.

As a matter of fact, whenever our bosses make poor decisions that affect service delivery – and they make many – guess whose side I’m on. And I enjoy having that recourse. We work for the people who call us.

“It may not be an emergency to us, but it’s an emergency to them.”

Then they’re idiots. And it should be our job to tell them there is no emergency, not flood the EDs with silly patients.

Unfortunately, our bosses are pussies, and we’re choosing what is easy (acquiesce) over what is right (educate).

An agency administrative person, relatively new to EMS, is sitting at her desk, about to eat her lunch.

“I’m sorry, do you have a minute before I go in service? It’s a quick HR thing but it’s urgent.”

She looks at her lunch, looks up, “Not really.”

“You do realize you work with several hundred people who have their meals and sleep interrupted every hour of every day, right?”

“Always bring the gurney to the patient.”

Fuck off! Have you met any of our patients?

We’re on scene with a drunk guy who was assaulted.

“Hey, looooock my bike.”

It has a chain and a padlock.

“OK, where are the keys?”

He starts fumbling with his keys after he pulls them out of his pocket.

“Leeeet me shoooow you which one.”

“Gimme the keys. I can figure it out.”

I snatch them out of his hand. As soon as I do this, I know I’m about to fuck something up, because I’m an idiot. Anyone can confirm that.

I undo the padlock and the chain, and walk about 20 feet to a fence where the bike can be secured properly.

“Hey, where’s the padlock? I just had it.”

It looks like I dropped it somehow into the dry brush and gravel, which, of course, is roughly the same color as the padlock.

Now a half dozen responders are hunched over, pacing back and forth, looking for the padlock. For a good several minutes.

“You idiot. It’s here.”

There it was, hanging on a spoke. Probably slipped from my hand and landed perfectly.

That’s why I’m always careful about feeling smug – I always embarrass myself soon afterward.

It’s good customer service though. Chief Brunacini would be proud.

Code 3 for the unknown.

A woman in her early 30s is in her office, where her co-workers called because she just “isn’t herself.” It is clearly a reliable and professional environment, with drama and malingering quite unlikely. She isn’t in any severe distress, but she clearly is not normal. She can answer some questions, and keeps saying she doesn’t “feel good.”

“She reminds me of people with brain bleeds,” I whisper to my partner.

“Yeah, I know.”

The ones I have seen were all vague and difficult to describe, and they behaved somewhat similarly, if they were awake at all.

Not much history available, but her co-worker finds her primary care physician’s number. For some reason, I call him after I take care of all my business. I don’t know why, but I guess I just want to know about her medical history and psychiatric history, if she has any, not that I really think she does, but more unexpected things I have seen. If there’s anything House teaches anyone, it’s that every aspect of a patient’s history is important, especially if you don’t know any.

Surprisingly, her physician picks up the phone before we arrive at the hospital. I explain to him that we have his patient here ALOC without any obvious cause, and I just want to ask him a few questions about her prior history. Somehow that leads to him babbling on and on for 3 minutes straight about absolutely nothing important, and finally I have to cut him off.

“Doc, I just need to know what her medical and psychiatric history is, and whether or not she has had similar events in the past.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can think of that would lead to this. Did you check her blood sugar yet? Because that’s what I would be thinking. If her blood sugar is low, that may cause her to behave differently. You guys can do that right?”

Fucking duh.

What a waste of time.

I am never calling anyone’s physician again. Ever.

Code 2 for man down. It is 10pm and pouring.

An elderly man is down next to his walker in a residential neighborhood. No one is around at all. He is polite and sheepish. He says he has weak legs, hence the walker, but he had a little trouble negotiating the curb in the pouring rain. He lives 2 blocks away and just wants to go home.

We pick him up, easily, since he’s thin, and the police officer insists that the old man let him drive him home. It’s the only right thing to do here.

“I can walk home!”

Yeah, right. You did such a good job.

“Make everyone happy; please let the officer drive you home.”

It didn’t occur to me until later – why is it that people called 911 for him but no one helped him to his feet?