Found this quote on Tam’s blog about the recent discovery of the WWII era vessel in the Solomons:

Despite having no clue as to what particular boat the earthquake has raised to the surface, any mention of PT boats starts journalists chattering about JFK in almost Pavlovian response.

Amazing how many tales of Kennedy heroism involve wrecking your vehicle and swimming for help.

Heh, heh, heh…

For those of you leaving comments on my last post, many thanks.

It should be noted, however, that Dad died two years ago. Sometimes you put your grief on a shelf and you think you’ve kept it stored away, and then you move something, and it’s right there again.

I had that story brewing for a long time, and something happened tonight that made me finish it. The story, and the grieving.

Thanks for reading.

“Get here quick,” the caller had said. “He’s in bad shape.” The voice on the phone had sounded scared, desperate, his words choked with emotion.

I push the accelerator to the floor as I weave in and out of traffic, desperate to make it there in time. I pass a Honda Civic by pulling around him in the breakdown lane, his horn an indignant bleat in my wake. I can see the driver’s face in the rear view mirror, lips moving in soundless anger. I could care less.

I replay the caller’s words in my head as I speed past eighty, now eighty-five and ninety. I crowd the bumper of a Ford pickup and finally he sees my flashing lights, pulling to the right and allowing me past, but there are others ahead of him. I pound the steering wheel in frustration. I fear I will not make it in time.

Damn it, MOVE! Get the hell out of the way! Can’t you see me behind you?

I played out possible scenarios in my head. He had been sick lately, battling an infection since the last time I had seen him. His caregiver had told me that his blood pressure medication had been too potent, causing him weakness and fatigue. Just getting up off the couch had left him dizzy.

He’s eighty-three years old. His immune system is failing along with everything else. He doesn’t move around enough. He doesn’t eat enough, even though he’s been gaining weight lately. He’s probably septic. He’ll need fluids and probably dopamine. If he’s decompensating he may even need to be intubated and put on a ventilator. Broad-spectrum IV antibiotics should help. There are good hospitals nearby. If only I get there in time…

But the line of cars is refusing to move, oblivious to my desperation. They don’t see my flashing lights, can’t hear my siren. No one is sitting in the passenger seat, helping to check my mirrors and look for gaps in traffic. The only emergency here is my own.

My father is dying.

Not before I get there. Not if I get there. I can get him through this, if only I can get there in time. God please…let me get there in time.

Norman was the second oldest of four sons of a railroad engineer, my grandfather, Frederick. One of his prized possessions had been his father’s railroad pocket watch, a gold Hamilton engraved with his father’s name, one he also bore. The name that is, not the watch.

He grew up in Monroe, LA during the Great Depression. He and his brothers were country boys, spending their days hunting and fishing, tinkering with motorcycles, and as they grew into men, learning to fly airplanes. When World War II started, he and his brothers had enlisted in the Army Air Corps. One trained as a navigator, right there at home at Selman Field. Another flew the P-38 Lightning on reconnaissance missions, venturing into enemy territory armed with nothing more than a high-speed camera and a young man’s bravado. His little brother had become a ball turret gunner on a B-17. A neighbor and childhood friend, Claude Crenshaw, became a famous P-51 Mustang fighter ace. A cousin became a Marine, and survived the Bataan Death March. All of them young men raised with a sense of duty and service, men who put their dreams and aspirations on hold to answer their nation’s call.

And I’ve never told him how proud I was that my Dad was a veteran. Not once, not out loud anyway. I never told him…

Norman had gone to Hobbs, New Mexico and trained as a B-17 radio operator. Radio operators also served as machine gunners, operating a belt-fed .50 caliber machine gun in the top turret. Years later, in the stories he told his children, he spoke of the friends he had made in New Mexico and Italy, but he spoke little of his combat missions. The few he told were entertaining adventure stories, nothing more, told to an impressionable kid, and repeated more than once to a bored, disinterested teenager.

I remember seeing pictures of those B-17s coming back from missions with gaping holes in them. Ailerons missing, two engines gone, chunks of wing blown away by flak. The bird flown back over friendly territory by one scared bombardier who had refused to bail out, navigating with nothing more than his bomb sight, praying to get home alive. I remember being impressed at how much abuse they could take and still fly. It never occurred to me that some of those pictures were from Dad’s squadron. He described what flak bursts looked and sounded like, and I never realized he was talking from personal experience.

He came home from the war and worked as a Harley Davidson mechanic for a number of years. He married, and divorced a few years afterward – both of them still young, no doubt more in love with the idea of being in love than they were with each other. No children from that marriage, save a stepdaughter, Janice, who considered him her father for the rest of her life.

Dad met my mother in the late 1950s, shortly after he and his brothers had opened their own television and stereo repair business. Monroe had just opened its first television station, and Dad and my uncles had smelled opportunity. Mom was a customer, early on in those days.

They met, dated briefly, and married in…

Jesus Christ, when did they marry? What kind of worthless son doesn’t even know his parents’ anniversary? Answer: a son who was eager not to know. By the time I was old enough to remember things like birthdays and anniversaries, I was already mentally out the door. I wanted out, as far away as possible. And when I was young and self-righteous, I blamed it all on Mom and Dad. Please, God…let me get there in time. I have so many things to atone for.

My mother was a recent divorcee, already with two children of her own – damaged goods in the eyes of many men in the 1950s. Dad too, I suppose – he raised my brother Terry and my sister Sheri as his own, but from family stories, his relationship with his stepchildren in the early years of his marriage was…contentious, shall we say. Stayed contentious, too, even after we were born.

My older sister Darlene came next, followed by my twin sister Kim and I a few years afterward. I’m the baby of the family, by a whopping three minutes – three minutes my sister never let me forget, believe me.

I’d like to say that my childhood was idyllic, but that would be a lie. Oh, we were never abused, and there were happy childhood moments aplenty. We were fed, clothed and cared for. But the
re were plenty of dark and unhappy moments, enough to convince me at a very tender age that my only hope at life, at having some shot at succeeding, would only come once I had gotten as far away from my family as possible. My parents gave me life, and they taught me good values, but they also gave me all the tools and excuses I needed to fail.

My older brother Terry had reached much the same conclusion, at nearly the same age. He raised me throughout my teenage years, when Dad and I were at each other’s throat. We fought like bitter enemies, and for a time I suppose we were.

We were so different, he and I.

And yet, so alike. His sentimentality, I see in me. His temper, God forbid, I see in me. His stubbornness, I see in me. His curiosity, I see in me. Neither of us could ever stand not knowing something. We have the same intolerance for stupidity. I’m just as volatile as he was. I like to think I control it better, but do I? We have the same mind, albeit focused on different things. He could look at a schematic or wiring diagram and just get it. He could do calculus in his head. There was nothing mechanical he couldn’t do with his hands.

I’m the same way with living things. I can look at a sick person, and just get it. I can’t do the calculus on paper, much less in my head, but deciphering the language of the body comes as easily to me as breathing. People say the same thing to me that they always said to him.

“How did you know that?” they’d ask, shaking their heads in wonder. And like me, he’d be powerless to explain how, and he’d have trouble understanding why everyone else couldn’t do the same thing.

That same lack of patience led to most of our fights. We were always at odds; him furious that I didn’t care how an engine or a television worked, and me furious that he’d think I’d even want to. Usually, he’d wind up throwing a wrench and swearing, and I’d usually wind up walking away, cursing him with every breath. Occasionally, it would end with blows.

Dad was Old School. In his world, sons were supposed to be tough. One day, when they were ready to become men, they’d rise up and challenge the father. He always took my unwillingness to fight as a sign of weakness.

You were wrong about that, Dad. By the time you figured it was time for me to challenge you, you were too old and frail to win. Fighting you would have proven nothing to me. What kept me from whipping your ass wasn’t fear, but respect.

So what should I choose to remember about you, Dad? Do I remember the man who sucker punched me, and dared me to do something about it? Or do I remember the man who taught me to dance by having me stand on his feet as he held me?

Should I hate you for making me do things I didn’t want to do, or should I thank you for teaching me that fear only controls you if you let it?

And how about you, Dad? Are you as proud of me as you seems to have been the past few years, or have you been that way all along? I was hardly a dutiful son. How will you remember me?

Will you resent the fact that I lived less than thirty minutes away and still only spoke to you a couple of times a year, or will you be proud of me for being independent and self sufficient?

Will you treasure the rare times we’ve spent together over the past few years, or will you remember the times I put you off with lame excuses?

Will the times I’ve told I loved you lately make up for the times I cursed you in years past? Can I ever say it enough? Will I be able to say it again?

Will you remember the time I shot a hole in the kitchen window, or will you remember the times we’ve watched a sunrise from the duck blind?

Will you resent my childhood when I shunned you, or will you treasure my manhood when I finally recognized you for the man you are? Will it matter that the realization came too late for us to be friends?

Will you remember with anger the day I carelessly left your shotgun to rust in the bottom of a muddy boat, or will you swell with pride remembering how well I learned to shoot it, using the lessons you taught me?

Will you remember the disappointment you felt when I dropped out of college, or will you remember the people who told you how well I treated them when they were in my rig?

Will you remember your birthdays when your phone never rang, or will you remember dancing with Mary at our wedding?

Will you resent my aloofness with my siblings, or will you remember the day I first put KatyBeth in your arms and introduced her to her grandfather?

Will you remember the family funerals I skipped, or will you remember the times I offered to let you live with me after Mom died?

After his heart attack, Dad turned into an old man overnight. The man who had dropkicked me with a WWF wrestling move at sixty-three was a feeble old man at age seventy. His Parkinson’s disease slowed his speech and his movements, but his temper was still there. His spirit was undimmed. All that changed when Mom died. Dad just quit. Nothing was worth fighting over any more. My sisters and their brood spent the next five years bleeding Dad dry, depleting his savings and destroying his home. Many times I offered to have him come live with me, but always Dad refused.

Eight months before this day, Uncle Sonny, Mom’s younger brother, had come to visit and seen the conditions Dad was forced to live in. He had threatened my sisters with the pain of death, packed Dad’s clothes and what few belongings he had left, and moved him to Oklahoma City the next day. Uncle Sonny had always worshiped Dad, and treated him like a king.

KatyBeth and I had come up to visit in April, and Dad looked good. He had gained weight, and the light was back in his eyes. The Parkinson’s had made his voice faint and weak, but he had bounced KatyBeth on
his lap and told the stories I had heard since childhood, stories I had heard a hundred times and knew by heart. This time, I watched KatyBeth listen with a child’s wonder, and I found myself once again hanging on every word. We stayed three days, and he had pleaded with an old man’s tremulous voice for me to stay longer. I had assured him I’d come back in the fall, but I never did. I meant to, of course.

Uncle Sonny had sounded scared when he called. A great, blustery bear of a man, he had always been as quick to cry as he was to curse in anger, but I had never before heard fear in his voice, and that’s what it was, fear.

And I’m scared, too. Scared of too many things left unsaid, and no time to say them. For so many years, I had thought of Terry as a father by proxy. It wasn’t until we were both grown men that we realized the lessons he was teaching me were the ones he learned from you. You raised two sons who didn’t appreciate the man you were until they had reached manhood themselves. When I get there, I’m going to tell you that. I’m going to tell how –

The wail of a siren interrupts my reverie, and I look up to see blue lights in my rear view mirror. I check the speedometer to see that I’m doing ninety, and curse silently at myself as I find a place to pull over. Judging from the highway signs, I’m into Texas now, but how far I have no idea.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and reach over to retrieve my registration and insurance cards from the glove box. The cop saunters up to my truck, ticket book in his left hand, right at hand at his side, resting lightly on his duty belt.

“Howdy, son. Why don’t y’all do me a favor and step here to the back of the vehicle, please,” drawls the deputy. He looks like a caricature of a small town Texas lawman – tall, balding, and bucket-bellied. A Stetson sits squarely on his head, and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. Not trusting myself to talk, I hand him my license and registration. He examines my license, takes off his shades and eyes me speculatively for a few moments.

“The reason I pulled you over is that I clocked you at ninety three miles an hour. The speed limit on this stretch of interstate is seventy miles an hour during the day. That’s twenty-three over the posted limit, son. You mind telling me where you were going in such a hurry?”

“No excuse sir, I –“

“You an EMT, son?” he interrupts, nodding at the Star of Life on my cap. I nod affirmatively.

“Then you oughta know better than that,” he chides. “You got Loozyanna plates on this vee-hicle, so it ain’t likely yer goin’ to no emergency. So where are ya headin’ that you got to travel so fast?”

“I’m headed to Oklahoma City. My father is…is sick. I got a call that he’s…I mean, they told me he’s…” I feel the words catch in my throat, and I feel my face flush with shame but I am powerless to stop it. I find myself sitting on the bumper of my truck on the side of the road in Deepinahearta, Texas, cradling my head in my hands and crying like a heartbroken child, my shoulders shaking with every racking sob. Sitting there on the side of the highway, I made my decision.

I’m going to remember you for the things you did right, not for the mistakes you made. I pray you’ll do the same for me, Dad.

After what seems like an hour but was probably no more than a minute, I wipe my snotty palms on my jeans and look up. The deputy has his shades back on, his ticket book in his left hand, still unopened. He looks at me for a few moments more and then hands me back my license and registration.

“Go see to your Daddy, son,” he says gently. “Watch your speed.” Without another word, he walks back to his cruiser and drives away. I am barely back on the road again when my cell phone rings. I hit the SEND button.

“Where are you?” Uncle Sonny says without preamble.

“Probably thirty miles from Tyler,” I answer. “How is he –“

“Don’t bother coming any further, then,” he sighs, his voice breaking. “He passed about ten minutes ago. We’re bringing him home Tuesday.” Sonny’s voice is tired, drained. He says something more about funeral arrangements that I don’t bother to hear.

I thumb the END button, pull over again and put the truck in park. I lay my head on the steering wheel and let the tears come. I pray for forgiveness for perhaps ten minutes, and then I wipe my eyes, pull back into traffic and turn back toward Louisiana.

Grief has its time and place, but right now I have a funeral to plan. So I put my heartbreak aside for the moment, and set my mind to working on the things I have to do.

Just like my Daddy taught me.

.

First, I’m proposing marriage to Babs, RN.

No, wait. Too creepy, and in my fragile single emotional state, I couldn’t stand the rejection anyway. Aside from the fact that she’s smart, funny and smokin‘, she also helped a brutha tame his Reciprocal Blogroll.

Yeah, better to play it cool and start slow. For that, she at least deserves to be moved up to the Blogs I Read Every Day. Give her blog a visit, and you won’t be disappointed.

Plus, there’s a link in her latest blog post that just introduced a new term into my lexicon: Trouser Mauser.

Come on guys, say it with me. Trouser Mauser.

Damn, that felt good.

Secondly, I’m adding Phlegm Fatale to the Blogs I Read Every Day. Check out both her blogs, and she makes some pretty cool jewelry as well. Fellas, Mother’s Day is just around the corner, and there’s always birthdays, anniversaries, Honey I’m Sorry and I’d Really Like To Have Sex Again Before I Die occasions.

I’m just sayin‘.

AD: “Well young lady, it looks like you can go. All your tests came back normal.”

Malingering Teenager: “So what was wrong with me?” AD: (flipping through chart) “Says here you fell asleep at school and when someone went to wake you up, you ‘couldn’t feel your body and your heart was racing’, is that right?”

Trailer Trash Mom: “That’s right! And it’s happened to her three times already!”

AD: “And every time, she was at school, in a similar situation?”

Trashy Mom: “Yes!”

Slow Aunt: “And she doesn’t sleep at night. She stays up till like, two or three in the morning.”

AD: “Sounds like your sleep cycle is a little messed up. My advice would be to go to bed earlier.”

Trashy Mom: (on the verge of nastiness) “And I’m supposed to believe that is what makes her have these attacks? I can’t believe you couldn’t find anything wrong with her!”

AD: (mentally counting to ten) “There is nothing physically wrong with her, based on the tests we’ve conducted. Her labs and her EKG were perfectly normal. She has no symptoms whatsoever at the moment. It’s a little hard to pinpoint a problem when the patient isn’t symptomatic.”

Slow Aunt: “So what are we supposed to do?”

AD: “Take her back to school.”

All Three: (in chorus) “Back to school?”

Trashy Mom: (adamantly) “She is sick, I just know it. Y’all just can’t find it at this pissant little excuse of a hospital.”

AD: “Just as likely, they won’t be able to find it at a bigger hospital, without running a battery of expensive and probably unnecessary tests.”

Mom and Aunt: “Why?”

AD: “Because there is nothing wrong with her. Physically.”

Trashy Mom: (offended) “Are you saying she has mental problems?”

AD: (gently) “I’m saying that she has an altered sleep cycle and symptoms of anxiety. She needs to see her personal physician and possibly get a prescription for a sleep aid, or perhaps referral to a specialist. We don’t do specialty care here.”

Malingering Teenager: “So what should I do?”

AD: “Go back to school and try to avoid stressful situations.”

What I wanted to say: “Look kid, obviously you were dealt a bad genetic hand. You were born into a family of malingering, whining, pharmaceutically enhanced, sporadically employed, baby making Professional Burdens To Society, as evidenced by the two Xanax Sisters here. I’ve met your Dad, and he ain’t no peach either. So in that regard, you rolled snake eyes in the big DNA craps game. But there’s this concept called nature versus nurture that psychologists have debated for ages. You came into this world with your tabula rasa already hopelessly smeared and defaced, and your only hope is to escape the brand of nurturing you’re getting from your family. My advice is to cowboy up, pull up your big girl panties and get an education. Then get the hell away from home as soon as possible, or you’ll wind up as nothing more than a Walking Uterus With a Welfare Check and a Xanax Habit.”

But I didn’t, and I am sooooo proud of me.

When last we left our intrepid hero, he had managed to obtain a midnight flight to Boston…

(hey, that almost sounds like a good song title, doesn’t it?)

Well, flash forward 36 hours. The Publisher had activated the Paramedic Underground Railroad to speed me on my way to Bartlett, New Hampshire in time to make my scheduled lectures.

One friend met me at Logan, bearing a brand new set of duds that she had managed to procure at a big and tall men’s emporium somewhere (complete with a totally cool new invention, the zipper tie). Said friend not only refused to accept repayment for the clothes, she then drove me to the wilds of New Hampshire to the next stop on The Railroad…

…where The Editor picked me up and drove me to her home to bunk for the night. A whopping four hours later, we got up for the drive to Bartlett. I would almost call it a restful four hours, save for the fact that my CPAP was in my luggage, still somewhere in transit, and I spent those hours alternating between drooling on the pillow and staying awake enough to maintain my own airway…

…and as it turns out, it should have been only three hours of sleep, not four. It seems that The Editor and I had gotten our signals crossed when she asked, “When do you have to be there tomorrow?”

“Eight sharp,” I replied through the fatigue. Sadly, she thought I was allowing for a little setup time before the lecture, a few minutes for schmoozing and coffee, resolving the inevitable computer issues, etc.

Silly woman. After all, she edited The Book. She above all people should understand my lack of appreciation for linguistic nuance.

So what should have been a leisurely, scenic drive into the White Mountains turned into a mad dash through the countryside, complete with white knuckles and tires squealing, culminating with us pulling up to the conference center at precisely 7:59 am.

The Publisher, being the consummate huckster and showman that he is, had all 150 people waiting outside, with the front rank holding a big cardboard sign that said:

Jeff B has an excellent story on just those things over on his blog, well written as always.

While I’m working on the conclusion of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, you can go by and give it a read.

Two things you become acutely aware of when you work in EMS: Man’s capacity for cruelty and evil toward his fellow man, and the unique opportunities you have to touch people’s lives – and often in the most unexpected of ways.

Mind that you don’t let the former blind you to the latter.

“I’m sorry Mr. Ambulance Driver, but the earliest flight to Manchester arrives tomorrow afternoon at 2:20 pm.”

The gate attendant tries to adopt a sympathetic expression. He fails miserably. You’d think that with years of experience at informing travelers that their plans have been interrupted due to the vagaries of weather, equipment malfunction or clerical error, that he’d have developed some skill.

Take me, for example. I deal with drug addicts, systems abusers and the pharmaceutically enhanced on a daily basis. Most of them annoy the hell out of me. But I make it a point to be courteous and professional, and to at least appear to care about their problems. Most of them never have a clue that I’m mentally strangling the life from their bodies while I smile ruefully and cluck sympathetically at their tales of woe. It’s called diplomacy.

But Julio the Continental Airlines attendant has no need to practice diplomacy, because he knows I am at his fucking mercy. If I want to get where I’m going, I have to play by his rules.

“Well, that’s not going to work, Julio,” I reply, struggling to hold my temper. I smile ruefully at him. She smiles back. I think my smile looks more sincere. “I have to be in northern New Hampshire by 7:00 am.”

Julio says nothing, just keeps the patently insincere smile fixed on his ugly mug and stares me down.

“Because I have to deliver a lecture at 8:00 am, you see. It’s really important.”

Still no reaction from Julio. I’m beginning to think his face may have frozen that way.

I try to adopt a pitiful look. It worked much better when I was four years old. “And I give another lecture after that. And the keynote speech the next day. A couple of thousand people are depending upon me. It’s really important, Julio.”

Okay, maybe only a couple hundred people. But still, I gotta get there. So please Julio, tell me which one of my kidneys I have to sell to get a damned flight to Manchester, New Hampshire. Purty please.

“I’m sorry, but the 2:20 pm arrival is the only flight we have going to Manchester in the next 24 hours, Sir. I’m afraid the weather has delayed everything.”

“No, the Goddamned weather has not delayed everything, Julio!” I snarl. “In my case, the Goddamned plane was delayed for an hour on the tarmac so two of your fucking crew members could deadhead to Houston. I missed my connecting flight by seven fucking minutes, and that Nazi of a gate agent refused to open the jet way to let me board, EVEN THOUGH THE PLANE WAS STILL SITTING AT THE GATE! So you get to be the unfortunate fucker to suffer my wrath today, Julio, and suffer you will if you don’t find me a flight to New Hampshire tonight!”

Well, there goes diplomacy.

To his credit, Julio didn’t even blink. Smile didn’t even waver. If anything, he might have looked a little less sympathetic, but definitely not intimidated or angry.

Damn, but this little guy is good. I’m gonna have to work on my Intimidating Look. Maybe make my eyes bug out and add a little flying spittle next time.

“Mr. Ambulance Driver, my computer says your flight from Big City was delayed because of a flight safety issue. There was a weight imbalance that –“

“Weight imbalance my ass! We sat on the tarmac for over an hour, with nary a soul working around that airplane, and then two of your boys climbed on board, strapped themselves in the jump seats and we took off not two minutes later. The only weight imbalance was that you were light two fucking crew members who can’t read a watch!

“- had to be resolved before the plane could safely take off,” Julio continues, unperturbed. “Continental Airlines apologizes for the interruption in your travel plans, but your safety is our primary concern. If you’d like, we can arrange for overnight lodging at a local hotel and book you on tomorrow afternoon’s flight to Manchester.”

“And you’re going to pay for this hotel room, right?”

“Actually, no. But we do offer a 15% distressed traveler’s discount at several of the local hotels.”

“You know what? You can kiss my ass, Julio. Type some instructions into that little keyboard you have there and find me a flight to Manchester on any airline in the next twelve hours. I don’t care if it’s a Cessna 182 followed by a five-hour oxcart trip to the hotel, get me to Manchester on anything but Continental Airlines. Now.”

Julio heaves out a put-upon sigh, types an inquiry into the computer and waits. An eternity later, he looks up at me with a spiteful grin. “Actually Mr. Ambulance Driver, it would seem that our flight to Manchester tomorrow afternoon is the only flight on any airline in the next twenty-four hours. I’m so sorry if this disrupts your plans.”

Suppressing the urge to whimper, I prop my elbows on the counter and place my head in my hands. “Okay Julio, I surrender,” I sigh. “Book me on tomorrow’s flight and set me up with a hotel room for tonight.”

Julio sets about making the arrangements, unctuously hands me my boarding passes and sends my on my way, a forlorn traveler stranded overnight in the wilds of Houston, Texas. I wander down the concourse, find a barbecue place and order a large platter of ribs and four beers.

“Four beers, Sir?” the waitress asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yep, four beers,” I confirm. “I plan to drink them all right now, and I don’t fancy having to stand in line again or flag you down to order more.” She walks off in a huff. I flip open my cell phone and dial my publisher.

“Hey Boss? Bad news. Missed my connection in Houston, and they tell me the earliest flight to Manchester arrives at 2:20 tomorrow.”

“Shit,” sez The Publisher. “No flights on any airline?”

“Nary a one,” I confirm. “The best idea I can come up with is to call the conference committee and see if they can juggle the schedule. Can you call ‘em for me?”

“I’ll get right on it, but in the meantime why don’t you see if you can get a flight to any city on the eastern seaboard? Check flights into Boston, Concord and Burlington and Portland. If you can get into any of those, we’ll get you the rest of the way to Bartlett.”

I’d really rather not, Boss. That would mean dealing with my good friend Julio once again, and I’m probably on his Shit List right now.

“Sure, I can do that,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I’ll call you back in half an hour.” I finish my ribs, swill the last of my beer and gird myself for the next encounter with Julio. I stop at a kiosk and buy some breath mints before I sidle back up to the Continental counter. Julio fixes me with a gimlet eye as I ooze up to his desk.

“Hola, Julio mi amigo,” I say, puckering up to kiss some serious ass. “I was wondering if you might do me an itty bitty favor…”

“What?” he says tiredly.
/>“Um, is there any chance you might be able to find me a flight into maybe say…Boston? Or Burlington would be good. Even Concord or Portland would work. Um…that is, if you could. If it’s not too much trouble. Please?”

Julio sighs mightily, types an inquiry into the computer and in a few moments gives me the good news. “There’s a flight into Boston tonight that arrives at midnight Eastern time. They have one seat left, and it boards in forty minutes.”

“That’s my seat!” I exult. “Book it for me, would you please?” Julio types in more commands, makes a phone call and within five minutes, I have my boarding passes in hand. As I turn to go, another thought occurs to me. “Uh, Julio? What chance is there that my luggage can make it to Boston on the same flight?”

“Somewhere between slim and none, but you can have it couriered to your final destination tomorrow afternoon. Will there be anything else?”

“No, that should do it,” I say, ashamed of how I spoke to him earlier. “Look, I…I wanted to say I’m sorry for the – “

“Not necessary, Mr. Ambulance Driver,” Julio assures me, with a genuine smile this time. “I’m just glad we were able to get you to your conference on time. And Mr. AD? Love your shirt.”

I look down at my shirt in surprise, and blush like a tomato. The entire time I’ve been behaving like an ass toward Julio Castaneda, customer service representative for Continental Airlines, I’ve been wearing a tee shirt that says:

Suffering from a mild case of blogger’s block, so today I offer you all a retread from The Book.

Stop looking at me that way.

I mean it.

STOP IT!

Geez, what a bunch of vultures. New stuff tomorrow, I promise.

I have discovered that whether an address actually exists is a detail of only minor importance to dispatchers. If it isn’t on the map, it isn’t a part of their known universe. If it is on their maps, it must exist and you can’t find it, it’s your problem.

“Uh, Dispatch? This is the third time we’ve been down this street. There is no number 168. The house numbers end at 160,” I explain patiently, for the third time. “Can you get a callback number, or maybe have someone flag us down?”

“Stand by, Unit Three,” the dispatcher replies curtly.

Boy, Satan’s Minion sounds a little pissy. Perhaps we’re interrupting today’s episode of General Hospital.

The radio crackles again, and the dispatcher speaks slowly, as if she’s giving instructions to a retarded twelve-year-old. “Unit Three, the address showing on the 911 map is 168 East Mitchell. It was called in via radio by a Podunk Police officer. If you’ll just follow the street down to its end, you’ll see the pretty blue and white car with the lights on top. The patient should be somewhere nearby.”

When this call is completed,. I’m coming back to the station and whipping your fat ass. That’s the last time you pop off to me on the radio. I know hitting women is a no-no, but in your case, I’d need to do a chromosome check to see if you really are a woman…

Seeing the look on my face, Dinosaur Partner takes the radio mike from me and answers, “10-4, Dispatch. I think we can find it.”

Up ahead, we see a police cruiser parked in front of a house on a side street.

Dumb bitch. That house isn’t even on East Mitchell, it’s on Hartley. Either the cop is retarded, or you are. I’d bet on you.

The house looks familiar as Dinosaur Partner and I climb out of the rig. I grab my medic bag and leave DP behind me to bring the stretcher.

Maybe one of our frequent fliers lives here. I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before.

I knock briefly on the door and announce, “Ambulance!” before I open it. There is a little boy sitting on the floor, playing Nintendo.

“Hey kid, somebody here call for an ambulance?” I ask him. He just stares at me, bewildered. Impatiently, I snap, “Okay, so where’s the cop?” Wordlessly, eyes wide as saucers, he points down the hall.

Damned kids these days! Probably had his nose buried in that video game and doesn’t have a clue. The house could burn down around him and he wouldn’t notice until the power went off.

I fling open the door at the end of the hall and ask, “Okay, so what’s such an emergency that you needed – ” the words freeze in my throat as I realize where I am. There is a black man scrambling naked from the bed, and he’s reaching for a pistol on the nightstand. I hit the floor and scoot backward into the hallway.

Oh, fuck. No wonder this place looked familiar! This is Tony Michaels‘ house! I went to his housewarming party! That kid is his son!

Tony Michaels is a Podunk Police sergeant, built like an NFL linebacker, and a lot meaner. More importantly to me, he’s a crack shot, and can run a helluva lot faster than I can. But I have momentum and the fact that he has to put on his underwear on my side. I hit the living room at a dead run, vaulting over Tony’s son and bolting through the still open door. The kid barely even looks up from his game.

“Sorry about that, Tony!” I call over my shoulder. “Wrong house!”

Behind me, I hear his enraged bellow of, “What the fuck?” I vault onto the running board of the rig and holler at DP to drive before I even have the door closed. Bewildered, she complies, peeling rubber and spurting gravel as we roar up Hartley Street toward East Mitchell.

“That was the wrong house,” she informs me unnecessarily as she drives. “The cop who called it in is supposed to flag us down when we get close.”

I say nothing as I breathe a sigh of relief to see Tony’s pursuing form dwindling in our rear view mirror. He has his service automatic in his hand, but I was wrong about one thing. He didn’t pause to pull on his underwear.

“Hola, mi nombre es Ambulance Driver. Soy paramédico.” (Translation: Howdy, they call me AD. I’m a medic.)

“¡Dé gracias a Dios, ayuda a ha llegado! ¡Y ellos hablan español, también!” (Thank God, help has arrived! And they speak Spanish, too!)

Dumb look. (no translation needed) “Uhhhh…¿Qué es su nombre?” (Uhhhh…what is your name?)

“Juan.” (John)

“Hola, Juan!” (Thank God your name isn’t Esteban Jesus Sanchez de Castillo) ¿Qué pasa? (What’s the matter?)

“El pecho se siente como un elefante que sienta en lo, y yo me siento enfermo al estómago.” (My chest feels like an elephant sitting on it, and I feel sick to my stomach.)

“Uhhh…puede hablar más despacio? Yo sólo hablo un poco de español.” (Uhhh…can you speak more slowly, please? I only speak a little Spanish.)

“Pecho duele. Ir a vomitar. Usted idiota.” (Chest hurts. Gonna puke. You idiot.)

“Pardner, put some oxygen on him, get some vitals, slip him some aspirin and Nitro, and run a 12-lead EKG.” (Because some things need no translation, and I am fluent in Sick Person.)

“¿Qué dijo usted?” (What did you say?)

“Un momento, por favor.” (Don’t rush me, Juan. I left my freakin’ Spanish translator in my locker and I have just about exhausted my entire command of the Spanish language.) “Uhhhh…pecho? Pecho duele?” (Uhhh…chest? Chest hurts?)

“Sí, el pecho duele.” (Yes, my chest hurts.)

“Muy bueno.” (Very good.)

“Muy bueno? MUY BUENO?? ¿Qué significa usted, ‘muy bueno’?” (Very good? VERY GOOD? What do you mean, ‘very good’?) And lots of what I think were expletives deleted.

“¿Duele el pecho cuando usted respira?” (Does my chest hurt when you breathe?)

“Jesús dulce, este idiota permitirá que mí morirme.” (Sweet Jesus, this idiot is going to let me die.) Plus, the rolling eyes kind of gave it away.

“¿Hay alguien aquí que habla inglés?” (Is there someone here who speaks English?) Because I know when I’m in over my head.

Now, it should be mentioned here that I have tried to learn Spanish. I bought a self-instructional CD called Spanish for Medical Professionals a few years back, and I intend to take it out of the shrink wrap very soon. Really. Or I could just ask my kid who, thanks to Dora the Explorer, has a Spanish vocabulary that dwarfs my own. If I ever need to ask a patient, “Can you find the Rainbow Bridge? How about the Singing Mountain? Say MAP!”, I’ll be ready.

Down here in south Louisiana, there is an untapped market for a Cajun French for Medical Professionals CD, because my college Parisian bears about the same resemblance to spoken Cajun French that Yorkshire English resembles the dialect of say, Bugtussle, Texas.

I’m going to keep trying, even though attempting to learn a second language is a significant concession to my long-held conviction that one only needs to know a few choice phrases in any foreign language:

1. “One beer, please.”
2. “Take me to the U.S. embassy.”
3. “Where is the men’s room?”
4. “How much for an hour, and can your friend join us?”
5. “I swear I didn’t realize she was your girlfriend.” (You know, just in case you say #4 to the wrong person.)

The rest of the call went fairly well, because Pardner happened to carry his trusty EMS Field Guide (with rudimentary Spanish/English dictionary) in the cargo pocket of his EMT britches. Between the field guide and pantomimes, we were able to communicate fairly well:

AD: (Flipping through the pages of the field guide) “¿EN OTRA OCASION HAS TENIDO ESTE DOLOR?” (Have you ever had this pain before?) Spoken very loudly of course, because everyone knows that added volume can overcome any language barrier.

Juan: “Si.”

AD: (flip, flip, flip) “…DIFICULTAD PARA RESPIRAR?” (Trouble breathing?)

Juan: (rolling his eyes again) “Si.”

AD: (accompanied by puke faces) “EL VOMITO?” (Because suffixing “O” to every word also helps)

Juan: (no doubt mentally counting to ten) “Si.”

AD: (about to stick an IV) “BIG-O STICK-O, MI AMIGO!” (Big stick, my friend!)

Juan: “OW! Chingalla tu madre, gringo!”

I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. I’m going to go look it up, but I’m pretty sure it means “Thank you for your kindness and medical expertise, my new white friend.”

Or something like that. I’ll let you know.

…and later, Mark Twain (which is where I thought the quote originated):

“There are three kinds of lies: Lies, damned lies and statistics.”

Heh. They crack me up. I’d say “stop it, yer killin’ me,” but that would just make the folks that believe stuff like this all moist in the undies.

Besides, they forgot one: 76.3% of all statistics are made up on the spot.

Stole the ridiculous political cartoon from BobG.

.

New outfit: $15

Chicken Nuggets Happy Meal: $3.95

Watching a 300 pound guy wiggle his way up the serpentine tubular slide at McDonald’s Playland to rescue his daughter because she froze at the top: Priceless.

The National EMS Museum is a project near and dear to my heart, and today they debuted Phase One of the project, the Virtual Museum. Keep checking back as they add exhibits.

A great deal of work has been done by some very talented people, and much more work is yet to come. Other than my pimping for the cause here on this blog and donating a portion of book sales to the EMS Museum Foundation, all of the accolades belong to the dedicated group of people who got it this far. Kudos to all around for a job well done!

Ahem…although I would like to claim credit for the logo concept.

If any of you EMS dinosaurs have your very own EMS antique or document gathering dust in the attic, or if you’d like to volunteer your efforts, contact the museum curator.

Ever had one of those moments when you just wish you could go back and give yourself some advice? That “If I only knew then what I know now” wish?

Babs RN had one of those moments today, and she renders it with style, warmth, and heart.

Go, read.

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That’s me, way back in the day. I’m the ugly one wearing the green shirt. Every one who sees that photo pegs me at age seventeen and about 180 pounds.

Apparently dog training was a little less stressful than being an Elderly Mobile Transporter, because I was actually twenty-three and weighed a solid 230 pounds. Now unfortunately, I look every bit of my thirty-eight years, and we won’t even talk about my weight.

But reading about Flo and Mair blogging about their favorite pooches got me a little nostalgic about my own, and I thought I’d favor you with a tale of simpler times and loyal dogs.

I had inherited a showcase dog from my brother when I took over his training kennels. Jazz was hands-down the hottest retriever I’ve ever seen – pure rocket fuel. I’ve seen some of the best ever do their stuff in training and field trials, and none of them had her drive and speed. I learned how to train dogs while watching her develop. You could say we grew up together and attended the same schools.

Unfortunately, she suffered a career-ending injury in a training accident in California and we had to retire her before she could prove herself. Even at half-speed and old age, she was pretty hot.

But I needed a showcase dog, one that I had trained, and so I went shopping for a puppy. I found a friend who had a litter of well-bred pups, and on their 49th day of life, I went to pick mine out. I brought a pigeon wing with me, turned the litter loose in the yard, and waited for one to distinguish herself from the bunch.

Yeah, I said her. Male dogs are much like male humans – both of them are exceedingly stupid for the first third of their lives. I wanted a precocious pup that could learn and develop quickly, and I had learned that while Y chromosomes definitely come with clumsiness and a thick head, toughness and smarts are a little harder to predict.

And so this little ball of attitude promptly seized the thrown wing and set about keeping it from her litter mates. Her brothers gave up pretty quickly, but one sister kept after it rather, well, doggedly.

“I like that one’s spunk,” my buddy had said, referring to the determined sister, “but I think I’m gonna keep the big male for myself.”

“And I like the other one’s guile,” I had replied. “Watch how she fakes her sister out every time. She’s always half a step faster, and not just in speed.”

“But she’s so little,” my buddy had protested.

“And while that black Shetland pony you have your heart set on is wearing himself out lunging through flooded rice fields, my dog will be swimming through them. Plus, she’ll be a lot easier to lift into a boat. My advice is to keep the other female and sell the male to the first sucker that thinks looks and conformation are everything.”

So I took the mischievous little sprite home, and that became her name – Sprite. It fit her well. It took me a month of chewed boots, soiled carpet and a scarred stock on a Browning pump shotgun before I figured out that it was a Wise Thing to put the expensive stuff out of reach with a puppy in the apartment, and she figured out that excess energy is best channeled into those times when we are outside.

It shames me no end that we both figured out the rules in roughly the same amount of time, even though her brain pan was about 1/4 the size of mine. And I had opposable thumbs, too.

But that’s the kind of dog she was. She just knew things. She lived inside with me, and when we were inside the apartment, she was the world’s worst soup hound. She had loafing down to a fine art. At night, she’d snuggle close and lay her head on my right shoulder and root around until she was flat on her back, and there we’d lay, two slugs trying their best to take up every inch of a king-sized bed.

But when we went outside…hoo boy, was she a different critter. She had this internal switch that tripped when the door opened. She could hear a shotgun shell drop into a khaki shirt pocket from a hundred paces. She could go from semi-conscious floor mat to whirling dervish in a heartbeat, and all it took was the musical tinkle of duck bands when I’d slip my training lanyard over my head.

Still, it took me a couple of months to figure out just how much dog I had. I was goofing around in the yard one day after I had finished with my regular training string, and I let Sprite out of her kennel. Threw a few bumpers and let her work off a little steam. When I say this dog was fast, I mean fast. She’d move across the ground and you could barely hear her passage, yet she’d be outrunning the big dogs at the tender age of four months.

Fun retrieves had lost their luster for both of us, and she could already fetch anything I could throw, as far as I could throw it. So, I decided to extend her range a bit. I called my bird boy (read: dirt cheap nephew labor) over and sent him out into the pasture with a handful of bumpers.

“Go out about a hundred yards, Dusty. I don’t want to overwhelm her just yet,” I had told him. “Angle the throw away from us, and once she’s picked that one up, walk out to where you threw that bumper and we’ll work from there. Let’s see how she does.”

After she nailed the first five throws, I changed my strategy. I was running out of bumpers, and Sprite still hadn’t been challenged. I called Dusty back in.

“Walk out about two hundred this time,” I ordered. “Walk fifty yards further with every throw.”

“That far? But I’m tired!”

“Don’t sass me, boy. I’ve got my first three nephews buried in the yard around here, and I killed ‘em all for sassing me. You think your Mama had her first kid so late in life? Puh-leeze. Don’t make me tell your mother it was necessary to kill one of her offspring. Again.”

Well, a handful of bumpers later, Sprite had nailed her third consecutive 450 yard retrieve. At four months old.

And she kept finding ways to amaze me. She retrieved 76 ducks and 23 geese before she was seven months old, including a live, uninjured wood duck drake that had the singular misfortune of landing a bit too close to the dog stand, one brisk morning in the flooded timber.

At single retrieve competitions, she beat Hunting Retriever Champions and Grand Hunting Retriever Champions like they stole something. Never placed lower than third, and all against much older and more advanced dogs. Clocked a 450 yard retrieve in one memorable finals in 48 seconds, there and back.

I turned down a $10,000 offer for a half-interest in her that day, from the owner of the second place dog.

Got her Hunting Retriever title at nine months.

Got her Hunting Retriever Championship at just shy of three years. She should have gotten it in half the time, but me training this dog was like handing the Ferrari keys to a kid with a learner’s permit. I was good, but I wasn’t ready for a dog of this caliber.

She’d retr
ieve a beer from the ice chest for you…

…even if you put the ice chest on the other side of an eight-foot wall…

…but not if it was Busch Light. Those, she’d drink about every third one she was sent to fetch. Hey, she was a Cadillac dog, but she had Yugo taste in beer.

She could stay in the house for 48 hours with an auto-feeder and a water bowl, and never bark , mess the floor or scatter the garbage. Once you got home though, she’d take a dump fit to impress a Tyrannosaurus. In the neighbor’s yard, no less.

You could unload the groceries and put them on the coffee table right in front of her, and she’d turn up her nose at a porterhouse steak. Put a loaf of white bread in front of her, though…and she’d inhale the entire thing and leave you with nothing but a few shreds of wrapper on her whiskers and a “What, who me?” innocent expression on her face.

She’d sit on a dog stand, encased in a sheet of ice with icicles hanging off her nipples for hours on end, and she’d never even whine. Didn’t want you to pet her, either. Petting was for playtime, and hunting was business.

She could do blind retrieves as far as you could see to handle her, yet I rarely had to get out of the blind. We could have eight ducks on the water, and she’d mark them all. She’d go into autopilot, and all I had to do was take the duck, watch her ears come up as she locked on the next one, and send her on her way.

I loaned her to a client early one season because his dog wasn’t quite ready for prime time. He came back with an offer.

“I’ll give you $3,500 for that dog, right now.”

“I’ve turned down over three times that already, back when she was half as valuable as she is now.”

“Okay, then $3,500 for breeding rights, and a lease for this hunting season.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then how much would it take?”

“$30,000. Plus I get the pick from every litter, and I choose the stud.”

“Shit. Let me talk to my partners and see if we can raise that.”

I never expected him to bite. What I didn’t want to say was “Hell no, I won’t sell my dog! She’s family!” I was running a business, after all.

Thankfully, the deal fell through. I don’t really think I could have gone through with it anyway.

In the early 90′s, I got soured on the whole dog training business. I had millionaire clients with crappy dogs that no amount of money would improve, and I had dirt poor mechanics and rice farmers who were only willing to spend $1,000 training a world-class dog. I got so tired of it that I quit putting any effort into training, until one morning I woke up and couldn’t stand the sight of the lying face I saw in the mirror.

So, I borrowed a few thousand bucks, refunded training fees for all my clients, and shut the doors to the place. I enrolled in EMT school just a few months later. Things were a lot simpler when it was just me and Sprite.

When I graduated, I applied for a job at Podunk Ambulance and got hired. Sprite was waiting in the truck during my interview. She slept next to me on the couch at the station that night. My dog was part of the package – hire me and it was understood that Sprite occupied a room at the station when I was on duty. The boss was fine with the arrangement. I suspect he was more impressed with the dog than with me.

After I had worked at Podunk for a few years, Sprite started to show her age. She was only eight years old, but highly bred field trial Labs often die at relatively young ages. They’re high strung, in much the same way as thoroughbred horses. You can’t kill a mutt and they’ll eat your food for sixteen years, but I suppose God only blesses us with the once-in-a-lifetime dogs for a short while. Like comets, their light is bright but fleeting.

I sent her home to my parents one weekend during paramedic school. Between class and work, I was hardly ever home, and I couldn’t see her cooped up in an ambulance station all day. Mom promised to take care of her, but barely three weeks had passed before I got the call I dreaded.

Sprite had gone missing just before dark, and Mom went looking for her. She found her, curled up dead in her old travel kennel, behind the pigeon coop at my old training kennels. Mom told me she had been listless since I had brought her home. Personally, I think she grieved to death.

I had never before felt a shame as deep, and have rarely felt since, from knowing my best friend died thinking I had abandoned her. I quit hunting for years afterward. For me it was always about the bond between me and Sprite, and the pleasure of seeing a good dog work. Without her, hunting left me cold.

Pardner talked me into trying hunting again a few years back, and I got the duck fever once again. Now I go whenever I have an opportunity. Still, whenever I hear wings whistling in the wind, I instinctively look to my left expecting to see a dog there, ears up and watching the birds come in. And it still hurts a little not seeing Sprite there.

Just a gentle reminder that the world has good happenings in it, dear readers. In between mourning the dead and listening to commentators, politicians and pundits dishonor them, remind yourself that happy endings are not extinct. You just have to look for them.

“You know, it does no good to get only halfway to the scene really fast,” I remind Pardner as our wheels lose traction yet again. “They’ll have to send somebody to come get us. It is considered bad form for the paramedics to need an ambulance for themselves, remember?”

“Shit!” Pardner snarls in frustration, steering into the skid. “By the time we get there, the kid will be born, weaned and potty-trained!”

It’s mid-December, and we’re in the middle of an ice storm. Podunk Parish has come to a standstill. We normally get a bad ice storm every couple of years, but they usually happen in February, not December. Hell, two weeks ago I was still wearing shorts.

The entire parish is without power, and quite a few people are without phone service. Our station in Quaint Little Hamlet is dark and freezing cold, and since the town’s water system requires power, we have no water, either. Pardner and I have spent the last eighteen hours evacuating one wing of Decubitus Manor Nursing Home, and distributing blankets to the rest of the residents. There are tree limbs and power lines down everywhere we look.

The only wreck we’ve worked is a woman who slid her minivan off the road into a deep ditch. She and her two children were uninjured, but I got wet all the way to my crotch while standing there in the ditch and handing the kids up to Pardner. To add to my discomfort, I’ve been unable to dry my pants because the power is out all over town. My nuts are only now beginning to defrost.

We’re going to a call for a woman in labor in the Hooterville community, up near the state line. For the past thirty minutes we’ve been picking our way north through the ice and fallen pine trees at a hot five miles an hour.

“Look at it this way,” I say. “Women have delivered babies for millennia without the help of an EMT. She’ll probably be fine.”

Pardner just snorts and rolls his eyes. “Transport is gonna be a bitch,” he points out. “We have less than half a tank of fuel, and at the rate we’re going, the trip to Big City will take two hours. We’ll be lucky to make it on the fuel we have.”

I hadn’t thought of that. The gas stations are all without power, as is the bulk fuel plant. The only gas stations likely to be open are forty miles away, which might as well be four hundred miles with the current road conditions. This could indeed be a problem.

“Oh shit,” Pardner groans. “This is a problem.” He’s looking at a large pine limb lying across the road, it’s needles encased in a thick crust of ice.

“Maybe we could move it,” I suggest. “It might not be as heavy as it looks.” Pardner rolls his eyes at that assessment, but puts the rig in park and gets out.

Me and my big mouth. Damn, it’s cold out here! That limb looks a helluva lot bigger now that I’m out of the rig, too.

“Well, it’s not going to move itself,” he shrugs. “You get that end, and let’s see if we can pull it off to one side.” Predictably, I’m on the heavy end. Sighing, I grab a couple of sturdy branches and struggle to pivot the limb far enough that we can squeeze the rig past. By the time we’re through, my back is aching and my hands are scraped raw, and I’ve managed to slip down and bang my left knee. We manage to move the limb about three feet however, and Pardner wants to try squeezing past.

“Spot for me while I try it,” he says, heading for the rig. I grab his arm, stopping him. “Uh uh, Pardner. You EMT, me paramedic. Plus, I’m still soaking wet. You spot while I drive.” He gives me a look that would curdle milk, but moves around to the passenger side of the rig.

“Ready when you are, asshole!” he yells. “I’m freezing out here!” Grinning, I inch the rig forward. I can hear the branches scraping against the passenger side, and the wheels bump over something big, but I make it past. Before Pardner can climb in the passenger side, I hit the door locks.

“Hey Goddamnit!” he yells, banging on the window. “Quit kidding around! It’s twelve degrees out here!”

I give him an evil grin and pretend I can’t hear him. “What was that?” I yell back, cupping my hand next to my ear. “I can’t hear you with the heater going full blast like this!”

Pardner just continues beating on the door. “Open up, asshole! This ain’t funny any more!”

Nonsense. It’s fucking hilarious. And you stood up on the road shoulder while I froze my nuts in that ditch, remember?

“Excuse me?” I ask. “What did you say? All I heard was ‘asshole’ over the heater…”

“Okay, please let me in,” he pleads. Chuckling, I unlock the doors and he scrambles into the rig, glaring at me and holding his hands in front of the heater vents.

Five minutes later, we pull up in front of the house. I try to pull the rig up the steep dirt driveway, and nearly wind up sliding into the ditch. “How about we leave the rig parked on the road?” I ask Pardner sheepishly.

“Yeah, why don’t we,” he retorts. “Unless you want to hike all the way back to town.” We gather our gear and carefully make our way up the driveway, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground. The house is dark, but there is smoke coming from the chimney. Pardner knocks on the door with his flashlight. “Podunk Ambulance!” he calls, then opens the door.

A woman is sitting in a recliner near the fireplace, telephone pressed to her ear. Her face is glistening with sweat, despite the chill in the house. The only illumination in the room comes from the fireplace and a few candles.

“They’re here,” she groans gratefully into the phone, then hangs up. She manages a tired smile. “That was your dispatcher. We were beginning to think you weren’t going to be able to make it up here.”

“The roads are really bad,” Pardner says apologetically. “Plus, once we get north of town, our communications get real spotty. One of the towers must be down. How far along are you, ma’am?”

“Eight months,” the woman answers. “I’m not due until January fourth. Oooooohhh crap, here comes another one!” she groans, gritting her teeth.

I check my watch. “Has your water broken?” I ask. “About an hour ago,” she nods, panting through her contraction. “At first I thought I had wet myself. I called right after that.” She visibly relaxes as the contraction eases. I check my watch again.

“You didn’t realize it was your water breaking?” I ask, curious. “And where is your husband?”

“He works on an offshore rig,” she tells us. “He comes back in on the seventeenth. And this is my first pregnancy,” she explains.

Well, that’s a relief. She may be in labor for quite some time. Her contractions are only fifteen seconds in duration.

“Any complications with your pregnancy?” I ask as Pardner checks her blood pressure. She shakes her head. “My blood pressure was a little high at my last visit, but my doctor wasn’t too worried. I was working until two weeks ago. He said to just take it easy for a while, that it woul
d be better if I didn’t work.”

“Her pressure is 150/84,” Pardner tells me. “Pulse is 116.”

“Still high,” the woman says, shaking her head. “Do you think this will hurt my baby?”

“It shouldn’t,” I smile reassuringly. “All the same though, a dark, cold house is no place to have a baby a month early, so why don’t we get on our way to the hospital?”

“I hope Big City Memorial is your hospital,” Pardner grins, “because anywhere else is probably going to add another hour to the trip.”

“Actually, it’s St. Sanctimonious, but right now the closest place that has lights and heat is fine with me,” the woman says as we help her out of the recliner. “I think my doctor goes to Big City Memorial as well, anyway.”

“Normally, we wouldn’t ask the pregnant lady to walk to the rig,” Pardner chuckles as we walk her to the door, “but considering the conditions, a stretcher ride down your driveway may be more excitement than you bargained for.” The woman laughs and walks gingerly between us, holding onto our arms.

It is bitterly cold outside, and the lawn and driveway are coated in ice, but we make it to the rig without any embarrassing slips. I climb into the back and help her aboard, and Pardner closes the door behind us. I apply oxygen and wrap a tourniquet around the woman’s arm. “Ma’am, I’m going to start an IV on you and give you some fluid,” I inform her as I spike a bag of saline.

“My name is Kate,” she grunts, then doubles over and grabs my knee. “Here comes another one!” she announces as she unconsciously digs her nails into my thigh. I check my watch yet again.

Just under ten minutes since the last contraction. Not too bad. We may even make it to the hospital before she squirts this kid out on the cot. Of course, if she doesn’t let go of my leg soon, I’m going to have a baby.

I wait until she’s through panting and gently detach her fingers from my leg. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “That was a hard one.”

“No problem Kate,” I lie as I insert a 16-gauge catheter. She’s got those great veins common in pregnant women. They stand out like ropes. “So what are you having? Boy or girl?”

“It’s a boy,” she announces proudly. “My husband carries the ultrasound picture in his wallet.”

“Well, if you haven’t decided on a name,” I grin at her as I open up the line, “Ambulance Driver is a good name. It means ‘warrior’ in Gaelic.”

“Sorry AD,” she laughs, “but we’re looking for something less generic. We’ve already decided to name him Bryce Daniel. Listen, with my pressure as high as it is, should I be getting all this fluid?”

“Well, your pressure is high, but it’s not high, if you know what I mean,” I assure her. “The amount I’m giving you shouldn’t make that much of a difference. I’m trying to slow down your contractions.”

“How does it do that?” she wants to know.

“I trick your body into thinking it has too much fluid, and it stops producing certain hormones,” I explain. “One of them is a twin sister to the hormone that stimulates uterine contractions. They come from the same gland. Sometimes this works.”

She nods and leans back on the stretcher, closing her eyes. I have nothing else to do, so I amuse myself by trying to hear fetal heart tones. It takes some listening, but I eventually hear a heartbeat over the sound of the engine. The rate is fine, about 140 or so. I sit back and watch the road pass slowly beneath us as Pardner creeps back toward town.

Kate has several more contractions, and I encourage her to breathe but to avoid pushing. I feel the ambulance make a slow left turn and look up to see the darkened windows of the shops along Main Street in Quaint Little Hamlet. Thirty minutes have passed, and Kate’s contractions are now six minutes apart. I’ve given her a 500 milliliter bolus, and I’m not comfortable giving her any more.

“Hey Pardner, can we step it up a little?” I ask hopefully, sticking my head through the window into the cab.

He shakes his head ruefully. “No way, man. The tire chains aren’t giving us that much traction. Any faster than this, and I start sliding around.”

“We may wind up delivering this baby before we get there,” I tell him quietly. “The trip to Big City may take an hour and a half.”

“Want me to divert to Podunk General?” he asks. “I got through on the radio a little while ago. They’ve got road crews out spreading salt and clearing trees off the road between here and Podunk.”

“What are they going to do that we can’t?” I point out. “Go through Podunk just the same, though. Don’t take any of your shortcuts. Those back roads will be the last to get cleared.”

Pardner nods and says hopefully, “Maybe the main highways will be in better shape than this. I might be able to make up some time.”

I pull my head back through the window and check my watch again. We’ve made ten miles in slightly less than forty minutes, and we have another 45 miles to go. I’m starting to get a bad feeling. There is nothing to do but sit in frustration and check vital signs. Kate’s labor seems to be progressing normally, but I’m not thrilled about delivering a 36- week preemie in the back of my rig in the middle of nowhere.

Thirty-five minutes later, we’re entering the outskirts of Podunk. The roads are clearer here, and Pardner takes the opportunity to put the hammer down, accelerating us to a whopping thirty miles an hour. We’ve passed a number of utility company and highway crews, busy trying to clear the roads of fallen trees and restore power. With the exception of the hospital and Podunk Ambulance headquarters, most of the town is still in the dark.

“Uh, how much longer is it going to take?” Kate asks, grunting as another contraction hits. They’re four minutes apart now.

“Just passing through podunk, and the roads are getting better,” I say brightly, trying to be reassuring. I am not very convincing.

Thirty more miles, and another hour at this speed. We’re not going to make it.

“We’re not going to make it,” Kate echoes my thoughts. Tears form in her eyes as she asks me fearfully, “I’m gonna deliver before we get there, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” I answer honestly. “But every mile we go is another mile closer to the hospital. Try not to worry.”

“Please tell me you know what you’re doing!” Kate pants, grabbing my hand.

“Lawdy Miss Scahlett, I don’t know nuthin ’bout birthin‘ no babies!” I say in my best imitation of Butterfly McQueen.

“That’s not fuuunnnneeeee!” she half-cries, half-laughs as the contraction peaks and begins to subside.

Damn. That was forty seconds by my watch. Not good.

I get the obstetrical kit from the shelf and open it, spreading its contents out on the bench seat. “Okay Kate,” I direct, “let’s get ready, just in case. Lift up your hips.”

She elevates her hips and I quickly pull down her underwear and slide an absorbent pad and a pillow under her buttocks. There is no crowning yet, thank God. I quickly drape her legs and abdomen and lay the receiving blanket and stocking cap on the seat. I’m ready to go, except for the sterile gloves. There is nothing to do now but wait. I occasionally peek under the drapes to look for crowning.

I look up to see Pardner’s eyes in the rearview mirror
. He’s been watching. He says nothing, but I can hear the engine change pitch and feel the acceleration as the rig picks up speed. “Good roads south of town,” he calls out reassuringly. “They’re practically clear.” I nod my thanks.

Thirty minutes later, Kate’s contractions are less than two minutes apart, and close to a minute in duration. I lift up the drape to look, and immediately wish I hadn’t. I see baby hair.

Well, at least it’s not a baby’s butt. Look on the bright side.

I look out the windows to see that we’re entering the outskirts of Big City. The Medical Center is less than ten miles away, but right now it might as well be ten thousand. I sigh.

“Pardner, find a good place to pull it over!” I call out. “We’re not gonna make it!” I can hear him cursing to himself, but I can’t quite make out the words. Another minute passes, and I feel the truck turn to the right and come to a stop. Presently, the rear doors spring open and he clambers into the back. We’re parked at a convenience store just outside town. It doesn’t have power, either.

“What do you need?” Pardner asks uncertainly.

“First, squeeze past me and get into the jump seat,” I order. “Switch her oxygen to a non-rebreather mask, and get the Pitocin out of the drug box. Other than that, just hand me stuff when I need it.”

I scoot down to the end of the bench seat and kneel on the floor next to the cot. “You ready, Kate?” I call out. “When the next contraction starts, you can push, okay?” She just nods her head and grunts. I don’t have to wait long.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhh shit!” Kate screams, grabbing Pardner’s hand in a vice grip. His face goes pale and he shoots me a dirty look. Kate screams through her contraction as I encourage her to keep pushing. The baby’s head comes tantalizingly close to delivering, then recedes like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

“Next contraction, Kate, and we’ll be in good shape. Now puuuuuuuuusssh!” I find myself unconsciously pushing with her, and a tiny little fart slips out. Nothing horrendous, mind you, but just enough to make its presence known. I pray that nobody will notice.

“Ooooooohhhhhhhh God!” Kate screams, and all at once, the baby’s head pops out. He looks like a little blue Shar Pei with a cone-shaped head.

“Bulb syringe,” I order curtly, and Pardner smacks it into my palm. I suction the baby’s mouth and nose, noting that his airway is agreeably clear of fluid.

“Okay Kate, there’s the head! You’re doing great! One more big push and we’re done, okay?” She complies, grunting and swearing like a sailor, and the baby turns slightly and the upper shoulder delivers. Kate relaxes, sobbing in relief.

“Uh, Kate?” I say. “I lied. Make that one more big push, and we’re done!”

“That’s what you fucking said the last time!” she snaps. “And what’s with this ‘we’ shit?” Nevertheless, she strains mightily and the baby immediately pops out into my hands.

“Towel,” I tell Pardner, then look up at Kate, grinning. “You did it, sister! One big, baby boy! Congratulations!” I take the towel from Pardner and vigorously dry the little boy off, and am immediately rewarded by an irritated wail. His color improves rapidly, like someone swiped him with a pink paintbrush.

I jerk my head at Pardner. “Slide down here for a minute.” Once he does, I nod my head at the umbilical cord clamps and sterile scissors lying on the seat. “Clamp and cut the cord,” I direct, pointing at where the clamps should go.

He grins and clamps the cord while I hold the baby. A few spatters of blood hit me on the neck as he cuts the cord, but I don’t mind. I finish wrapping the baby in the receiving blanket, and put a stocking cap on his head. “Hey Kate,” I say quietly. She is lying back on the stretcher, exhausted, but she opens her eyes when I call her name. “I present to you Bryce Daniel…what is your last name anyway?”

“McMillan,” she laughs, taking him from me. “Bryce Daniel McMillan. We named him Bryce after my grandfather, and Daniel after my husband’s grandfather.” Glowing, she looks quietly at her son as he squirms and wails.

“Uh, that all you need me for?” Pardner asks gruffly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say those were tears in his eyes.

“Yeah sure, tough guy.” I tell him wryly. “Get us back on the road. We still have a ways to go.”

.

I’ve been awarded the Thinking Blogger Award by Brandi and invited to pay it forward.

Hmmmm, therein lies the quandary. To whom do I pass on the honor? Pretty much every one of the Blogs I Read Every Day is a thinking blogger. Marko has something perceptive to say with each new post. Tam can distill a complex argument into its essence in less than two sentences. Matt G is a sharp cookie as well. And of course there’s LawDog.

http://www.foxnews.com/printer_friendly_story/0,3566,266310,00.html

Thirty one reasons to tell your loved ones how you feel about them. Not tomorrow. Right now.

Thirty one reasons to pray for the souls of the dead.

Thirty one reasons to hold their families in your heart tonight. Their pain is only beginning.

Thirty one reasons to be sickened whenever someone calls this a senseless tragedy. It's not a tragedy, it's an abomination. And it is senseless only in that people allowed themselves to be told, allowed themselves to believe that it can't happen here. 

Thirty one more reasons to believe that no place is entirely safe, and no laws will ever change that.

Thirty one reasons to teach your children how to fight back. How to stand on their own. How to hold on to everything that is precious to them with every fiber of their being. How to live.

Thirty one reasons to believe in monsters. The monsters don't carry signs. They don't live in caves, with signs that say There Be Dragons Here. And they don't care about our laws.

Thirty one reasons I will have to snuff my daughter's innocence early in her life and teach her that there are bad people who will hurt her if she allows it. And thirty one more reasons to hate the people who make that necessary.

Thirty one reasons to shout your fury to the heavens.

Thirty one reasons to turn that anger toward the people who denied the innocent the means to defend themselves. Nurture it. Feed it until it is white hot, but dole it out in cold and measured doses. Let it be the righteous fire that fuels you as you demand the right to protect you and yours.

Thirty one reasons that gun laws do not work.

Thirty one reasons to wonder if such a thing would have happened at say, Kennesaw State University.

Thirty one reasons to vote against any politician who favors any measure of gun control.

Thirty one reasons to say not like that.

As if you needed any more reasons.

Just in case you wonder why sometimes I am cynical, read this:

http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/metro/stories/MYSA041507.1B.krodcolumn.350cbb4.html

These paramedics’ experiences pretty much mirror my own.

Hat tip to Valerie Defrance, owner of the best darned EMS site on the internet.

I was surfing blogs from the Reciprocal Blogroll last night before going to bed, and I happened upon Callie Ann’s blog. She writes about what most personal bloggers do – her home, her life and family, scrapbooking, whatever crosses her mind. Also, the avatar on her blog apparently hunts and pecks on the little cartoon laptop with just her left hand.

I don’t know about you guys, but I gotta admire a woman who would choose as her very own, an Avatar with right hemiplegia. Callie Ann, you’re all right in my book.

Anyhoo, Callie Ann had on her blog one of those silly little random poll/meme/time waster things in the form of an Online Penis Name Generator . I typed my name in the thing, clicked the button and imagine my surprise when the generator came up with the perfect name for my Little Friend…

“Beefy McManstick.”

Heh.

I like this thing already. I had no idea the generator algorithms were so sophisticated as to be able to generate such an accurate Talleywhacker Moniker based up nothing more than my first name.

But then I was crushed to discover that Callie Ann’s penis name is Dirk Diggler, and she doesn’t even have a penis. So fearing that this penis name generator thing wasn’t all that sophisticated and might in fact be – *gasp* – entirely random, I swallowed the dread in my soul and tried it again, and this time came up with…

“Gummy Worm.”

*sigh*

I’m sticking with the original results, dammit.

So anyhoo, I dropped some comments at Callie’s blog and told her how brave she was trying out an online penis name generator on herself when she didn’t even have a penis, and that I had tried to find an online vagina name generator without success, and that instead I had thought of a good name for my own Hypothetical Hoo Ha.

Here is Callie’s reply in my comments today:

Hi,

Got your Address from Loving Annie’s site. Your blog is awesome. I love the way the converstations go. Also, you have a great name for your Penis. Ethel sounds really good also. I could not find a test for the Vagina but I am sure one is out there. Thanks for stopping by and the link here.

Callie Ann

Soooo, Mister Callie Ann’s Husband, you can see how this whole thing is perfectly innocent, right? Right?? Hello???

Me and my Beefy McManstick are just gonna go crawl into a hole now…

…but I’d say he has a hematoma. Put a little ice on it and have him take some Tylenol.

Then again, it might be the partially absorbed skeleton of his unborn twin. You never know about these things.

Apparently, The Truth Laid Bear is back up and running, because I logged on today to discover that I had suddenly taken a quantum leap from Multicellular Microorganism to…

Slithery Reptile!

Heh. And my ex-wife said I’d never amount to anything.

Next month, lungs and a four chambered heart! At this rate, can opposable thumbs be that far off?

I’d like to thank all the little people I stepped on to get to where I am today. *grin*

Laid Back Male Nurse: (looking at the security camera displays) “Am I hallucinating, or did the cops just carry Terry Funk through our door, buck naked and hogtied?”

Ambulance Driver: (without looking up from my book) “Probably hallucinating. Folks say ‘it could never happen to me’…until it happens to them. My advice is to walk down the hall to the psych ward and get some of the good drugs.”

LBMN: (getting up from his chair) “No shit, really! They’re bringing Terry Funk into our ER!”

AD: (still reading) “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Did someone paint ‘stoopid‘ across my forehead this morning while I was sleeping? Why in the hell would the cops be bringing a famous wrestler into Podunk Gener – Holy Shit!!! That’s Terry Funk!!“

Burly Sheriff’s Deputy: (unceremoniously dumping patient onto the bed) “Who?”

LBMN: “Terry Funk!”

Equally Burly Bald Sheriff’s Deputy (hereinafter referred to as Mister Clean for brevity’s sake) : “Uh, this guy’s name is Tony XXXXX (hereinafter referred to as Waste of Protoplasm because it fits).”

WOP: “Arrrgggghhhh! Oooollla booolllaaa booopity booollaaaa!!! Argh! Boopity. Grrrrrr.”

AD: (speaking to any of the deputies) “Are you sure?”

Humorless Shift Sergeant: “Yeah, we’re sure.”

WOP: (bucking like a mustang and wearing bloody divots into his ankles from the cuffs) “Wooop wooop wooop wooop booopity arrrrgh!”

LBMN: (kneeling next to the ER stretcher attaching leather restraints to the bed frame) “Does he know that he’s a twin, separated at birth from Terry Funk? Because you know, that might be what fuels his rage and bitterness and leads him to a life of crime and substance abuse and all…”

Very Large and Somewhat Slow-Thinking Deputy (hereinafter referred to as Mongo for brevity’s sake) : “Huh?”

Wise Beyond His Years Very Cool ER Doc (hereinafter referred to as Cynical Doogie Howser for brevity’s sake and well, because it fits) : “So what’s all the commotion going in – hey, cool! Terry Funk!”

Mr. Clean: (sweating and struggling with WOP) “Uh, can we stop the Name Game and get him restrained, please?”

AD: “Oh. Yeah, sure. My bad. Let me get theses restraints on his ankles and then we can get his arms. It’s just that he looks so much like Terry Funk…”

Cynical Doogie: (speaking to Mongo) “That’s not really Terry Funk?”

Mongo: (shrugging) “Mongo just pawn in game of life.”

WOP: “Arrrrrrrggggghhhhh! Wooop wooop woooop grrrrrrr aaaaarrOOOOOga!”

LBMN: “Does anyone know what he took?”

Cynical Doogie: “Just as importantly, why is he naked and babbling in italics?”

AD: “Because I don’t speak fluent methamphetamine and PCP, and this is the best literary device I could think of to adequately portray a grown man growling like the Incredible Hulk and hooting like Curly from the Three Stooges.”

Cynical Doogie: “Oh.”

Mongo: “WOP naked because of Curly from Three Stooges? Mongo confused.”

LBMN: (condescendingly) “Noooo, WOP naked because of excited delirium. Bad drugs make WOP feel very hot, so WOP strip buck nekkid and – shit! Why am I speaking without modifiers all of a sudden?”

Humorless Shift Sergeant: (yelling) Can we just get this fucking guy restrained and knock out all the chit-chat? I got shit to do!”

Burly Deputy: (removing handcuffs and handing them to HSS) “Sorry Sarge. Here’s your cuffs back.”

Cynical Doogie: (watching HSS walk away in a huff) “What’s up his ass?”

Mr. Clean: “He ain’t gettin‘ laid at home.”

Mongo: “Sarge have something in ass? When this happen?”

WOP: “Wooooop woooop grrrrrrrr Hillary Clinton is sexy arrrrrgggggghhhh!”

Everyone: (in unison) “Damn. He’s even more fucked up than we thought.”

WOP: (horking up a big one) “Ssssssskknnnnnxxxxxxxssschhhnork!”

Deputies: (stampeding for the door like a herd of wildebeests who have just discovered a lioness in their midst) “Gee, look at the time! Gotta go!”

ER Staff: (calling to their retreating backs) “Pussies!”

LBMN: “So what do we want to do with this guy?”

AD: “Doc, how about a B52 and a punitive Foley catheter?”

Cynical Doogie: (musing) “Sounds good, only add a Bird Flu. Order the usual labs, but put a rush on the urine drug screen.”

LBMN: “B52? Bird Flu?”

AD: “B-5-2. Benadryl 50 milligrams, Haldol 5 milligrams, and Ativan 2 milligrams.”

LBMN: “Oh. So what’s a Bird Flu?”

AD: (before Cynical Doogie can answer) “Lemme guess…bird flu is the H5N1 strain…so does that mean an extra five of Haldol?”

Cynical Doogie: “You have become wise, Grasshopper.”

WOP: (feeling ignored and neglected) “Arrrrgggghhhh? Boopity boop?”

LBMN: (shouting over his shoulder) “Shut up in there! Can’t you see we’re playing ER Slang Trivia?”

WOP: “Hillary Clinton is sexy! Hillary Clinton is sexy! Hillary Clinton is sexy! Hiilllaaarreee!”

Cynical Doogie: “Sweet mercy, get him sedated now. I can’t take much more of that.”

I use Tam’s blog as a sort of portal to a lot of the gun blogs I frequent. Never thought of linking them myself, because I figured not all of my readers may share my tastes.

Yeah okay, so I’m stupid. There are a couple I follow closely enough to qualify as daily reads, so I’m adding them to the list. I think many of you will enjoy them as well.

Marko is one of the most erudite bloggers on the net. Read his archives and you’ll see what I mean.

Colt CCO is a co-worker of Tam’s and a pretty perceptive blogger in his own right. His take on the pretentious windbag’s comments at Tam’s site had me giggling. Plus, he showed me some linky love.

To channel Pretentious Windbag for a moment, it behooves one to reciprocate the magnanimity of such a sterling individual, one whose writing stirs the imagination and vivifies the intellect, and in so doing affords a welcome diversion from the ennui of daily habitude.

Plus, dude fuckin‘ rocks.

Go give ‘em both a read. You won’t be disappointed.

And I’d also like to beg Babs to provide me with step-by-step, idiot-proof instructions on how to convert the Reciprocal Blogroll into a drop down list. If she’d contact me by e-mail with instructions, I’ll pledge my everlasting love and respect.

Okay, okay. Even more love and respect.

Geez.

Intentional Overdose Patient: “I feel fine, really. I want to go home.”

Ambulance Driver: (gently, but firmly) “Not gonna happen, dear.”

IOP: “But the pills didn’t even have an effect on me!”

AD: “Oh really? While I was feeding a small garden hose down your nose and into your stomach, and then pumping the pill fragments out, you fell asleep.“

IOP: “Oh.”