Dear Poison Control,

I love you guys, I really do. You provide an invaluable resource. Many are the times I have called you to identify unknown pills, find out toxicity levels, expected side effects, suggested therapies and the like. You’ve never let me down, and you have always been unfailingly polite and courteous.

You even have a sense of humor, like the time I called to find out the effects of swallowing a quart of Downy fabric softener, and your guy said, “Nothing much, but her poop should be April fresh for a few days.”

I don’t care who ya are, that’s funny right there.

But even though I love you, Poison Control, this damned activated charcoal fetish of yours has got to stop. Seriously.

I realize you must have posters taped to the wall that say, “Charcoal: It’s what’s for dinner!”, but honestly, sometimes your recommendations make absolutely no fucking sense.

Never mind the fact that you routinely recommend charcoal lavage even for borderline toxicity, well over an hour after the ingestion, when charcoal does abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Never mind that there is no statistical difference in mortality between overdose patients who did get charcoal and those who didn’t.

Never mind that I can manage that benzo overdose with some fluids, supplemental oxygen and an occasional sternal rub to remind them to breathe, far easier than I can insert a nasogastric tube, operate the damned lavage syringes, and dodge the puke that I just know is forthcoming.

This ain’t my first rodeo, Poison Control. I’ve been around. You and I both know that 95% of the shit we do to overdose patients in the ER is punitive, not therapeutic.

So when I call you about my 14-month-old poisoning patient, don’t you sit there at your sterile little keyboard and tell me that the only expected side effects are nausea and vomiting…

…and then suggest that I give him activated charcoal, which will invariably cause just that.

Assclown.

To make matters worse, my doctor is a sheep, Poison Control. He’s going to do whatever you suggest, no matter that he has extensive medical training and years of clinical experience under his belt, and the closest you’ve come to seeing a real live patient is watching reruns of Trauma: Life in the ER.

He’s going to do whatever you say, because he’s Mister Defensive Medicine, and he doesn’t want to buck Poison Control, no matter how ludicrous the suggestion.

And when you tell me that a 14-month-old baby is going to willingly drink activated charcoal just because it’s mixed in chocolate milk, I really wish you’d start by saying, “A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar…”

You know, just so I’ll know that you realize what a fucking joke that suggestion is, too.

In closing, just know that I still love and care for you, and I treasure our relationship. But if I have one more day like today, I’m coming up there.

I’m going to drag you away from your computer screen, hold you down, and ram chocolate-dipped charcoal briquets up your ass until they pop out of your mouth, all while maniacally screaming, “Do they taste yummy now, beeyotch?”

Love and Kisses,
Ambulance Driver

…and you’ve never read Jason Whitlock’s commentary, you should start.

The man pulls no punches.

“Just remember, anything more than two shakes constitutes masturbation, Mujabir. Here at Dell Technical Support, we frown on that sort of thing in the Men’s Room.”

…five years ago, you were brought into this world, the culmination of a whirlwind of worry, hope and anticipation. Three months early, 1 pound and 14 ounces… you were way too small for comfort. You needed to cook a lot longer.

Yet enter this world you did, and with a bang. They told us you wouldn’t be able to cry, that you wouldn’t be able to breathe on your own, or nurse.

Apparently, they forgot to tell you.

You were a little blue elf when the doctor pulled you from your mother’s womb, barely a handful of skin and bones and an impossibly large head. And with just a little stimulation, you turned pink as if they had swiped you with a brush, and you signaled your displeasure with an angry wail.

“You hear that?” I had whispered to your Mom as I held her hand. “That’s our baby…and she’s breathing.”

And when they brought you close, before they whisked you off to the NICU for stabilization, and I looked at your tiny face…it was in that moment that I came to believe, without a doubt, in the existence of God.

I had my doubts before that day, you know. Prayers were something I did, something I had been taught, but there was always the disquieting feeling that no one was listening.

But the very fact that you existed was the answer to many, many prayers over the years, and the fact that you were alive was the answer to my plea to God a few hours before, in a room three floors down and on an altar wet with my tears.

You were His answer.

Where do I begin?

My job affords me a front row seat to the pageantry of human life. Sometimes the view isn’t pleasant, but like a prizefight, if you want the best view, you have to be willing to get splattered by a little blood now and then.

The past year has found me discovering a new creative outlet that has been successful beyond my wildest dreams, and allowed me to make a few good friends along the way.

I got to welcome a good friend to the brotherhood of paramedics a few days ago. And despite having already graduated from law school, having won an appointment to the Naval Academy, passed the Texas Bar Exam, and being a more accomplished man than I in many ways, that same man thanked me for my advice and tutelage over the past few years, and said “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I’ve spent a week with my girlfriend, and each day has been better than the last. Despite being harried and overworked herself before driving ten hours to get here, she has been a rock, and a blessing. Every day we returned to our hotel room from a grueling day at the convention center, I had her arms to soothe me, and her voice to encourage me. And of all the men she could have chosen, I was the one she afforded the privilege of returning the favor.

I’ve spent a few days with good friends I only get to see a few times a year. They came from all over – Boston, Iowa, New Hampshire, points in between – and we spent a few days in Texas laughing, sharing memories and making new ones. I got to introduce my girlfriend to the people I care about, and they to her, and they all got along.

I walked across the skywalk to the convention center Tuesday night with my buddy Gary for our comedy skit, Two Jews and a Redneck. We stopped at the hotel bar on the way to absorb a little liquid courage and talk strategy, and decided we’d just tell a few favorite stories and riff off each other, and generally play it by ear. After a few beers, we grabbed a couple of O’Doul’s to go (for use as props), and strolled over to the ballroom where we were scheduled to bomb miserably speak.

“Holy shit,” Gary breathed, nodding toward the throng of people massed outside the door. “I wonder what famous EMS personality they’re going to see?”

“Who knows?” I replied. “Look at it this way; if we bomb, not many people will be there to see it. They’ll all be in the other ballroom listening to that guy.”

Turns out, they were all going to see US.

Seriously, the conference committee had to summon extra security to handle the volume of people.

Folks, I rarely get nervous speaking to large groups. This time, I was shaking like a crack baby. Doing an unrehearsed comedy routine in front of 850 people will do that to you.

Fortunately, uproarious laughter and applause from 850 people works right well to banish the jitters, and we got plenty of that. Gary and I were asked to reprise our schtick at several other upcoming conferences, as well.

To top things off, fifteen minutes ago, my daughter toddled into the kitchen, tugged on Babs’ pants leg, and said, “Miss Barbara, do you know what I’m thankful for? That you’re a part of our family.“

Yes indeed, I have many reasons to be thankful.

*sigh*

You know, sometimes the blogosphere strongly resembles a junior high school.

First, the personal remarks and trollery made it not worth Babs’ ulcer to keep blogging, and now Scully has hung it up too, for much the same reason.

I can’t blame Scully for choosing a real-life friend over a bunch of faceless fans on the internet, but I will say this…anyone who demands that you stifle your own urge to create isn’t much of a friend at all.

I’m lucky in that I still get the pleasure of Babs’ wit and company, hopefully for the rest of our lives. It’s the rest of the blogosphere that I feel sorry for.

But Scully…hers was a poetic sensibility I truly enjoyed, and I’ll miss her writing terribly.

I’ll say this; I’m damned thankful I get so few trolls, and that I’m afforded the freedom to write pretty much whatever I please.

On that note, now that there are no conferences or classes scheduled for the next few months, expect my posting to return to its normal frequency.

Thank y’all for reading.

Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Maximus After his family was murdered by the evil emperor Commodus, the great Roman general Maximus went into hiding to avoid Commodus’s assassins. He became a gladiator, hoping to dominate the colosseum in order to one day get the chance of killing Commodus. Maximus is valiant, courageous, and dedicated. He wants nothing more than the chance to avenge his family, but his temper often gets the better of him. Maximus 71% William Wallace 63% Batman, the Dark Knight 50% Captain Jack Sparrow 46% Indiana Jones 46% El Zorro 46% The Terminator 42% James Bond, Agent 007 42% Lara Croft 42% Neo, the “One” 33% The Amazing Spider-Man 29%

…all except that part about dying tragically at the end, that is.

Well, Babs and I are headed to lovely downtown Houston for the Texas EMS Conference. We’ll be gone until the 22nd, so y’all have fun. I’ll try to post from the conference, but no guarantees.

Priorities, you know.

Apparently, that Tag body spray has the same effects on the Geritol crowd.

Mabel: Mmmmmm. Rowr…

Hank: Mabel, what the hell has gotten into you?

Mabel: Ever since we started swimming in that pool with the weird rocks at the bottom, I’ve been feeling a bit…anxious, if you know what I mean. [winks and licks her lips seductively]

Hank: Well, good luck with that.

Mabel: C’mon Hank, it’ll be super sex…

Hank: [pondering his choices] Okay, I’ll have the soup.

Mabel: [grinning lasciviously, then reaching into her lap and cupping her breasts] Awww, Hank…

Hank: [musing] Well, I suppose I might have another Viagra that hasn’t expired yet. Tell ya what, it’ll take at least an hour to kick in. Meet me in my room in an hour, and by then Matlock will be off.

Mabel: I’m 93, Hank. In an hour, I may not even remember this conversation.

Hank: [wavering] Well, I suppose I could get my roommate to TiVo it…

Mabel: [in a husky whisper] We could always go back to my room. My roommate Ethel has a Craftmatic adjustable bed. Who knows, she might even be persuaded to join us…

Hank: [decisively] Lead the way, Mabel.

[sound of walkers clacking down the hall]

Ethel: Well hello, Big Boy. Is that an albuterol inhaler in your pocket, or are you happy to see me? Mabel, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?

Mabel: Hank, Ethel. Ethel, Hank. Now then, let’s get this Metamucil menage a trois going.

Hank: What’s the hurry, Sweet Thang?

Mabel: Dinner is served in two hours, and we’re having lime Jello again. I don’t wanna miss it.

[sound of rustling clothing and creaking joints, and two staccato claps. The lights go out]

Mabel: Oh, Hank.

Hank: Oh, Mabel!

Ethel: Wrong roommate, I’m Ethel.

Hank: Sorry Ethel, I can’t see a thing without my glasses.

Mabel: Oh, Hank!

Hank: [whispering] Uh, what is she doing?

Ethel: [whispering] Fondling my ass and stroking the bed rail. She doesn’t see so well without her glasses, either. Here, roll over onto your back.

[more rustling. The bed motor whirs]

Hank: Oh, Ethel! That feels wonderful!

Ethel: You’re welcome. I took out my dentures.

Hank: Oh, Ethel!

Ethel: Oh, Hank!

Mabel: OH, HANK!

Ethel: That’s me, Mabel.

Hank: Ohhhhhhh…why, Ethel! You’re a virgin!

Ethel: Shit. Did I forget to take off my pantyhose again?

Ahab put his own twist on on Kim du Toit’s car meme and asked bloggers to name their five favorite airplanes. Now all the cool kids are doing it.

Being the sheep copycat social climber team player that I am, I’ll play along.

All my planes have a personal connection for me.

5. My uncle Laverne flew the reconnaissance version of the P-38 Lightning during World War II. My Dad and all my uncles served in the Army Air Corps in World War II, and kept flying as private pilots after the war ended. I remember Dad and Uncle Jerry saying once that Laverne was the bravest of the brothers, because he flew his Lightning into enemy territory with nothing more than his brass balls and a high-speed camera.

4. The P-51 Mustang. My Dad’s childhood friend and distant cousin Claude Crenshaw made ace flying one of these for the 369th Fighter Squadron in Wretham, England.

3. The Piper J-3 Cub. My Dad called this “the most forgiving airplane ever built.” He loved the Piper Cub. I got my first glimpse at a Cub outside a hangar at a small municipal airport outside of Tallulah, Louisiana. A friend of my father’s had a Pitt’s Special and a beautifully restored WWII vintage Cub hangared there. I remember being struck by the simplicity of the instrument panel, and thinking, “Gee, I could probably learn to fly that.”

2. The reason we were at that rural airstrip that day was because my Uncle Sonny had flown us there in his brand new Piper Cherokee Six, a toy he had picked up in the oil boom of the late 1970s. Sonny, my mother’s younger brother, had always worshiped my Dad, twenty years his senior. When he bought his plane, he flew it to Monroe to show it off to the Old Man.

That was my first time I had ever flown, and the only time I’ve ever been up with my Dad on the stick. We flew a few leisurely circuits around the Monroe area with Uncle Sonny at the controls, and Dad obligingly snapping pictures of our house as he flew over. Dad wanted better pictures than he was getting, so Uncle Sonny, halfway challenging him, offered to shoot the pics while Dad flew.

Dad shrugged, took the yoke and stood that plane on its wing in a tight turn directly over our house. He leveled the wings after Sonny had managed to snap a few frames, and turned control of the plane back over to my decidedly green-looking uncle.

“Pretty level turn,” Uncle Sonny remarked casually, after he had managed to choke down the gorge in his throat.

Dad just winked and said, “Yeah, and make sure you do the same.”

I had heard my Dad’s flying stories a million times as a kid, and to me that’s all they were – stories told by a tired old man. But on that day, my Dad was ten feet tall.

1. The Boeing B17 Flying Fortress. There’s nothing I can say about this plane that hasn’t already been said, but when I think of it, I envision two young men from Monroe, Louisiana in it. They both share my last name. The older one, sitting at his radio console or perhaps manning his .50 from the top turret. His younger brother, the small one he had always protected from bullies as a child, transformed into the Baddest Man On The Airplane, ensconced in his ball turret, traversing his gun right-left, up-down, ever watchful.

They had told me war stories as a kid, describing what flak bursts looked like, or how well the old B17 flew, even with important pieces missing. Uncle Jerry had described how enemy fighters would roll away from his guns as they dove through the Allied formations. “They had armored bellies,” he had explained. “They were scared as hell of that ball turret, so when they dove past, they’d always roll that belly up at me.”

Many years later, when my Dad was old, a B17 flew over the house. When I was a kid, they used a few of the old warbirds to spread fire ant poison across the South. When we heard the drone of the engines, Dad had paused from tightening down the new alternator on our old Ford, and then straightened up, searching the sky.

“That’s a B17,” he had whispered, almost reverently. Together, we watched it fly over and lumber away to our south. His blinked his eyes a few times as if something had gotten in them and whispered, more to himself than to me, “I was scared a lot of times. But that old plane always brought me home.“

Reason enough to make it my favorite airplane.

…because Operation Love From Home is still quite a few thousand cards short of its goal.

Send cards.

Announce it on your blogs.

Challenge your readers to do the same.

But send cards.

And for our troops who have made it home less than whole, Project Valour IT can use the donations. If you feel a profound sense of gratitude to the soldiers, sailors, grunts and airmen fighting in Afghanistan in Iraq…

…then you should feel a profound sense of shame to know that some of them come back, and cannot even type on a computer.

Chris Byrne is putting his money arsenal where his mouth is. He has a challenge for all you gun bloggers out there. Biggest donator wins some sweet shootin’ iron.

Now how can you top an offer like that, folks?

Get a Cash Advance

…or if it represents a scathing indictment of our educational system.

I’m gonna go with pride, being the shameless approval whore that I am.

On another note, I’m working on another chapter of Star of Life. I’ll work on it tonight and tomorrow between lectures, and try to post it soon.

And the really cool announcement is that we are working on another Perspectives post. Matt’s toying with an idea or two I suggested, but seeing as how his muse works at the breakneck pace of a cold pot of honey tipped over, he suggested we invite another blogger to take his place for the next one.

Expect something not quite so dark as the first one, but compelling nonetheless, and a real peek at what it’s like to be a cop, paramedic or nurse in a small town.

In future installments, we’re even going to add the perspective of the hose monkeys firefighters.

Be patient, because they’re gonna be worth it.

Over at EMS1.com, they have a new sheriff in town flack.

If war stories and potty humor bore you to tears, and you yearn for serious commentary or something educational, go give it a read. You might even recognize the writing style.

This promises to be a monthly column, so y’all bookmark the site and leave lots of comments.

Because well, you know, my ego needs all the help it can get.

On another note, I’ll be heading to the Iowa EMS Conference until Saturday, so there may be light blogging until then. I’ll try to post something from the conference, but no guarantees.

Y’all watch the place while I’m gone. Beer’s in the fridge.

…that triage is wearing on Girlvet a bit.

Buck up, Little Trooper! You bring prompt succor and the healing touch to the city’s sick and wounded! Somewhere, somebody in that waiting room loves and appreciates you.

Snerk.

…neener neener neener.

Today, November 4, in the Year of Our Lord 2007…

I took my jet ski down the river, likely for the last time this year. The weather was gorgeous.

Yes, the water was a bit cool but by no means uncomfortable. There were ducks flying before sunset, and I spotted a few cypress brakes that may hold birds in a month or so. Might have even found a few oak cheniers where Katy and I can squirrel hunt. Nothing beats scouting hunting spots from the back of your jet ski. *grin*

God I love the South.

…to break the suction on my chair.

What. A. Game.

LSU 41, Alabama 34.

In other news, I hear LSU is about to start merchandising a line of female sanitary napkins.

Because well, you know…

GEAUX TIGERS!