My partner is a constant source of amusement, every shift. The kid is quite possibly the sparkiest EMT ever. And if I could teach him to engage his internal censor when the calls turn out to be less than the fun and excitement he envisioned, he’d be just about perfect.
Tonight, Kelso got the sort of shift he has always wanted: shootings, codes, overdoses, respiratory arrests, grisly trauma… you name it, we’ve had it this shift.
Our first call of the evening was a shooting well out in the sticks, and we wound up flying the patient to the trauma center. The call had everything a little adrenaline junkie needs: two medics and half a dozen firefighters acting out a tightly choreographed resuscitation ballet, and for a change, a patient sick enough that his survival may very well have hinged on speed and the skill of the people treating him. And Kelso was right up in the middle of it getting his hands bloody, a goofy grin plastered on his face.
In other words, one of those calls where all your training actually matters.
The flight medic pushed the paralytics while I got the tube, we decompressed his chest, packaged the guy and hustled him to the bird. When the flight medic asked Kelso to ride in with him, I thought the kid was going to piddle himself.
“Go get in the bird, hero,” I chuckled. “I’ll clean up here and pick you up at the ED in a few minutes.”
I swear, if the kid had a tail, right now it would be wagging hard enough to generate a breeze.