Hey, Tim? Nice veins.

If Tim Tebow Was A Paramedic:

He’d have more code saves than any other medic in your system.

Of course, his detractors would point out that the reason is that Tim Tebow has more people die in his rig than any other medic in the system, because Tim Tebow struggles reading 12-lead EKG’s  and recognizing subtle patient presentations…

… but his fans would  counter with the fact that, once the patient is dead, Tim Tebow always seems to convert the patient to a perfusing rhythm on the first shock.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t happen until they’re dead!” his critics would retort.

“What does it matter as long as they go home neurologically intact?” his fans would crow. “A save is a save, baby!”

“Dude, the guy‘s a weak medic,” would come the counter argument. “He can’t read EKG’s, struggles with drug dosages, can’t remember the landmarks to do a needle decompression, breaks half a dozen teeth when he tries to intubate someone – “

“ –but gets the tube in when it really counts!” his fans would proclaim. “That’s what’s important, right?”

“Puhleeze. The guy has killed more people than smallpox.”

“He’s saved more people than Billy Graham!”

“Grim Reaper!”

“Johnny Gage and Roy DeSoto!”

“Dude, you’re talking about the guy like he’s an elite medic. Elite medics know cardiology like Tom Bouthillet. Elite medics manage an airway like Ambulance Driver. Elite medics are cool under pressure like TOTWTYTR. Tebow couldn’t stand on a stepladder and kiss those guys’ asses.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, how many code saves did those guys have this month? None, baby! Woo hoo!”

“That’s because those guys don’t let their patients code. They manage the call, so they don’t have to do any heroics at the end!”

“ Tim Tebow rules!”

“Tim Tebow drools.”

“You just hate him because he’s guided by the hand o’ Gawd!”

“I hate him because he gets the credit for every save, when it wouldn’t have been possible without the uninterrupted chest compressions done by his partner, or the prompt call to 911 by the patient’s family, or for the contributions of half a dozen other people. Nobody gets a save all by themselves. Resuscitation is a team sport.”

“TIM TEBOW WAS THE BEST EMT-B THAT EVER LIVED!”

“Yeah, but now he’s a medic. Everybody in this system was an awesome EMT-B, or they wouldn’t even be here. This is the pros, baby, and your boy’s game doesn’t work here.”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”

“Not gonna happen. Maybe your boy might make a decent – I mean just decent – medic with a lot of practice and a few years. But he ain’t there now, and he doesn’t even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Rogue Medic, or AD, or TOTWTYR, or Happy Medic. “

“HERETIC! GOD SEES YOU, UNBELIEVER!”

“Blow me.”

[fisticuffs ensue]

And while the argument raged around him, Tim Tebow would keep on running calls and doing his best for his patients, because he’s Tim Tebow, and he’s a good kid. He’d recognize that he’s got a gift for the heroic save, but he’d also be honest and admit that he’s still nowhere near the medic he should be.

And nobody would outwork him in getting there.

He’d be humble and self-effacing to his fans, always deflecting praise to his teammates (and God), and he’d be gracious to his critics. And he’d make some serious gaffes, but he’d keep on racking up saves.

And after each one, he’d Tebow.

Naturally.

Fred Sanford Syndrome: clinical disorder characterized by the life-threatening complaints in the absence of any objective clinical findings. Sufferers of Fred Sanford    Syndrome (FSS) usually present with chest pain, often accompanied by a constellation of associated symptoms including respiratory distress, dizziness, anxiety, syncope, flatulence, incontinence, amnesia, seizures, speaking in tongues, headaches, blurred vision, loss of vision, aphasia, dysphasia, paranoia, combativeness, belligerence, and catatonia.

FSS is thought to be triggered by emotional distress, often resulting from verbal conflict with family members. The hallmark signs of FSS are dying declarations, although these dying declarations are easily distinguished from from the far more ominous "profound sense of impending doom" often reported by acute coronary syndrome sufferers, primarily by the volume and frequency of the declarations, and the presence of a receptive audience.

FSS is exclusively found in males, although many healthcare care providers note its similarities to Scarlett O'Hara Syndrome (SOS) found in females, and postulate that it may indeed be the same disease.

Given the frequency at which I see this disorder, I think it's time we added it to the ICD-10.

Or, given the total lack of objective clinical findings, perhaps the DSM V.

The Borg has partnered me with green partners ever since I started here, and I try to impart a little of the experience and wisdom I've earned over the years. I mentor them, fill in the gaps in their knowledge, perhaps season them a bit, and ready them for paramedic school. Thus far, all of my previous partners are now medics, or currently in school. They've all been successful. I'm kinda proud of that, actually.

And since I'm literally old enough to be father to most of them, I sometimes get a little paternalistic, and teach some of life's lessons that have nothing to do with EMS; the things they'll need to succeed in life.

Like early this morning, for example, when I took the opportunity afforded by a slow Christmas Eve to teach Betty Rubble the most accurate -and most importantly, repeatable – way to bounce a quarter off a table into a Dixie cup. Hard to believe she made in through high school and a couple years of college without mastering that vital skill, but apparently she took different electives than I did in school.

You'd think the poor kid had never seen a man roll a quarter off his nose before.

In my city, when you're dispatched to the parish juvenile detention center, our GPS mapping software leads you to Chuck E. Cheese*.

True story.

* I'd say "directly to Chuck E. Cheese," but I don't think our route instructions lead you anywhere directly…

Top Ten Signs Your Dispatcher Hates You.

Enjoy!

* Not an actual movement. Photo posed for humorous purposes only. Don't get excited, Dr. Bledsoe.

I killed the biggest deer of my life at Blogorado 2009, took him down at a dead run with a 318 Dakota. FarmGirl hits an elk with her Crown Victoria earlier in the year, leading to the construction of the Blogorado War Wagon and Death Machine, and then I take down a deer the day before I left for Blogorado, dinging my previously pristine 2010 Tacoma.

I don't know what it is with me and deer. I mean, I try to be vigilant, I scan the roadsides at night, I've installed those little ultrasonic deer-repelling whistles on every vehicle I've ever owned, and…

… oh, wait. Turns out I've had the damned things mounted backwards all along.

Well, shit. That explains things.

Top Ten Most Commonly Misinterpreted EMS Abbreviations.

Enjoy!

When I rolled past the nurse's station with my patient, I casually mentioned, "Y'all know you just had an elopement, right?"

"Huh?" Four heads turned my way, including the ED doc.

"An elopment. Your obnoxious drunk from Room 6 left without permission, I'm betting. He was probably pissed, but not as pissed as y'all were at him."

"Go check," the doctor ordered, and the charge nurse scrambled that way. I chuckled and wheeled my patient to her assigned room, moved her over to the ED stretcher, and gave handoff report to her nurse.

"You saw the guy leave?" the charge nurse asked me as I rolled my stretcher back past the nurse's station.

"Never laid eyes on him," I grinned. "So, did he elope?"

"Long gone," he confirmed. "So how did you know he was an obnoxious drunk?"

"Not just an obnoxious drunk, but an obnoxious drunk that managed to piss y'all off," I corrected.

"That he did," the charge nurse chuckled. "But I'm just curious as to how you knew all that."

"Well," I answered, "Let's just say I've learned how to read the signs."