So I’m working on the Great Scottish Walk, cycling along the route, nominally acting as “Rapid Response” as I can get anywhere along the route in about 10 minutes, highly equipped and trained, instantly deployable, efficient, professional, yadda yadda yadda.

What I, in fact, ended up doing was gently trundling along the route alongside the walkers, occasionally stopping to guzzle Lucozade or listen to/watch the many bands that were laid on to entertain the participants along the way. It was a lovely sunny day, the bike was clean and well maintained, tires full, chain oiled, brakes adjusted. Had I not been on duty, I would almost certainly have been cycling around the city, so it was hardly an ordeal.

On Market Street, just outside The Dungeon, an older gentleman (who I instantly twigged as a tourist) is frantically waving me down, his wife by his side. I pull up.

“Good Morning Sir, can I help you?”
“Yeah! What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry?”
“All these people, where are they going?”
Tempted to lead him along and begin a melancholy tale of public transport cutbacks, I instead explain about the charitable walk, how it happens every year.
“But who are they raising money for?”
“Oh, all sorts, there’s walkers here for cancer charities, animal shelters, domestic abuse refuges, multiple sclerosis…”
“You mean they can just choose who they raise for?”
“Yup.”
“Wow…that’s…wow…”

He seemed to be reeling a little from this, stunned into silence by the loosing of the charity shackles that allow people to raise money for anyone they fancy; I thought it was my place to rescue the conversation.
“So! Where are you folks from?”
“The U.S.”
I smile.
“I’d guessed, sir, whereabouts?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Ahhh, a beautiful part of the country.”
They beam at me, I’m pleased they accepted the compliment and don’t seem to be preparing to ask me about my time there, as I’ve never been to Philadelphia in my life. It does, however, score me some excellent “charming young man” points.

“So your role here is what exactly?”
“Oh, I’m just riding along with them, checking everyone’s OK. It’s been nice and quiet.”
“And how long have you been a cop?”

My turn to be stunned. I’m wearing black shorts and shoes, a white polo shirt with big red cross emblems on the sleeves, a Hi-Vi vest with “British Red Cross and an emblem” on one nipple and “First Aid” on the other.

“I’m not a cop, sir, I work for the Red Cross.”
“Oh, you’re an EMT?”
(Fuck it, why not?)
“Yeah, I’m an EMT”

Having been properly introduced, he continued to interrogate me on the walk.
“So how many people are involved?”
“About 3000.”
“And how far are they going?”
“It’s a 12 mile route, sir.”
“Twelve miles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All those people are all walking twelve miles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today?”

I nearly lost it, I so desperately wanted to tell him that we checked everyone into a B&B for the night at mile 6 then started up again in the morning.

But I didn’t, I was pleasant and friendly and helpful, they took pictures of me and so, somewhere, I’m in an elderly couple’s photograph album - “And this is the nice young man we met in Edin-boro, he was so helpful…”

I love doing this, I thoroughly enjoy being the “charming young man”, I guess it’s partially an act, I get a real buzz from reading that person and portraying just the right amount of deference, attitude, flirt, humour, whatever to get on with them.
Does anyone else do this? Or is it just me?

Anyone who hasn’t read this, should do so before reading today’s post.
If you have read it, then go back and at least read the last 4 paragraphs again.

*deep breath*

Sunday morning, 0130, I’m driving back from 12 hours of duty, most of which I’ve spent directing people to toilets, cleaning tiny cuts on legs (”I wouldn’t bother, but I thought since you’re here…”) and mooching free samples off the stalls in the event’s food hall.

Most of the evening was spent chatting to drunk folk and running off to “collapse/unconscious” shouts. Note to security personnel: if your ‘unconscious’ casualty wakes up when you poke them in the ribs, they’re asleep.

Anyway, I’m on my way home…

The road is blocked, blue and red flashing lights hammer my eyes, there’s screaming and crying outside the tinted windows of my vehicle, a cop directs traffic around the incident. I pull up next to him.

“Hey mate, British Red Cross First Aid, can we help?”
“Sure, there’s a kid on the deck over there.”

I swing the vehicle to the roadside, flick on its hazard lights and jump out, thankful I’m still wearing my belt-kit, cursing the fact that I didn’t grab another pair of gloves when I threw my last ones away as I left the venue. No matter, I won’t treat anyone with the proper protection.

Across the scene, my colleague has also pulled his vehicle into the side and is jogging towards the patient, he looks him up and down and says “I’ll get a blanket.”
“And gloves! Bob! Gloves!”
He wordlessly reaches into his belt and passes me a pair, I drop to my knees, my mouth opening and forming sentences autonomously, I don’t even think about my approach anymore.
“Hey people, Red Cross First Aid! Can we help?”

A quick look up and down the patient shows him to be awake and breathing. We teach our students “DRABC - Danger, Response (the patient’s), Airway, Breathing, Circulation”; they’ll take a few minutes to check those but there’s really no point. The fact that my man is talking to a cop answers all those questions in one look. The scene must be safe, because the cop’s not checking all around him, the patient’s responding to his questions verbally, so his airway must be clear, he must be breathing and so by association he must have circulation. Sorted.

Our patient is an 18 YOM, he’d been running from a group of men who were intent on giving him a kicking when he dashed across the road, into the path of an oncoming taxi. He’s now supine, fully conscious with a nasty head lac, two or three more minor wounds on his wrist and a grazed shoulder

We have a saying “Every head’s a neck”, that is, any patient who has suffered major force exchange to the head should be presumed to have associated spinal damage. Regardless of whether they’re bleeding or not, fully conscious or otherwise, major force exchange = spinal damage. This rules out, say, the patient who has had their head neatly cut with a scalpel.

There’s also a line from one of my training manuals “Every multi-trauma patient has a cervical-spine injury until ruled out in a clinical environment.”

In short, on arriving on this scene, I should have grabbed a cop, stuck his hands on the patient’s ears and told him if the head moved we’d need two ambulances.

In short, I did not do this.

I ‘body-check’ the patient up and down, removing clothing where possible, finding nothing but the visible injuries I already knew about. I then think about his spine and interrogate him as such.
“Any pain in your neck?”
“Nope.”
“Your back or legs?”
“Nope.”
“Any weird sensations? Pins and needles? Rushing heat or cold?”
“Nope.”
“Wiggle your fingers and toes for me…ok that’s great.”

Now, here’s the second deliberate mistake of the evening.

At this point I become, apparently, the cleverest person in the world, because my little neuro assessment up there over-ruled X-rays and CAT scans in the hospital environment and I decided not to stabilise his spine.

I.
Am.
An.
Idiot.

I’m deeply ashamed of what I’m about to admit to you, when I think about it makes me physically nauseous. Worried about the bleed on his temple, I then bandage the wound with a trauma dressing, an act that required me to lift his head (albeit gently) from the floor to complete.

Yup, not only do I ignore basic C-Spine rules, I then move the head and neck around.

My colleague leans over and whispers in my ear “Have you seen the state of the windscreen?”

Rule one of RTAs, which my trauma course hammered into me, check the vehicles for damage. They’ll give you a lasting, accurate record of who hit what, where and how hard; details that are tough to get out of emotionally rattled witnesses and involved parties.

This taxi had a classic “bullseye” on the windscreen, telling me that the patient’s head had collided with the glass with sufficient force to smash it. Considering it will take an adult male at least two swings to produce a similar effect with a sledgehammer, I think we can come to some conclusions as to the forces involved here.

I couldn’t have asked for a more obvious clue to stabilise that guy’s head and neck if it had been telegrammed to me.

Do I do this?

Do I fuck.

I instead think “Shit…I should have been on that from the start. Well, damage is done now, I’ll leave it.”

The ambulance arrives, thankfully it’s a crew I know from scotsmedicman’s station and they’re cheery and welcoming. They (predictably) do all the things I should have, including asking the witnesses what happened.
At this point I hear that our patient was thrown into the air and somersaulted three times before hitting the ground.

I tell you, I could have wept.

I helped the crew collar and board the patient and lift him into the vehicle, chatting to his distraught girlfriend as they pulled away.

Our patient’s fine, I heard on Sunday night he was absolutely OK, x-rays all came back clear and I’ve had a good chat with a number of folk about it; they’ve all responded with an excellent mix of sympathy, training and bollocking.

I’ll take it as a training exercise and learn from it. I’ve got a training weekend coming up in a fortnight, so will probably ask for some multi-trauma scenarios to sharpen up on.

Chalk another story up on the board, this time titled “What’s the biggest risk you’ve ever taken with a patient…?”

But
OMG

Apparently Fussy got it from BelgianWaffle and now I’m totally stealing it.

Baby’s Named a Bad, Bad Thing

I’m still working my way through it, the proposed names are funny enough, the commentary from whoever runs the site is hilarious.
My favourites so far?

“And I still haven’t met anyone with the same name-Sharmari, pronounced SHAR-Marie.
Sharmari, where the Sharmy keepsh itsh weaponsh. “

“My last name is Tinkletop. For some reason my wife objects to naming our son Timothy, Timmy for short. I think it’s a good, memorable name. “

Also, had I not been browsing the site, I wouldn’t have found this.
Dildo (absolutely safe for work/kids in background, I swear).

Go read about Dildo, then come back and tell me you don’t hear Johnny Knoxville saying “There’s a big red truck in Mianus! Brad’s pumping in Mianus! Whoopi Goldberg lives in Mianus?!”

Yup, I’m feeling puerile, can we tell?

The water fairies just arrived.
I know nothing of this.
Am I meant to be on fire?
Why didn’t I get a memo?

That was all a bit heavy, wasn’t it? Now for some fluff.

I completely called two old ladies out on their manners the other day, it was fabulous fun.
Stopped in traffic on the bike, they were crossing through the spaces so I caught their eye, smiled and rolled backwards a few feet to give them room to get by. They blanked me completely, so I called out, cheerful as you like “You’re welcome, ladies. Have a nice day.”

They turned beetroot and stammered out a “Oh, thankyou, sorry, we, uh, thankyou…” before hurrying along the pavement.

You can cuss and scream all you like, I particularly enjoy sticking my middle finger up at motorists, but there is nothing quite so stylish as pointing out bad manners in your elders and betters and doing it in a way that says “I know you were rude, you know that you were rude, we both know that we both know it. Be nice.”

Another lyrics post, I love this song, though it’s utterly savage. I think the combination of naievity, hope, rage, violence and regret’s very powerful, as standard, any punctuation’s added by me.

Chalet Lines
Belle and Sebastian

He raped me in the chalet lines,
The girl I shared with was away for the night.
I couldn’t get up for my shift today.
I’ll have to leave the camp now, anyway.
I’ll go to London, there’s a mate of mine.
I know she’ll give me a place,
Full of woe and further to go.

He raped me in the chalet lines,
I had just said “No” for the final time.
Althought it’s last month, it’s like yesterday,
I missed my time, I don’t think I could stand to take a test,
I’m feeling sick.
Fuck this, I’ve felt like this for a week.
I’d put a knife right into his eyes.
My friend can’t see
She asks me why I don’t tell the law?
Well what’s the fucking point at all?

He raped me in the chalet lines.
It was a party, it was going fine.
With the boys from the amusement park.
A few were idiots, it was a really good laugh.
They had the shows on til way after dark.
“I hope she’ll give me a place.”
Full of woe and further to go.
(She caught the bus)
“Oh, I’ll go anywhere.”
(She caught the bus)
Her face was just a smear on the pane.

“When we got back to Edinburgh, our breath shot out ahead of us in the icy air. The odd person wandered past the little pub, hands stuffed deep in pockets or devouring greasy chips. There was still a puddle of blood on the ground, glistening under the streetlight. And it stayed there another two days, until the Thursday rain washed it away.” From WNP?

The paragraph up there got me thinking about the play and how, 9 months later, it’s still with me. I had a long chat with a technician friend once about memories of shouts, how locations stick with you long after the patient’s name or face has gone. Scotsmedicman will be driving along and mutter “This is where that RTA was…”

The pub where it happened is 5 minutes from my door, it’s on my route into work and I pass it every day, sometimes 3 or 4 times. It’s no surprise that my awareness on the bike increases as I approach the area, that my head comes further up, my eyes scanning the pavements for the hurt and sick my mind has inextricably linked with that area of the city.

Because of the aftermath of what happened that day, I had a good three months of fairly unhealthy relationship with the pub. On the days immediately following the incident, I walked past the door and noted, with interest, the significant stain on the pavement. A rough surfaced, rust brown patch, lost and adrift from its host, millions of cells which had once kept their body alive were now being side-stepped by hundreds of pedestrians a day and giving one slightly fucked-up young man the shivers on each approach. Over a few days it was washed away, by rain, piss and emptied mop buckets.

I even went in for a pint once, just sat at the bar and looked across at the guy who I’d treated. I don’t know what I’d have done if someone had pointed me out, introduced us. Probably smile, shake his hand and say demurely “It was nothing, pleased I could help.”

Nobody wants to be sitting in their local and have someone they’ve never seen (while fully concious) say to them “I’m glad you’re still alive, I’m the reason you are. I have 3 months of gut-twisting worry because I stopped for you. Do you have hepatitis? HIV? Aids? Are you sexually promiscuous and careless, or a habitual IVDU? Enjoy your pint.”

But by Christ I wanted to. I wanted to scream and gnash my teeth at him. I wanted to say “Hey, you were choking to death when I met you, drowning on your own saliva. When I got to you I was the only face in a huge crowd of people who knew what to do. My fingers have been in your head, I’ve scrubbed your blood from my hands. You got drunk and sufficiently obnoxious that you were thrown out of this bar and you were so out of your face you couldn’t stand up. Your choices have landed me in this shit-heap of trouble I currently face and you’re still here, supping on a pint of heavy. You fucker, look what you’ve done.”

Am I ok? Yeah, I appear to be, my final Hepatitis check is due and when I get the all-clear I’ll close this book, my only link to that street corner will be as I used it when the kids were here, to stroll past and declare, casual and blasé “I saved a bloke’s life there.”

I’m bitter, yes, and can still talk myself into a rage about it.
I don’t want recognition, I don’t want applause.

I just want him to know.

And no, you won’t be able to stalk me from these details.

But suffice to say that for the past year or so, my driving licence hasn’t been correct. I know, I’m a bad person, but because the DVLA cocked up and read the “/” as a “1″ in my address, I’ve been staying at “24/16 King Charles St” whereas in fact, I’m at 24/6.

Tonight, realising that the ambulance service will not look kindly on this, I decided to edit the address and send the form off to get it fixed.
Was I paying attention?

Not so much.

I’ve just told them I live at “24/6 King Chares St”.

Bollocks.

I woz all in a Nambulance annit was great an we woz all eating cake an that and the phone was all Bringinniging an we woz all awwcrap altho I was secretly like aw yeah, lezzgo so we went all zooooom and whoowhooomeemaw and whooosh and we went roundaroundabout all sideways and the wheels woz all eeeech and we woz pretending to be profeshnul but it woz too much fun and there was a hoax call but they woz stoopid and hoax called us to their address so we woz all nasty to them annit was great an there was a old bloke wot fought he woz dying but wozn’t an there woz a stabbin and the bloke was all AAARGH ARGH an we woz all It’s ok, don’t die an he woz all AAARGH an we wrapped him in cling film like he woz a sandwichLOLOLOLOL!!! an he hadda big hole in his guts an they woz all poking out an that an I was all like bloody hell an the pigs were there an there was thousands of them an then a van wiv pigs wiv GUNS an they woz all like Djoo need anyone shooting an we woz all like No an they went away an we went back to stayshun an finished our cake.
It was fun an I lerned alot.

(normal service may resume later…maybe)