It's been quiet here recently and with good reason. I've had a lot on
my plate and last week had an offer that I've been mulling over for a
few days.

The owner of a local nursing home has approached me after we went to
his establishment for an elderly lady with a UTI. My people skills
apparently impressed him, as he later got in touch through control and
offered me a position as Liaison in Incident and Emergencies
Supervisor.

I'll be working across six sites, training nursing home staff in
advanced first aid and inter-agency working., it's more
responsibility, better money and I'll have my own office, assistant
and company car.

However.

Reading their employee handbook, I'm afraid they're a little more
paranoid than the Service in these post-Reynolds days. They have a
section entitled "Internet activity and corporate confidentiality"
which specifically bans blogging about the job. As such, as of the
end of April, Traumaqueen will be no more.

It's been a great ride, guys, but I can't pass this opportunity up.

Thanks for reading, and good night.

Everything is relatively good. A nasty job last night , but not as bad
as it could have been. Will write it up and post it some time in the
future, as it's a fairly identifiable case and deserves some
anonymity.

Back on shift at the moment, working with Sake, another technician.
Stories to follow.

*posted from the back of an ambulance*

No, I'm not having a heart attack, but i'm checking my motor for the
shift and I've got a bad feeling about tonight.

Nothing specific, just a niggly tug on my neck hairs that's making me uneasy.

It's maybe being tired, maybe being a wee bit fluey, maybe the change
in atmospheric pressure as the heavens threaten to open.

It's maybe just superstition.

But it's not nice.

I'll keep you all posted if anything comes up, until then, look after
each other.

*posted from the back of an ambulance*

There are various sounds that I am accustomed to hearing, the following are the noises heard on a recent shift.

The radio went Boodleyboop with a job in the North of the city.
Vroom!
Weeeeeoooooooooowwwwwwweeeee.
Wowwowwowwowwow.
Boodleyboop (divert to different job).
Vrooom.
Vroooooooom.
Boodleyboop.
“Where the fuck is that?”
Rustle rustle, flip, flip, flip.
“Ahh, ok.”
Vroooooom.
Boodleyboop.
“Are you kidding me?”
Vrooooooooom.
VrooooOOOOOOOOM.
“Get out of the fucking way, pull over, c’mon, c’mon.”
Twang.
(Twang?)
Clank.
Bang.
Binkbonk.
Hiss.
“What was that?”
“I dunno, but I can see bits of ambulance spinning off into the distance in my mirror.”
Beep beep boop.

Buzz-buzz-buzz.
“Kal’s vehicle?”
“We’re broken down.”
“Now organising recovery. Sit tight.”

Chunk. (doors lock).
Creak. (kit locker opens)
Fsss, hssssshh. (Jackets and pillows pulled from locker (yes, I have a pillow in my bag, shut up))
“Night then.”
“Night.”

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

SMM and I went to Prague in January.
I have just this evening pulled my thumb from my ass and got the photos together.

There are photos from the Museum of Sex Machines, from the Waxworks and generally from three days booting about the city.

There are precious few traditional pictures of Prague - more talented photographers than I have taken those already.

There are lots of pictures of stuff that I liked, or that made me laugh.

Come see…

Her thoughts
My thoughts

“Hello Emily! Goodness me! Are those your socks? They’re LOVELY socks! They’re pink, aren’t they? And they’ve got flowers on them too. Wow! What’s in your socks? Are your toes in there?”
“Yes.”

Of course they’re in there! Pah! Call yourself a medical professional?
Jesus kid, c’mon, trust me, please trust me, we’re way over the wrong side of town from the kids’ hospital, I really don’t want to spend the whole time talking to the back of your head while you cower into your mum’s shoulder.

“Oooh! THERE are your toes! Aaaaaaand….there are your legs!”

Cool, no rash there, no signs of pyrexic mottling, kid looks happy, makes eye contact, good colour, tired but not lethargic.

“Can I listen to your chest and back with my stethoscope?”
“Yeah.”

No rash on her chest or back either, lungs clear on both sides, breathing without effort.

“Now then, can we play a game? I’ve got this little light here and what I want you to do is see if you can follow it just by moving your head, so if it goes over….here, you’ve got to look over at it, that’s right, well done. And if it goes down here…perfect, that’s great.”

This is easy, cool wee torch, wonder if I can play with that?

Not bothered by the light in her eyes, good movement in the neck. This kid’s no more meningitic than I am, bloody NHS24, scared the shit out of the kid’s mum on the phone. Two more checks and we can head out to the vehicle, temperature and blood sugar.

“Ok Emily, I’m going to make a tiny little scratch on your finger, it’ll be a bit sore for a minute, but you have a cuddle with Mummy.”
“Naaaaoooo!”

She’s going to hate me for this…
I’m going to hate you if you hurt me.

“Once we’ve done this, we can find a special plaster for you, would you like a Cinderella one, or a Princess Jasmine one?”
Kids love cartoon plasters. Ace up my sleeve, baby.

“I don’ WANNA plaster!”
If I refuse the plaster, maybe he won’t jag me.
Whaddya mean you don’t WANT a plaster? Are you nuts? C’mon, Princess Jasmine. Princess *Jasmine*, dude!

*jag*
…*blink*…
…*breath*…

“AYYYYIEEEEE! MummEEEE! BLOOD!”
You bastard! You never said you’d make me BLEED!”
Fine, fine, blood sugar’s also grand. Nothing to worry about anywhere, she’s a bit warm to the touch though, let’s get a temperature off her

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry, I know it hurts, you’re VERY brave though. Shall we put a plaster on that and make it feel better?”
Refuse my plaster NOW, kid
You’re not getting away with this that easy, I’m BLEEDING.

“I. Don’. WAN’. A. PLAS-TAH!”
“Ok, ok, that’s fine, you don’t have to have one.”
“I’m bleeding!”
“I know, would you like to wipe it on that blanket?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, that’s fine, you can do that. Now, do you know how to play hide and seek?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Let’s see if we can hide this little stick under your arm and we’ll try and find it in a minute, ok?”
“No.”

No?
Dude, you made me bleed, you can shove this right up yourself, I’m not playing, I’m not cooperating, I’m doing nothing for you from now on. Ever.

“You don’t want to play hide and seek?”
“No.”

Jeez, I’ve really pissed this kid off, she’s emotionless and monosyllabic.

“Well, I’m going to play then, because I’ve got magic arms. See these little red dots? I’m going to see if my magic arms can change those red dots into blue ones.”
“*I’VE* got magic arms too.”
“HAVE you?”
“Yeah.”

Score, I’m in here…
You stabbed my finger.

“Well then, let’s look and see if my magic arms have worked. Oooooh! Look! Those dots have all changed colour! Now then, let’s see if YOUR arms are magic.”
“My arms ARE magic.”
“Great! Let’s put this stick under there then.”
“No.”

I’m going to win this one.
Sod it, I’ll pick my battles, I’d sooner have a happy kid without a temperature reading than a crying one with.

We arrive at PaedsA&E, she gets a “prize for being brave” (Tesco sells little toys ambulances for 50p! Score!) which she accepts graciously and passes to her mum. She lifts a hand to her shoulder height, grabs my first and second finger and walks with me to the nurses station, where, thanks to two days observing, I’m greeted by name with smile, banter and teasing - “We *told* you to do the sore bits last, Kal, did we teach you nothing? Fancy a cuppa?”

I slug a cup of hot tea, natter to C the plaster technician and wriggle my shoulders back into my coat, return the friendly farewell wave from my patient as I pass the waiting room and push some buttons on the radio.

Next job, please.

So it turns out that Tamiflu can cause delirium and hallucinations.

I know this because the radio told me this morning (in, it must be said, a far less detailed report than that linked to above), warning “People considering abusing the drug” of it’s possible side-effects.

Does it strike anyone else as strange that national media is alerting people to prescription drugs that can get you high?

“I had the flu, and felt terrible, but it’s ok now, because I took an extra dose of the medicine the doctor gave me and now this green pterodactyl and gigantic talking spatula are keeping me company.”

Please stop taking drugs and then phoning us complaining that you feel funny.
That’s what they’re there for.

The phone rang almost as soon as we’d checked the vehicle and boiled the kettle (hey, priorities).

“That’s a heroin OD in #### Place, flat four.”

Heroin is a horrendous drug, not just because of its long term damage and addictive properties, but due to its effects on the brain’s respiratory centre. An overdose will drop a patient’s “desire” to breathe through the floor.

We were flagged down by a cop, the street filled with police cars, parked like childrens’ toys across the asphalt.

Up the stairs, following the sounds of yelling and crying and into a flat, sticky carpet, knackered brown sofa, enormous wide-screen TV cranked up to ultimo.

There on the floor was a bloke I picked up a month ago, drunk and incapable that time, but things were apparently a little more serious today.

His face was the colour of a blueberry, his hands lay limp at his side, curled in loose half-fists and (and this was the biggest clue of all) a police officer was performing highly effective and very vigorous CPR on him.

I love finding people doing CPR, not just because it keeps dead people viable and gives them a fighting chance, but because it shows me that at least one person on scene has their head screwed on and is prepared to get stuck in and do what’s necessary.

I clapped the cop on the shoulder as I walked in, “Nice one mate, keep going, with you in a minute.”

He nodded, dipping his head down to the patient’s face.

I dug out a BVM (Bag-Valve Mask, the squeezy breathey thing you see on telly) and got the cop to help me haul the patient into the middle of the room. Shoving an airway into his mouth, I snuggled my fingers against his trachea, put my ear against his mouth, felt and listened.

A pulse of 120, breathing four times a minute. Classic heroin OD. Thankfully he hadn’t reached the point at which his body becomes so starved of oxygen that his heart stops, though the increased rate was indicative of his systems working overtime to circulate the precious little O2 in his bloodstream.

I bagged him vigorously, flooding him with air while my partner and mentor, Pally, got access to his veins. We were planning on giving him Naloxone, or Narcan, a drug which rapidly reverses opiate effects in the body. It’s a great drug as it transforms apparently dead people into walking, talking patients, though it’s rarely appreciated as some addicts complain, on coming round, that we’ve spoiled their hit!

Within a minute he was struggling against our hands, choking on the airway in his throat, twisting his face away from the mask. He sat up, looked round and said “Thanks guys, I’m fine now, see you.”
“You really need to come to hospital, mate, the drugs we’ve given you only work for a short while, there’s a good chance you could collapse again.”
“No, no, really, I feel fine.”
“Yes, you FEEL fine, but you’re not, you were almost dead a minute ago.”
“I’m not going to hospital.”

PC CPR wandered over, sweat still on his brow from his efforts earlier, he made a show of scanning the flat.
“I see needles, tin foil, baggies, pipes…I have more than enough reason to detain you. Wanna go to the cells, or to the hospital?”
I could tell he was restraining himself from saying “And I just saved your life, you ingrate junkie bastard.”

The patient looked at the three of us and saw sense.
“I’ll be coming to hospital, then, eh?”

He was perfectly civil all the way in, in fact at one point I flicked the little musical note button on the side of the ambulance and we both sang along to “Fairytale of New York” as we pulled into hospital. He jabbered junkie-pish in between verses, but was friendly enough. It’s something of a rarity, in this job.

Thanks for all the donations you guys have made, I’m thrilled to see the money racking up. Jon made a minor faux pas in the comments using my name, but it’s not like I’ve ever gone to great lengths to anonymise TQ. I write under Kal for the benefit of my patients, in the same way as I change their names, locations and conditions.

My name’s been published on here multiple times before, as has my photo, anonymity runs to various depths, Reynolds writes under Reynolds, but published using his true name, s’all good.

Ta

Kal (yes, Kal)