ECG electrodes do not burn, so why do you scream like I’m pressing phosphorous into your skin?

The SpO2 probe, while a pain in the ass, is effectively a big plaster wrapped round your toe. You weren’t even USING your toe when I put it on, why then do you howl as though I’m peeling you?

My stethoscope is warm, I know it is, it lives inside my shirt. It even has a cute little heart sticker on it. Node ripped me apart about it, and he’s a bigger softy than I am. My steth is lovely, so why do you lament my pressing it to your sides as though it’s a small and angry combine harvester?

The flow of oxygen from that tube is not alight, it’s cool and gentle, I’ve even turned it down a wee bit - you’re not wearing a mask, because I know you’ll hate it and wrestle with me, I’ve just left the tube by your face, gently upping the oxygen levels around your mouth and nose.
So why, little post-ictal baby, are you making noises that suggest the oxygen is a mother bear trying to reach her wayward cubs who are hiding behind your septum?

It’s a blanket… everyone gets wrapped in one…I have no words…stop being such a pussy.

But this…this will hurt. This little spike is jaggy and mean, I’m going to push it into your heel and squeeze your tiny kicky wriggly foot until a spot of blood comes out, it’s going to feel like stepping on a Lego gin trap with bare feet in the middle of the night. I’m going to make you bleed, little baby and you’re going to hate me, you’ll wail to the roof that I’m actually exfoliating you down to your knees with a monkey puzzle tree.

Are you ready?

*click*

You’ve gone to sleep.

You obviously have no idea how this game is played.

Because the posts I write here COULD read like this:

First of two case studies I’ve had to write in my first year…I’m rather proud of the fact that I’ve got all the way through writing this without using the words “schlong”, “winkie” or “oohyahbastard” ONCE.

Seventeen floors towards heaven and the two of us blunder out of the lift. The landing is busy with folk in their dressing gowns, two cops stand uneasily at the edge of the group, their radios icy blue against their chests, hands tucked into the arm holes of their vests. The RRU Paramedic is standing over a body slumped on a doormat. From a distance, you’d be persuaded that the guy was seriously ill. ECG, BP, BM, a cannula in his arm, oxygen clamped to his face.

I glance at the times I noted on my glove when we were passed this job, the paramedic’s been on scene with this guy for a good twenty minutes, we were told it was just a drunk.

Ahhh. He’s not worried about the patient. He’s been keeping busy, seen to be doing something.

The crowd turn to us and make Casualty comments, I tell them that Josh never gets puked on, nor does he stand up to find he’s been kneeling in pish. They wave my comments away, I’m part of the entertainment tonight, they’ve been called from their flats into the stair just as surely as if a ringmaster had hollered for them. The circus is in town and a clown is the main act.

He’s a big boy, a very big boy and he smells monumentally of alcohol…I’m scared to turn my mobile phone on, lest a spark ignites his aura and the backdraft blows us all out of the windows to float to the concrete like so manyAmaretto wrappers.

“Just drunk?”

The paramedic nods.

“Seems to be, nothing otherwise of note about him, all his obs are normal, he’s got ID in his pockets.”

I look round at the throng.

“Anyone know him?”

They shrug, shake their heads.

“So what the hell is he doing up here?”

“Up here” is the top floor of a notorious block in my patch, it’s the kind of place where you park the ambulance a distance away from the building in case people drop stuff of the balconies onto you. If I wouldn’t get the shit ripped from me, I’d wear my hard hat when walking in.

“He was dumped.”

I don’t even have words, my face apparently says “?!”

The owner of the doormat currently supporting our patient’s cheek coughs, speaks up.

“I was watching telly.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And there was a knock on the door, and when I got here there were three laddies and him. He was in a wheelchair. They upended the chair and dropped him on the floor, then ran off. I don’t know where they went.”

I don’t believe this. People are playing tap-door-run, only instead of leaving flaming dog shits, they’re leaving steaming piss heads.

“Do we think it was his wheelchair?”
“We dunno.”
“Right…let’s get him up.”

My partner drops to his knee and knuckles the drunk’s jaw - “C’mon pal, wake up!”.
Nada.
The paramedic joins him, digging into the clavicle.
Zip.
I take a finger-full of under-arm flesh and nip (I’m a big lassie, I know, but by Christ it hurts).
Goose eggs.

He’s REALLY drunk, I marvel at alcohol’s ability to anaesthetise and wonder if you could perform minor surgery on this guy?

I go downstairs and get the trolley (thanking the developers of the block for installing a ‘coffin’ lift, where it’s long enough to get someone lying down in. Back upstairs and we load him onto the bed and roll him back downstairs, the crowd thanking and joking with us as we leave.

We never found out why he was dumped, if the guys who dumped him knew him, or kidnapped him, or what. But I’m confident it wasn’t his wheelchair, because I saw him staggering to a bus stop outside A&E at the end of my night shift.

I was going to tell you all this story, but I told it to Amber with feeling, so I give you all the transcript.

kalshassan: Dude
kalshassan: I hope it was worth it
kalshassan: Because taking your kids to your Mum’s?
kalshassan: Via my ‘clever - It’s ok, I know that route’ route?
foofoo_bunny: oh dear….
kalshassan: Holy fucking shit
foofoo_bunny: oh I am so sorry
kalshassan: I think it’s testament to my wonder
foofoo_bunny: how long did it take
kalshassan: That I didn’t fall on your Mum’s lawn
kalshassan: And exclaim
kalshassan: “holy fucking shit”
kalshassan:
foofoo_bunny: LOL
foofoo_bunny: heeeeeeeeeeeeee
foofoo_bunny: *snort*
kalshassan: It was about quarter to two by the time I got there/got on the road
foofoo_bunny: I am soooooooooo sorry
kalshassan: Not your fault, I made an arse of going there
foofoo_bunny: nooooooooooooo
kalshassan: Shoulda taken your advice
kalshassan: The two highlights?
foofoo_bunny: I’m sayin nuttin
foofoo_bunny: ?
kalshassan: Were Rosie declaring from the back “It doesn’t USUALLY take this long to get to Mammy’s”
foofoo_bunny: heeeee
kalshassan: As I swore under my breath and through gritted teeth
kalshassan: She was very good about it
foofoo_bunny: *giggle*
foofoo_bunny: you’re crackin me up
kalshassan: I said “Baby, I’m getting a bit upset about being lost…can you see how saying stuff like that might not help?”
kalshassan: She nodded
kalshassan: She was great
kalshassan: It was Daniel flinging himself across the back seat and moaning “We’re LOST….we’ll NEVER get there…we’re gonna DIE in the car.”
foofoo_bunny: so how late were you for yur friend
kalshassan: That earned him a “Daniel…..”
kalshassan: Not late at all
kalshassan: A little more hurried/harried than I woulda liked
kalshassan: Oh
kalshassan: And then, as I pulled onto the Carfin road?
kalshassan: A cat ran out in front of me
foofoo_bunny: ?
kalshassan: I hit the brakes
kalshassan: My CD wallet skited off the front passenger seat
kalshassan: and smooshed an egg INTO the carpet
foofoo_bunny: *cackle*
kalshassan: I allowed myself a “FUCKING FUCK FUCK!!”
kalshassan: I felt I’d earned it
foofoo_bunny: you should blog this convo

So I did.

Fantastic words at ImpactEDNurse.

I grab a member of staff at the nursing station in A&E.

“I’ve got a favour to ask.”

She’s cynical and suspicious.

“Mmmmmhmmm?”

“I’ve got a lad out in the vehicle, he’s pissed as a fart, full of valium, all over the place. We found him wandering about CrappyEstate, he can walk, but he was trying to get into peoples houses, looking for his mates.”

“Where’s his house?”

“He’s in a hostel on the other side of town. Look, if I’d left him there he would have been chibbed, or we’d be scraping him off the bottom of a taxi or something. I’m not in the mood for dead sixteen year olds.”

“So what are you asking?”

“Can I stick him in the waiting room? He’s a nice lad, really, he’s been polite and friendly and grateful, I’m sure he’ll be no bother.”

“Yeah, sure, we’ll keep an eye on him.”

I return to the vehicle and walk my punter into the department. He glances around, pushes away from me, throws both hands in the air and roars to the ceiling.

“Ahm gonnae go fuckin’ MENTAL!”

I sit him down, tell him off and leave him to it.

He wanders out of the department twenty minutes later and falls asleep on a bench in the car park.

*sigh*

Further developments.

There are a number of ways that posts arrive here. Some, like Traffic
Lights are the result of a busy week, they’re editted and rewritten
and hopefully are the better works. On other occasions I’ll make an
observation, or come up with an image or phrase that I’m particularly
pleased with and it’ll get scrawled in my trusty Moleskine notebook.
“irises under February ice” is probably the best example of
this, an image that struck me while i was busy doing something more
important.

In other situations a job might be too sensitive or recognisable in
its details. These jobs get turned into poems.

Then finally there are the little posts that come from my phone,
thoughts or worries or insights that stand alone, but wouldn’t have
enough meat on their bones for a big post.

It is for these moments that I’ve activated a Twitter account. Twitter
allows you to subscribe to feeds, like your RSS reader, and either
have Twitter store the arbitrary thoughts and musings of your contact
list or have them sent to your phone as a text message. It creates a
cloud of often whimsical information thatspreads over as many or few
people as have chosen to listen. The concept resonates firmly with my
faith and belief in community, it’s immediate (because I’m impatient)
and asynchronous (because I’m an arrogant cunt who only wants to
process contact from people on my own schedule).

Communities don’t talk enough, we don’t get in touch and we don’t
share information and that’s a shame, and dangerous.

The recent gas main explosion in Manhattan was Twittered long before
the news syndicates said anything about it.

It’s the ultimate in free journalism and I’m already a big fan.

I’ve installed a widget on the blog, there on the left that will let
you register with the service and “follow” my twitters as I write
them. They may be fascinating, they may be bollocks, but occasionally
you’ll get a heads up on future posts as their seeds get thrown this
way.

Just cos I like the shot and wanted to share it with you guys.

A steady night shift, a dependable partner in the back and a feeling that all is well with the world. My finals are done, I’m fully qualified and I can settle my spine into the chair of the motor. Gone is the desire to be everywhere as soon as possible, gone is the flutter of fear when the radio bleeps. I’m comfortable in my two skins, my own and the green epauletted one I haul on each day. All is good.

We’ve an urgent job away down in TinyVillage, the GP thinks she’s fractured her pelvis and has been walking around on it for a few days. A wee run up to A&E for x-rays will give us a conclusive answer and it’s our job to lift her, hold her and shuffle her backwards onto the trolley. The partner in the back makes small talk and I can slip my sunglasses on against the early evening orange glow, turn the CD player up a couple of notches and sing gently to myself as the miles roll away.

We’re in rural Central Scotland, hedgerows, grasslands, fields and farm tracks. The wee boy from the country in me thrills inwardly as I take my eyes off the road to keek up at the buzzards perched on the telegraph poles. The chat from the back erupts into laughter, we’re all happy and comfy and getting on with getting on.

Down the hill towards the hospital and I’m drumming my fingers on the radio’s keys, letting the system know that we’ve arrived. A hop out of the cab into the ambulance bay, shoot the shit with loitering colleagues as I pass, step sideways to let a couple past me, my chin dipping to my chest, a murmured “Sir, ma’am” betraying my years at the Supreme Court.

I crack open the back doors, the patient is sitting up and smiling, her son is smiling, my partner is smiling. I crack a joke about how happy they all look, perhaps my partner’s been slipping them “the good stuff”.

I have no idea what ‘the good stuff’ is that I’m referring to and neither do they, but we all laugh anyway.

The patient’s son steps out of the back of the vehicle, my hand hovering under his elbow as he disembarks and I lean on the button to deploy the ramp. We unclip the trolley from its mountings and my mouth, unbidden, spouts the speech I always deliver at this point.

“Keep your hands on your tummy for me, my love. Wee bit bumpy going down the ramp, but you’re quite safe.”

And then, because it’s a nice day and I can get away with it.

“And just scream if you wanna go faster.”

I catch her eye and twinkle at her, she beams back.

And then just as we’re about to roll through the door and into the hospital, there’s a flurry at my elbow. A woman taps me on the shoulder and as I turn I see an older lady wearing a black dress and an intense stare.

I recognise her…from somewhere.

It hits me once I realise the reason behind that stare, it’s the stare of someone who needs total eye contact to communicate with you. She signs at me.

“My mum…my mum.”

The women embrace, the younger turns back to me.

*Hi. You ok?*
*Good, thanks. You ok?*
*Ok. Bryan’s %%%%*

I don’t know the sign, an open hand beside the head as though sleeping that suddenly falls away, but I can lip read. My eyes translate the tactile ticking of her tongue against her teeth, the hollow drop of her mouth and retraction of her lips as she forms the vowels in the middle.

The rude, blustering plosives of the second part seal it for me.

“Dead…brain haemhorrage.”

I falter, a hollow kick in the bottom of my gut. Lacking the words to express what I want to, I’m stuck rubbing my fist against my chest *Sorry.Sorry.* and walk away with the trolley to book her mother in.

I see death every week, it shouldn’t phase me, but my memories of Bryan and that day are strong and fond and have a visceral effect that’s hard to define. I catch up with the daughter in the waiting room and she paitently explains to me that Bryan lasted four hours in A&E after we dropped him off, whereupon his brain bled out catastrophically. At four hours, he may not have even made it out of the ED and onto a ward.

I didn’t know the guy, I don’t know this family, but perhaps if a shout for a social care review had arrived a little earlier, Bryan might’ve remembered his blood pressure medication that morning.

Or maybe it was just his time.

I’m not prepared to get used to this “Getting to know people before they die” bullshit. It’s why I decided against nursing, because I know I can’t handle it.

Driving back from Nerfboy’s this morning I spotted a car on its roof in a nearby field. No other motorists around, no police, no nobody.

I pulled over, hopped the fence and hustled down into the field, dropping onto my belly to look into the (thankfully empty) thoroughly squashed driver compartment.

It was only when I stood up that I realised I’d belly-flopped into an enormous pile of sheep shit.

Off for a shower, ’scuse me.