Ambulance Driver Files A Day in the Life | Kelly Grayson
When last we left our intrepid hero, he had managed to obtain a midnight flight to Boston…
(hey, that almost sounds like a good song title, doesn’t it?)
Well, flash forward 36 hours. The Publisher had activated the Paramedic Underground Railroad to speed me on my way to Bartlett, New Hampshire in time to make my scheduled lectures.
One friend met me at Logan, bearing a brand new set of duds that she had managed to procure at a big and tall men’s emporium somewhere (complete with a totally cool new invention, the zipper tie). Said friend not only refused to accept repayment for the clothes, she then drove me to the wilds of New Hampshire to the next stop on The Railroad…
…where The Editor picked me up and drove me to her home to bunk for the night. A whopping four hours later, we got up for the drive to Bartlett. I would almost call it a restful four hours, save for the fact that my CPAP was in my luggage, still somewhere in transit, and I spent those hours alternating between drooling on the pillow and staying awake enough to maintain my own airway…
…and as it turns out, it should have been only three hours of sleep, not four. It seems that The Editor and I had gotten our signals crossed when she asked, “When do you have to be there tomorrow?”
“Eight sharp,” I replied through the fatigue. Sadly, she thought I was allowing for a little setup time before the lecture, a few minutes for schmoozing and coffee, resolving the inevitable computer issues, etc.
Silly woman. After all, she edited The Book. She above all people should understand my lack of appreciation for linguistic nuance.
So what should have been a leisurely, scenic drive into the White Mountains turned into a mad dash through the countryside, complete with white knuckles and tires squealing, culminating with us pulling up to the conference center at precisely 7:59 am.
The Publisher, being the consummate huckster and showman that he is, had all 150 people waiting outside, with the front rank holding a big cardboard sign that said:
I literally walked inside, hooked up the ‘puter and started talking. I may have even made sense. Hey, stranger things have happened. I’m reasonably certain I was coherent for my last lecture of the day.
And thanks to mi amigo Julio, Continental Airlines did indeed manage to have my luggage couriered the three hours north to the conference center. Judging by how long it took, I suspect they actually did have to hire a Sherpa and an oxcart to get it there. But, I was able to actually rest that first night, and change into a decent suit the next morning.
Plus, there was one of those Naked Woman In Peril Shannon Tweed Soft Core Porno movies on Skinemax that night, so that rocked. Which movie it was, I couldn’t tell you. They’re all the same flick anyway.
So I was fresh when I gave my closing keynote address the next day. I had been warned not to expect much of a turnout, because most of the participants are hung over from the night before. At most conferences, the Closing Keynote slot is the equivalent of the Miss Congeniality prize; the committee’s way of saying “you’re a swell guy, but not headliner material.”
But the room was packed. Maybe a thousand people.
Okay, okay, maybe three hundred.
All right, all right. Enough with the skeptical looks, people! I actually have no idea how many people were in the ballroom, but there were no empty chairs, okay? Satisfied?
The point is, I rocked. I was funny, and captivating and inspirational, all at the same time. People wept. They laughed. The women threw their panties on the stage. The only Crickets were the lighters people held up as they swayed in unison. Rose petals crunched under my feet as I left the room. A pregnant woman vowed to name her child Ambulance Driver. Several of the younger EMTs started a cult in my name. The mayor asked me to redesign the city’s EMS system.
You’re not buying this, are you?
Would you at least be willing to believe that everyone stayed awake?
Some of them even stopped by my table later and bought a few signed copies of The Book. The Double Wide Fund swelled noticeably. While I was sitting there visiting with some very nice people, I started to feel a little…funny.
“Are you okay?” asked The Editor, concerned. “You look a little pale.”
“Actually, I am feeling a little woozy all of a sudden.”
“Well, you certainly look it. You’re sweating bullets, too.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna go up to the room and lay down,” I tell her. I sign perhaps a dozen more copies of the book with a generic “Best wishes, Ambulance Driver” and hurry upstairs.
I barely made it to my bathroom before I did the Technicolor Yawn in the toilet. After puking so hard and so long that I was tempted to check for organs in there before I flushed, I rinsed my mouth with the handy hotel-sized generic mouthwash they give you and lay down on the bed for a minute.
And then the pain started.
Not a Godawful pain, mind you – just a twinge, right there in the center of my chest. Maybe a 3 on the pain scale. Nothing to worry about.
It’s reflux. Yeah, that’s what it is. Nature’s way of telling you, ‘lay off the spices and the greasy foods, Lard Ass.’
I shift uncomfortably on the bed. Drink a little water. The pain doesn’t subside.
Well, I did have the all-over total body spasm when I was puking in the bathroom. Perhaps I pulled something. Nothing as bad as the abdominal muscle I pulled wiping my ass that one time, but still.
I shift around on the bed. Breathe deeply. Gingerly prod my sternum. Wave my arms around. Nothing makes the pain better, or worse.
Okay, so it’s not muscle pain. It’s not pleuritic pain. I really, really wish it had been one of those. On the other hand, I’m not having any problems breathing, nor am I nauseous any more. The pain doesn’t radiate anywhere.
I shift around a little more, trying to get comfortable. I look longingly at my cell phone lying on the table and think about calling s
omeone.
Naaaaahhh. Hell, it’s not even a bad pain, just this vague, dull ache right in the middle of my chest. I’m only 37 years old. I’m waaaay too young to have a heart attack…
And then the other inner voice, the Evil Cynical One, says:
Yeah, and you’re also way overweight and you eat like you think lard is one of the major food groups.
Yeah, but this isn’t cardiac pain. This is just indigestion.
Keep saying that, Denial Boy. You’ll damage that ticker so much you’ll have to take stool softeners because a good firm shit will kill you.
No way. Indigestion.
Heart attack.
INDIGESTION!
HEART ATTACK!
Shut up, Evil Cynical Voice. If I could just BURP, I’d feel better.
Yeah, and how many times have you heard THAT from some poor sap having The Big One?
Shit, you’re right. This is stupid.
I roll over, grab the phone and thumb the speed dial button:
AD: “Hey Editor? I was wondering if you could come up here for a minute. Nothing really important, just come check on me when you get a chance.”
Editor: “Sure, give me about twenty minutes. I have to box up the rest of these books first. Feeling any better?”
AD: “Ummm, I’m not puking any more. Just come up here when you get a chance, okay?”
Editor: “Sure thing. Are you sure you’re all right?”
AD: “Just fine. And um, Editor? If you could, without making a big production out of it, could you maybe uh, discretely ask one of the vendors if you can borrow one of their cardiac monitors? Get one with a 12-lead EKG.”
Editor: “Oh, shit.” Click.
In about 13.54 seconds, I heard a pounding on the door. It swung open (because apparently in my haste to make it to the bathroom, I had forgotten to close it all the way), and The Editor barged into the room, all out of breath.
“Okaydescribethepaindoesitradiateanywhereanyproblemsbreathinganynauseaorweakness…”
“Editor. Breathe. Calm down.”
“Don’t you tell me to calm down! Now tell me about this chest pain.” Behind her, I hear the Thundering Herd pounding up the stairs, and the Bound Tree rep bursts into the room, propelled on a virtual tidal wave of people.
“Is he okay?” he gasps breathlessly.
“Just fine,” say Editor and I in unison. “Who are the rest of these people?”
“Well,” he says sheepishly, “you kind of ran off and left me before I could find some electrodes for the monitor. I asked someone where you went, and they pointed me this way and asked what was the emergency, and I might have said, ‘It looks like Ambulance Driver is having a heart attack.’ So they all followed me up here. Sorry.”
*sigh*
Never get sick at an EMS conference, people. On the bright side, I had a Who’s Who of Emergency Medical Services attending me.
“Here’s some oxygen,” said Well Known Disaster Management Specialist. “And chew up these aspirin, too.”
“Lift up your tongue,” commanded the Editor (no slouch as a medic herself), as she squirted a dose of Nitro under my tongue.
“Give me your right hand,” said Famous EMS Cartoonist as he prepared to start an IV. The Bound Tree rep busied himself with acquiring the EKG.
“Tell me about your chest pain,” commanded Well Known Emergency Physician.
“Any family history of heart disease?” Nationally Recognized Pediatric Emergency Physician wanted to know.
“Lemme see that 12-Lead printout,” commanded Critical Care Paramedic And Cardiology Book Author. He looked at it and clucked. “Hmmm, you have some non-specific inferolateral T wave abnormality -“
“Are you sure it isn’t just the lead placement?” interjected Cardiology Author For A Competing Publisher.
I. Am. Going. To. Die.
“Hey guys, it really isn’t all that bad,” I try to say. “The pain is pretty much gone by now and – ouch!”
“Sorry about that,” says Famous EMS Cartoonist as he tapes down my IV.
“Is the Nitro helping with your chest pain?” someone else asks.
“What’s the frequency response on that 12-lead machine? And are you sure it isn’t lead placement?” Competing Publisher’s Cardiology Author asks again, to the withering looks of his colleagues.
“I’ll have you know I placed those electrodes myself,” huffed the Bound Tree rep, “and this machine’s recognition algorithm has been validated in numerous clinical – “
“Okay, EVERYBODY OUT!” bellowed The Editor. “IF YOU’RE NOT THE MEDICS WHO ARE DOING THE TRANSPORT, LEAVE THE ROOM!”
I get up to leave, and she pushes me back into the bed. “Not you, dumbass. You’re the patient, and you’re going to shut up and be a good one, understand?”
“You, get a history and physical exam,” she says, pointing to Well Known Emergency Physician. “Everybody else, thanks for your help. Now go.”
Inside of five minutes, I had been IV’
ed, oxygenated, Nitro’ed, monitored, packaged on a stretcher, folded, spindled and mutilated. And as we got off the elevator, they pushed me past a receiving line of EMTs all the way to the ambulance. People wished me luck. The pregnant woman again vowed to name her child after me. My new cult chanted and burned incense. Someone broke out a tambourine. Famous EMS Cartoonist handed me a signed copy of his latest book and gave me a manly hug.
“I better not see this day immortalized in a cartoon,” I warned him, winking. “This is my material.“
Outside, The Editor gave me one last warning before they shut the doors to the rig. “Be a good patient,” she admonished, wagging her finger at me.
“Anything you need us to do?” asked the lead medic. I think they were a little bit in awe of her.
“Yeah,” she said, considering. “Do whatever AD tells you to do, right up to the point where he loses consciousness.” Then she slammed the doors.
“Ooookay,” observed Lead Medic. “You heard the lady.”
“Just do your job, fellas,” I sigh. “Not much else to be done, anyway. The pain went away after the first Nitro, and right now I’m feeling a little foolish.”
“I really liked your pediatrics lecture yesterday,” offers Junior Medic.
“Thanks,” I grin. “Did you catch any of them today?”
“Nope,” Lead Medic shakes his head ruefully. “Today’s a duty day. We couldn’t get off for the entire conference.”
We spent the ride to the hospital laughing and swapping war stories. It was fifteen enjoyable minutes of “Can You Top This?” Judging from their stories, they have the same critters in New Hampshire that we have in Louisiana.
When we got to the hospital, I was greeted by the doctor, who took one look at my 12-Lead, did a new one and pronounced my problem to be gastric reflux, although he did draw blood for a cardiac workup, “just to be sure.”
Turns out the ER tech was present at the conference the day before, as was the ER nurse. And several of the medics who brought in patients to other rooms. It was a constant stream of “Hey, what are you doing in here?”
After being interrupted by a dozen or so phone calls, the ER nurse just brought a cordless phone into the room and told me to answer if it rang, since it was probably for me anyway.
I tell ya, I was definitely feeling the love. It almost made me want to move to New Hampshire. Except for that whole nine months of winter thing, I might have.
About the only people who didn’t recognize me were three meek little souls wearing lab coats, standing quietly in the corner.
“And who are you?” I inquired politely.
“EMT students,” they answered.
“Reeeeaaaallllyyyy. Seen any patients yet?”
“You’re the first one,” pipes the bravest one. “It’s been kinda slow.”
“That’s because you’re still in the White Cloud Stage,” I answered. “Soon, you’ll move into the Shit Magnet Stage and the staff here will be looking forward to the final day of your rotations.”
One of them, a girl who looks about fifteen, giggles, but none of them move out of their corner.
“Is that stethoscope around your neck ornamental, or do you actually use it for something?” I sigh. They look confused. “You’re not going to learn anything standing over in the corner with your thumbs up your asses. Get over here.”
As they cautiously approach the bedside, I tell the brave one, “You, listen to my chest.” To the other one, “You get to take my blood pressure. No, a manual pressure. After you get one, then you can use the machine.”
The meekest one is still standing there, giving off that Please Don’t Call On Me vibe. Fat chance of that.
“Hey you,” I call out. “Yes, you. Get your butt over here and hook me up to their cardiac monitor.” He looks scared to death. “Hey, nothing to it,” I reassure him. “White to Right, Red to Ribs, and Smoke Over Fire. Piece of cake.”
Fumbling a bit, he gets the monitor leads on and looks in fascination at the screen. The nurse chuckles and walks out of the room.
“Cool!” he gushes, getting a little braver. “Is that your heart rhythm?”
“Yep,” I confirm. “They call that normal sinus rhythm.” Thank God.
They all crowd around and I point out the parts of the EKG waveform and their significance. I also make them each perform a full assessment on me while I waited for my lab results. Hey, it’s what I do.
Thankfully, my labs were normal, so I got a GI cocktail and a quick discharge, after assuring the ER doc that I’d make an appointment with my primary care physician once I got home. Maybe an hour after I was wheeled in, The Editor came through the door.
“Everything okay?” she asked, concerned.
“Apparently so. The Doc thinks it was reflux, but I’m not so sure. So, I’ll get a cardiology workup when I get home. What took you so long in getting here?”
“Well, I wasn’t through packing books when you called,” she said with a wry grin. “Plus, after you left, a lot more people stopped by the booth to buy a copy. Apparently, they figured your signature might become valuable soon.”
“Sorry to disappoint them,” I chuckle. “So you sold the last twelve signed copies?”
“Actually,” she confided sotto voce, “We’re almost sold out. I forged your signature on the last boxful. Only three copies left.”
“Hmmm, interesting. As it happens, I think I may have buyers for the last three copies right here,” I mused, grinning evilly at the EMT students.
They bought ’em, too.