An Ode To Frequent Fliers

I was paying my daily visit to The LawDog Files this morning, browsing through some of his archives, and came across the post about Benny and one of his numerous suicide attempts while Fooblicly Intoxidated.

Heh heh heh. Dawg, there is indeed a critter cloning device and like you said, the sodding thing is set on “high.”

EMS has its critters as well. Call ’em what you will – frequent fliers, trolls, gomers or the Foley Patrol – they give this job its flavor. Whether they are the lonely old grandmother who calls 911 because she is lonely, or the chronic inebriate who always seems to get sick right before the meal trays are distributed at the local hospital, more often than not they are the EMT’s raison d’être.

If nothing else, they provide us with fodder for war stories and an excuse, however flimsy, to use a cool word like raison d’être.

Go ahead, look it up. You know you want to. Feel free to drop it into casual conversation at the next cocktail party.

Sooooo, I thought I’d pen a missive to the much maligned, unappreciated frequent flier.

Miss Clara, maybe one in fifty of your calls to our dispatch center was a legitimate medical emergency. But in between bowls of sugar free ice cream and teaching you how to program your VCR and speed dial, I learned about your kids, grandkids, what it was like during the Depression and scores of other things. You took a green paramedic with more ego than knowledge and taught him a life’s lesson on compassion. And if heaven is truly the place where we’re most happy, there’s a television parked right in front of your recliner, and it’s playing a 24/7 Jerry Springer marathon. Enjoy today’s episode of Lesbian Stripper Midgets and The Men Who Love Them.

Joey, cerebral palsy kept you chained to a bed for your entire life. Yet not once did I see anything but a smile on your face. You and your mother taught me lessons about resilience that have served me well in raising my own daughter. And for the medical professionals who called you mentally retarded – well, I’ve noticed that you never tried to grope the ugly nurses when they lean over you. You’re a kid after my own heart.

Tank, alcohol is not a recognized seizure medication. Look it up. And while I can look back fondly now at the times I’ve dealt with you, I think both humanity and my nerves would be in better shape if you just took your freaking Dilantin. And try to remember to keep your pecker in your pants, Big Boy.

Gary, Gary, Gary…where do I begin? I promise never again to hand you a box of EKG electrodes and tell you they’re aspirin patches, but you had it coming at the time.

Next time I post, I’ll tell you all about my love-hate relationship with Gary, the big turd floating in the Gene Pool.

Until then…