Sunday, December 24, 2006
Our response time to a patient with chest pain is in excess of 10 minutes. I ride along in the back of the fire ambulance, nervously contemplating various treatment modalities. Chest pain patients usually get treatments based on the acronym MONA: meaning Morphine, Oxygen, Nitro, and Aspirin. ...But that is after my assessment. I need to understand the patient's story, the onset of the pain and the patient's previous history. OPQRST. SAMPLE. I remember the differences between right and left sided heart failure. Check lung sounds. Check for distal edema. Do a 12 lead ECG. IV, Monitor, O2.
We arrive on scene and the patient doesnt have chest pain. He fell out of his wheelchair and his left leg hurts. Whoops.
There is no way to plan for this, no way to decide ahead of time what to do. Every patient is different, and the dispatch system leaves us with only the most vague descriptions. I am going to have to become good enough at this so that I dont have to plan, so that when I walk into a house and see a patient I am able to immediately react-- treat based on presentation and previous experience. I need to be fluid with my knowledge, ready with my treatments. Everything must already be on the tip of my tongue.
I am getting better at it. My preceptors say that I ask all the right questions, just that I ask them in a somewhat jumbled and disorganized manner. I ask things as I remember them. Sometimes it takes 5 minutes into a call before listening to lung sounds occurs to me. I learned early in class that the lungs should be first, but I'm busy processing. Busy looking at my patient and trying to understand which path I should go down.
Experienced medics have told me that I need to develop a system, an initial process that I run through for every single patient. Mental status, Airway, Breathing, Circulation. They're right there on the national registry sheets, but difficult to transform into real life. Do I really listen to lung sounds first on the patient who hurt his leg? I havnt been, but I should. Medics say that once I have this system, I will never miss anything important. I can focus on details while my hands go through the motions of the basics. Nothing, they say, gets overlooked.
I spend days at the fire house trying to come up with a system. This isnt something I can read in a book, not something another medic can tell me how to do. I no longer have instructors at the front of the classroom with laser pointers and powerpoint presentations. These days, my only teachers are those laying on the stretcher, in distress and asking me for help.
I do my best to keep my mind open despite my nervousness and the work I have to do. Every patient teaches me a different lesson.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
This time its for shortness of breath secondary to asthma. When we get there, the patient looks like death is just around the corner. She is breathing about 34 times a minute, doubled over in the tripod position and using just about every muscle in her body to breathe. Looking at her as I walk up to the front stoop where she is sitting, I can see how hard she is working. I can see the struggle.
I dont even try to talk with her, I know she cant answer. I take out my stethoscope and listen at four spots along her back. I can hear light wheezes, but not much else. Hardly any air movement. Despite this body heaving underneath my scope, her back pressing upward and downward as she tries to force air out of her plugged-up lungs, the battle is already being lost.
I look at my partner, who stands patiently despite the tremor of the situation. He gives me my moment to take the lead and I do. "Epi. Now." I say. He is already nodding, diving into the bag and finding the vial. I get the patient on oxygen with a nebulised breathing treatment.
"What concentration," he asks me- testing.
"One to one thousand," I fire back, reaching for the syringe. He pulls it back slightly.
He hands me the needle, I push it in. I remember to put the needle in the mini sharps box.
We put the patient on the stretcher and then into the ambulance. Flip on the lights, monitor goes on, oxygen moved over to the main in-house bottle. O2 saturation is at 85% despite the oxygen, treatment, and epinephrine. The patient doesn’t look any better. Lungs sound the same. We do routine ALS, exchanging glances all the while between ourselves. My preceptor looks at me like I am his partner, we work together as fluid as can be. He says things with his eyes that I - as another medic - understand. This patient is in trouble. We might need to tube her. How about another epi.
He gets the line while I call medical control for orders. My report is crisp and clean.
Enroute to your facility, 20 minutes out with a 51- five one - year old female from home in respiratory distress. The patient has a history of asthma, right now working very hard to breathe. Diffuse wheezes in both lungs, the patient isnt moving very much air. She had 3 puffs from an albuterol MDI prior to our arrival and we've given her 0.3 mg Epi SQ, 2 breathing treatments DuoNeb, all without change. Currently respiratory rate labored at 34 per minute, o2 saturation 84%. Blood pressure 167/72, heart rate 123. This patient has no cardiac history, I'm calling for a second 0.3 mg SQ epi and 125 mg solu medrol. Again our ETA is 20 minutes.
The doc gives us the orders without hesitation. "Drive safe," he tells us.
I draw up the medication and push it in. We reassess, reassess, and reassess. The patient is getting better. I can hear air movement in the lungs now. O2 saturation is up to 95%. She can speak now. "Thank you," she tells us. "Thank you thank you, you guys are awesome, thank you!"
We pull into the hospital and wheel the patient into the emergency department. They have a room waiting for us with a doctor already there. Three nurses standing at attention. Our patient is crying, deep sobs with long, clear breaths in between. I listen to each breath and marvel at how smooth they are. The ED team looks at us like we are crazy. "Is this the asthma? The one with the epi?"
I look at them with triumph on my face. "Yep. It is."
My partner and I, sitting in the EMS room, hunch over our run forms in silence. He stops for a moment in the middle of his writing, looks at me slightly. As stoic as can be. "Now that was more like it."
He goes back to writing. I can hardly do anything but grin at the blank run form.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
This story takes me too long to assimilate. I gather information from the patient, a worried family member, and a clueless volunteer EMT: all of which give me different stories, all at the same time. The patient's complaints bring to mind a dizzying array of potentially life-threatening conditions: pulmonary embolus, myocardial infarction, thoracic aortic aneurysm, the list goes on.
My precepting medic sits behind the airway seat all the while, leaned forward slightly as he stares at me.
The patient is already on oxygen, and the monitor is halfway on when my preceptor notices the pulse ox reading. He demands my stethoscope and listens to the woman's lungs himself. All is silent in the back of the ambulance while he evaluates my work. He looks up at me, frowning as he takes the scope out of his ear. "You called that clear??" He says it loudly, harshly. "Those lungs are NOT clear. They are decreased. All over." I wonder if I misheard, or perhaps this woman simply didnt take a deep enough breath for him to hear. It doesnt matter. I'm the student, I'm wrong. ...And her pulse ox is still 80.
I miss the IV. The vein is fairly obvious, and I stuck right on top of it, but I think it moved, or I moved, or something. I fiddle around with the needle for a few seconds as I feel the heavy eyes of the paramedic on me. I dont see him, but I know his face is angry. "Out of the way," he says, grabbing the needle from me. He holds the plastic end of the catheter lightly, and with the ease of experience, moves the needle no more than 1/8th of an inch upwards and to the right. The catheter fills with blood. He's in. The silent cabin fills with my embarrassment.
The monitor is all over the place. It looks like V-Fib. I give up on trying to figure out the rhythm. I pick out what I think are QRS complexes and note that they are regular and at an acceptable rate. The patient has good radial pulses which are also regular and in sync, so I dont worry about it for now. I attribute the rhythm to noise generated by the bumpy ambulance.
I try again to evaluate this patient's pain. This is perhaps the fourth time I've asked the same questions, but I just dont understand the story. The chest pain increases greatly with palpation and respirations, it is ten out of ten and "squeezing" in nature. It started this morning during breakfast. I ask questions in short bursts, rapid succession of memorized lists. I revert to standard questions as my mind goes blank trying to think about what the hell is going on. I go through OPQRST in order, without real regard for evaluating the patient's answers or following up on details.
My medic is visibly angry.
I do a stroke scale, which is zero. I manage to palpate the patient's body looking for deformities or bleeding. No deformities, everything hurts when I touch it.
We're finally at the hospital. Stepping out of the ambulance, dejected and upset with myself, I begin to remember things that I've forgotten. I dont have another set of vital signs other than those the BLS crew got before I arrived. They were normal then, but who knows if they are correct or even still valid now. I still dont really know what the lung sounds are. I didnt put the patient on the end-tidal CO2 detector, which would have helped describe her respiratory status. I dont know what medications the patient is taking. They are listed on the BLS run form but I never looked. Allergies? I have no idea.
My report to the triage nurse is all over the place. I admit to her that I dont really know what is going on, and explain the details that I was able to confirm. I have to ask to borrow the BLS run form to report the meds, history, and allergies. I dont even remember the patient's first name.
Back at the ambulance cleaning up my mess by myself, I fight off anger and frustration with the hope that this was a mere fluke. I'm better than this, I know I am. I think I am. My medic shakes his head as he walks past me, saying nothing. I follow him as he lights up a cigarette and try to explain myself. I tell him I'm sorry, that I dont know what happened. I know I was all over the place, I say. I know what I did wrong, I just dont know why I did it. I was nervous, and the lady wasnt making any sense with her story. I hope I dont sound like I'm making excuses. I'm trying to rationalize, to find a solution so that this doesn’t happen again.
My medic blows out a puff of smoke. "I could go from top to bottom with that call, and not say a goddamn single good thing about what you did." He tells me what I already knew. I asked questions too fast, and didnt follow up. I misheard the lung sounds. I "fucked myself up" on the IV by not pulling tension on the skin correctly. I put ALS before BLS. I didnt utilize my resources properly. It was a literal cookbook on things not to do during an assessment.
Sitting in the back of the ambulance as we bounce down the road towards our next posting location, I hang my head low. I am so much better than this on paper. I could sit down right now and write an entire flow-chart for the assessment of this patient, complete with differential diagnosises and their associated signs + symptoms. I look at my note cards from the call. Chickenscratch, disorganized. I was one of the top students in my class, but I'm beginning to realize the truth: this is much more difficult in real life.
I'm going to have to learn how to do this all over again.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Dispatched for the "unknown," and updated as "man not breathing" we raced to the address.
Down the darkened highway and over the Connecticut river, I was calm and collected. I thought about what laryngoscope blade I would use. A miller this time, perhaps. I used a mac on the last call and that went well, but I want to try as many different ways as possible. My partner and I joked about the possibility of arriving on scene and finding our "man not breathing" standing outside his house, waving to us. It would be awful, we thought, if after all this he turned out to be actually breathing.
An ambulance was already on scene when we got there, and as I walked towards the house the patient was already on his way out. 3 EMTs were pushing the stretcher quickly, a frantic look on their faces. One of them was bagging the patient, another holding the O2 tank. A third was pushing the stretcher quickly towards the ambulance.
"Does he have a pluse?" I shouted to them, immediately feeling stupid. Of course he has a pulse, nobody was doing CPR. They affirm that he does, and tell us the rest of the story: "22 year old male found on the floor by his girlfriend who says he was barely breathing and gurgling. We found him breathing at a rate of 4 per minute and started bagging. Dont have an airway yet. Girlfriend says he has a history of ETOH abuse but nothing narcotic." I thank them, and jump into the back of the ambulance.
I'm a little less calm now. The urgency of the EMTs has rubbed off on me a little bit, and I feel my heart start to pick up pace. I set the monitor on the bench seat and open up the big ALS bag. I try to prioritize my actions. First thing we need to do is get an airway, I think. An OPA should do for now. Next is monitor, IV, and drugs. I'm hoping this is another overdose that will wake up with narcan.
The patient is rolled into the back of the ambulance and when within reach, I look at the pupils. I am hoping for pinpoint, but what I see is only moderate constriction-- if at all. I wish that these things would be more definite. Constriction should be obvious, normal presentation should be universal. I am stuck with an assessment that serves only to produce more questions rather than answer them. Maybe opiates, maybe not.
I refocus, opening the patient's mouth and inserting an OPA as I direct an EMT to continue bagging. The monitor goes on and I see a rate of 110, in sequence with a pulse that I check at the carotid artery. O2 saturation is in the high 90's, lung sounds clear and equal with bagging. Good.
Time for the IV. I get a hold of the patient's arm and move it so that I have full access to the underside. I strap on a tourniquet and to my dismay, nothing pops up. No obvious veins. I rub my gloved hand up and down the forearm, pressing lightly over the AC space. Nothing. I begin to sweat as I pull my gloves on tighter. Maybe I'll feel something if it weren’t for these damn gloves. My partner, seeing my difficulty, looks over my shoulder. "Right there," he says, pointing to a spot on the forearm. "See it there?" I dont. I feel over the spot, it feels vaguely spongy but nothing to get excited about. I confirm again where he was pointing, my voice trailing off as I admit that I cant see it. "Go for it," he says, "its right there." He hands me a 20 gauge needle and I stick the patient's arm at the spot where I was told. No flash in the catheter. I'm not in. I move the needle slowly from right to left, feeling with my other fingers as I go. I cant see anything, cant feel anything. I am fumbling in the dark.
I try again with a different needle in a different spot. Again, no flash. I slowly fan the needle from left to right, hoping. I can feel everyone watching me. My partner, the two EMTs in the back of the ambulance, the frantic girlfriend in the front seat looking back. "I'm not finding this vein," I admit to my partner. I suggest that we go with nasal narcan for now. He agrees. I cant tell if he is disappointed or upset with me. He must be. He saw the vein, I didnt. I cant even get a flash. Another failed attempt. This patient needs an IV, and I cant do it.
I look up from the arm, and notice that my partner already has the narcan drawn up with the nasal spray attachment ready. The intubation equipment is out and assembled, ready. The patient has his clothes removed, and a rapid trauma assessment is already done. A blood glucose has been measured, coming up as normal at 124. ...All things that I should have done had I not been struggling with this damn IV. We're already halfway to the hospital and I've got nothing done. I am overwhelmed with the amount of work yet to do, and the incredibly short time I have left to do it.
I move the tourniquet down to the forearm as my partner sprays the nasal narcan. I think I see a small vein in the back of the hand so I wipe with alcohol, take out another needle, and dive in. No flash again. I press the needle all of the way in, desperate to get this vein. I move slowly, gritting my teeth as the pressure of necessity continues to climb. I move the needle one more time, and there it is. The flash chamber fills up with blood. I let out my breath, not knowing that I was holding it. The catheter slides neatly into the vein. "Ive got the line" I say, exhausted. There is no hint of victory in my voice.
By the time the IV is secured down and I have composed myself, the patient is beginning to wake up. He is confused and slightly agitated, asking where he is, who we are, what is going on. The girlfriend in the front of the ambulance lets out a "oh thank god" and begins yelling back at her boyfriend. "Are you okay honey? You scared the shit out of us! You werent breathing!"
I wipe the sweat away from my forehead and take my jacket off. When the hell did it get so hot back here, I think. I feel like a complete mess. There are angiocath wrappers all over the floor, failed IV sharps strewn about. The IV kit is completely destroyed from me rummaging through with one hand as I fumbled with the IV attempts.
I look back at the patient and try to find a reason for this mess that I've made. I spent almost my entire time with this patient trying to get a single IV. It becomes clear to me that all that mattered to the patient: the ventilations, the narcan, the complete assessment and transport, were performed by everyone else other than me. EMTs and my paramedic preceptor were working furiously around me the entire time securing the necessities, while I sat to the side holding the patients arm and played with the needles. My influence on this patient's outcome was zero.
I need to learn to better prioritize. I need to find a better way to get everything done in a timely fashion. I need to learn how to not depend so much on everyone else around me. Sometime in the near future, I will be expected to be autonomous. I will be the only caretaker in the back of the ambulance, left with no EMT to delegate duties to, no preceptor to watch my back.
I am sobered. There is still so much left to learn.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Her family was there the whole day, sitting in steel fold-out chairs at her bedside, rubbing her head, fixing her hair and watching the monitor intently. O2 saturation, they were told, was the number that would effectively chart their loved one's progress- and the number went downward all day. From mid 90's, to 80's, 70's, and eventually zero.
The family seemed to have an understanding of what was going to happen today, but it was upsetting nonetheless to watch hopeful attention gradually degenerate into helpless waiting. This sister, this grandmother and parent, was a DNR. She had made her decision about this day long ago, when she was lucid, and there was nothing much else to do other than sit and watch. I brought the family coffee and asked if there was anything I could get them. They shook their heads no and thanked me. Everyone here is so kind, they said. They were glad that this is the place that "this" would finally happen. They knew.
When it finally did happen, the reaction was sullen and repressed. One of the women let out a few sobs into a wadded up napkin. An older man held her hand and shook his head. At least this is what she wanted, he said. It was time. She had been sick for years, wavering on a razor's edge between life and death. This is a good thing.
I helped bring her body down to the morgue. The family now gone, we lifted her up by a sheet onto a steel stretcher and attached a curtain above supported by posts on all four corners. Another thick sheet hung over the aperture, providing a square-like appearance that betrayed no clue as to what was underneath. This was better, the tech said, so that people didnt get upset knowing that a dead body was rolling through the halls.
Entering the morgue sent a shiver down my spine. It may have been from the 40 degree chill inside, but it shook me to see the five bodies already there lining the wall each on their own cart and covered in thick zippered sheets. The shapes were amorphous, only head and toe were distinguishable. The tech brought our cart next to an empty spot, and tipped the stretcher sideways so that the woman's corpse rolled out onto the cold steel. No gentle lift with the sheet this time, the family was far from view. The old woman lay there still, her head cocked back and mouth locked wide open as if frozen while taking her last dying breath. She was small, maybe 60 pounds. I helped get her into the zippered sheet, and looked away as the covering was wrapped over her face.
Concealed, this woman that was alive a few hours ago looked indistinguishable from the rest of the corpses lining the walls of the frigid morgue. Removed from her loving family, this old woman was now nothing more than a body: a new task that the morgue workers had to add to their lists. As we rolled our empty stretcher out of the silent room, I heard a groan from the man behind a nearby desk. "Another one, huh? I'll be dammed if I'm going to get out late cause of this."
I dont blame anyone in the morgue. I dont think it is possible to see death like this every single day and be able to maintain the level of respect and somber silence that an outsider might expect. Even the most cataclysmic event, the sharpest of pain is dulled by relentless repetition. We still have to be able to do our jobs well.
I wonder though, how many corpses do you have to see before it no longer matters? At what point will exposure to pain numb me, blunting empathy and revealing only mechanical taskworking? How important is it that I feel for my patients? Does it even matter if I notice emotion, or is my only job to start IV's, shock, and push drugs? How can I continue to do this job for any length of time, and still care?
On the wall of the morgue etched into a wooden plaque is a plea:
Let conversation cease, let laughter flee.
Here is the place where death delights to help the living.
I'm not sure that this would be the same job if I didnt care.
Monday, December 4, 2006
I've been doing shifts of 12 hours each, seeing maybe one or two patients in a whole shift. We are sent as intercept medics for another code, a motorcycle crash, a difficulty breathing-- only to get cancelled halfway there. Another ambulance available. The patient is a DNR.
Instead I spend days joking around with my precepting medics. Talking about calls we've done, calls we may do. I am amazed at the depth of experience that surrounds me. It seems as though these medics have seen at all, rushed to the scene underneath brilliant strobes and wailing sirens, made life-and-death decisions under incredible stress. They've all done it enough so that, to them, these things are now mundane. The bad car crash that happened 8 years ago where two of my highschool classmates died in a car crash and the resulting fire, they were all there.
I cant imagine any of this becoming mundane or routine. I admire these medic's ability to think calmly and clearly in the middle of a stressful call, to recognize patterns based on experience... but I shudder to think that these abilities come only at the cost of numbing repetition. I thrive on the newness of all of this. I want to get better, and I do on each and every call. Every 911 call is a different patient, every patient is a different experience. I am learning by the handful. I hope there never comes a point where I feel like I have seen it all, a point where I no longer care to do something new.
As the hours pass by each shift I sit at the corner desk in the Emergency Department with stacks of notecards, reviving details to my memory that - still new to me - may save the life of my next patient.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Back at the messy ambulance, paramedics are reminded of their own footprints, wondering all the while if this patient, too, was marked by their efforts. ...Or do those prints wipe as easially away, shamed as an imposition and forgotten as useless?
Sunday, November 26, 2006
First, I need to say that while the stories/calls/patients/events I describe are real, I have in fact taken a few liberties with details of the accounts. I do not mention names of coworkers and instructors for a reason, and that is because quotes are not direct, timelines are altered slightly, and some details have been changed in order to support the emphesis of the entries.
I mean here not to precicely document events, but rather to detail the lessons I've learned over this period of my education. It has been my experience that these two are often not the same thing. I learn something on every call, but from time to time that lesson will derive from a brief detail of an experience, not from the summnation of all that truly happened. My writing here is aimed at exploring those experiences, and focused on extracting the lessons I've learned from them.
To those who were there with me and may be described in these entries, I ask that you please allow me these liberties. This is not a commentary on your ability or an evaluation of your decisions, this is simply what I have learned from working with you. Sometimes it may be the wrong lesson, sometimes it may be exactly on point: but all of it is a precisely true account of what I was feeling during these calls. Simply put I dont mean to write about you, I mean to write about me.
That said, thank you for reading. I mean to write about me, but I write this for others.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
We had been doing routine ALS all day. Calls that my paramedic partners groan over at work... the dizziness. The probably-not-CVA. The BS difficulty breathing. All those kinds of calls that demand ALS only in order to protect liability. I was excited enough though. I got to start IVs, to perform complete assessments and direct treatments. Our dizziness got a full cardiac workup. The potential CVA got a careful neuro assessment and a rapid transport. The difficulty breathing got some coaching and a sympathetic ear: exactly what she needed. I made a difference, and while I felt good about it, I ached for a "real" call. Something that I can really stretch my legs and test out these new toys.
At 1615, I got my opportunity. We were dispatched priority one to an address 10 minutes south for the "man down unresponsive." My medic preceptor jumped out of his seat, eager for me. "Oh man, thats an arrest!!" It was. Halfway to to the scene we hear the radio crackle over the sirens: "Medic 3, be advised CPR in progress."
Shivers go down my spine. This is it. A confirmed code. The ultimate ALS call, and its my first day. My partner sinks the throttle closer to the floor, and we pick up speed. My heart follows pace and my previously calm demeanor flies out the window. I've been on lots of codes before. Medical codes, dialysis codes, hospice codes, traumatic codes, pedi codes. They are all the same as an EMT. You assist, you work under the guidance and care of someone who knows better than you. Today, though, I am the one who is supposed to know better.
I envision the scene ahead of us: frantic volunteer EMTs pounding CPR into a body on the floor. A BVM squeeze and air rushes through puffed-out cheeks into the lungs and belly. The first few drips of sweat falling down as they wonder where the hell are they??. The arrival of ALS brings a wash of relief as skillful, practiced hands carry advanced equipment ready to make the patient better.
My own hands fiddle endlessly with my stethoscope as we race towards the call. I try to act cool and collected, but my nervousness betrays me to my preceptor's notice. He asks me if I'm nervous and I admit that I am. He tells me its okay. If I'm not nervous, he says, something is wrong. Its a good thing. Excitement and fear combine within me and I feel a rush of energy. I think to myself that this is something I havnt felt since I first started working as an EMT... I notice I am tapping my feet as I chastise myself. Keep your cool, dude. You know how to do this.
As we approach the address we decide that I will go after the airway while my partner will get the line. A game plan set, we pull into the driveway and switch off the siren, simultaneously unbuckling seatbelts and opening the doors. "We're out," my partner says on the radio.
I grab the big orange bag that I learned this morning has the airway kit. The EMTs are in the building still with the patient, but someone runs out to us and says they are already packaged and will be in the ambulance in just a minute. We decide to set up in the ambulance and be ready for when they come. I throw the big bag on the bench and dig towards the pocket on the right underneath the yellow pack. There I find the laryngoscope wrapped up with a full set of shiny blades. I remember back to 3 months ago, when I did my rotation at the OR to get experience intubating people. Which blade did I use? The curved one, the Macintosh. A four. I find it and click it in. White, tight, bright. My partner is setting up drugs. Remembering setting this equipment up lots of times for my paramedic partners, I run through the routine, assembling the rest of the necessary pieces. A 7.5 ET tube. Stylet. 10cc syringe. End tidal Co2. Tube holder. C-Collar. I'm ready.
The patient is coming out of the building, wheeled on a stretcher surrounded by a cluster of volunteer EMTs. One of them is riding the stretcher, frantically pumping on the man's chest. Another struggles to maintain a seal against the mouth with a BVM. They lift the stretcher up and slide it into the back of the ambulance, the patient's head slowly rolls towards me.
He looks dead. There is vomit around his mouth, pooling in his nostrils. He is a big man and I worry that he may be a tough tube. Just this time, I say to myself, let it be easy. Let me get this first one and then I can start doing the hard ones. Please just let me get one under my belt first.
I put my hands on each side of the man's head and tilt forward and up, into the sniffing position that we were taught in school. I let go to grab my blade and the head falls right back to where it was. No good. I try again, this time holding his head in place with my knee as I grab my equipment. I open his mouth with my thumb and forefinger like the nurse anestetist taught me in the OR, slowly sliding the curved blade in above the tongue. Sweeping to the left I am able to open the man's mouth inch by inch. I hear the blade click against the teeth very slightly and I freeze for a second. Dont do that again.
I am able to wiggle the blade into what I think is the vellicula and, lifting upwards, I peer into the mouth. There is a mass of tissue inside, wet with vomit and saliva. Nothing looks familiar. I look harder, and recognize the epiglottis. I need to lift higher. I pull harder on the handle and watch as the flap of skin raises slowly, revealing the dark triangle shape of the trachea behind it. There isnt much space and I cant see very much, but I grab the tube and slide it in slowly. The tip of the tube passes through the cords and I feel the plastic bump along the ridges of tracheal cartilage. I'm in.
I pull the blade out of the mouth and click it closed on the backboard. I look up at my partner with a hopeful smile. "Youre in?" I nod and say I think so. I grab a tight hold of the tube and yank out the stylet. Pass me that bag, I say to the EMT, gaining confidence. I attach it to the top of the tube and give it a single squeeze. Warm, moist air enters the tube as I let go of the bag, fogging up the inside of the tube. Fuck yeah. I'm in.
We confirm the tube with lung sounds. Full and equal bilaterally. Negative over the epigastrum. End tidal CO2 reads 19 already. I secure the tube down and begin pumping air into the man's lungs. Relief washes over me, but this time I am able to suppress signs of it. I act as if I knew I was going to get the tube all along. Of course I got it!
"Nice tube" the medic says after confirming the placement, "I'm impressed."
We work the rest of the code smoothly. The monitor reads V-Fib and we shock. Four times. Epi and atropine are pushed into the veins, followed later by Bicarb and once, when the rhythm looks like V-Tach, 300mg of Amiodorone goes in. We run though the entire list of things to do, following the protocols to a T. Both my partner and I are floating. He got a nice 16 gauge catheter right in the AC by anatomy alone. Nice stick, I tell him. "Hell yeah," he replies.
We arrive at the ED and the doctor confirms my tube. My partner announces to the recessutation team that this is my first day and I got the tube on the first try. Smiles all around. Someone claps me on the back.
The doctor takes a better look at the patient. He studies the monitor and listens to our story. Shaking his head, he issues the order.
"Stop recessutation guys. I'm calling it. 4:48pm."
So much for our toys.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
On our way to our last call, something that sounded equally routine, we are re-routed to a shooting. Second car in. At least two shot, one in the head. I let out a yell to our rider in back "here we go!" and flip on the lights. The street is only a few minutes away. The police is already on the radio, asking how far away we are. Always a sign that call is serious.
The address is lit up ahead with flashing police lights. They form a glow into the dark sky around the whole area, a bubble upward which - we hope - will shield us from any further danger. We pass by yellow tape as an officer, holding a black tatical shotgun, waves us through.
Our patient is visible as soon as we park. Laying on his right side in the sidewalk in a pool of dark blood is a body. An EMT from another ambulance steps over him as we approach. "There are two others, shot in the back and chest." He has to shout as he speaks, the scene is smothered in yelling. "...We'll take those" he says, and points to the body on the ground. "This one is yours."
I yell back to my friend to grab the board and collar. This is going to be a scoop and go, my partner says. We get up alongside the patient and I catch myself as I almost kneel in a puddle of blood and unrecgonizble bits of organic material. The forehead looks funny. It is caved inward. The cornrows weaved into the patient's hair look distorted, following odd angles as they run through a new shape in the patient's skull. The blue and red flashing lights do nothing to help visiblity, despite everything it is still dark. The board and collar arrive, and my partner yells for the monitor. He looks at me, frowning. We both know that this patient, shot in the head, is as good as dead.
My partner reaches for a pulse at the patient's neck. His blue gloves are stained with drak red blood as he brings them back quickly. "Hes got a pluse, man." We both notice that he isnt breathing. "Lets just get him into the bus," my partner says, and we do. We slide a board under the patient and lift him up. Both arms swing limply down the sides of the board as we transfer to the stretcher.
Someone flicks on the bright overhead lights in the ambulance. Dark blood is now bright red, and the cave in the patient's forehead is now an obvious gunshot. Grey and white brain matter is visible. The patient looks like he is about 12 years old. I feel like I am looking at him for the first time. Someone says "jesus christ."
We get to work. An OPA is placed and bagging through the BVM begins. Our rider says he can feel air rushing out of the top of the kid's skull with each compression of the BVM. We attach the monitor and the combi-pads, strap the patient down, listen to lung sounds and survey the damage. The patient is in a wide complex tachycardia that the medic and us two medic students all call VT. We each yell it out in chorus as the rhythm appears on the screen. It releives me to recgonize the rhythm. Out of the chaos of the scene, the chaos of this patient, the rhyhm brings order and stability to the back of our ambulance. The patient still has pulses, too. We know what we are dealing with.
"We need to shock!" My medic says. "Get the pads on!" The pads are already on, two people say. "Well, charge them then!" We charge to 360 and again, in chorus, yell "Get clear! Get clear! Everyone clear!" The shock is delivered, the body flinches.
Blue hands stained with red reach for the neck. There are no more pulses. The monitor still looks the same. PEA. No chrous this time, it is deadened by the result. I hear a "lets go."
I jump out of the ambulance, climbing over strewn gear and a firefighter who is now giving chest compressions. Out of the bright white light and back into the blue-red night. People are standing in a semicircle around the back of the ambulance, watching. An older woman is holding two young children close to her, yelling frantically. "See why I tell you not to mess around in the streets? See what happens! Look what happens!" The children are unreactive, staring at me and the scene behind me.. I cant understand the expression on their faces. It isnt fear, it isnt shock, their eyes arent wide. They look sullen, tired. Just another shooting in the north end. Just another kid dead. More blood on the sidewalk. The older woman is screaming and crying. She must have known something different, sometime or somewhere else.
I flick my gloves off and check my hands. There is blood on my wrist where the short gloves ended, but nothing on my hands. I can drive without getting the front of the ambulance messy. I jump up into the front seat and glance into the back. It is getting calmer. The medic is going for the tube, my friend suctioning as the firefighter does rhythmic compressions. No-one is talking. The reality of this patient has envolped the small space in back, what was a frantic effort to save a life is slowly turning into a recgonition of futility. I have a job to do though. Priority one to the hospital. I get on the radios and tell everyone where we are going. C-Med, police, the company. C-Med patches me through to the hospital and I tell them we are coming:
"Enroute to your facility, ETA 2 minutes with a male young teens. Shot in the head. Traumatic arrest, was VT with a pulse, now PEA. CPR and AlS in progress. See you in 2 minutes."
I catch the end of an "okay, thanks!" yelled into the other end. I envision the microphone bieng dropped and an excited "We've got a code coming in! A shooting!" yelled to the Emergency Department. A trauma team called over the intercom. "They're two minutes out!"
They dont know that our patient is already dead.
We're out at the hospital. There are other amublance crews waiting to help at the entrance to the ER. They heard my patch over the radio and got ready to help. Their gloves are on, bright spotless blue. We wheel the patient with deliberate caution into the ED. We've been with this patient long enough to be calm. Nothing gets dropped, and the report to the trauma team is crisp. The patient is off our stretcher and onto the trauma bed. Our job is done.
The doctors look at the child on the table, frowning. The same look my medic had when we first looked at the body laying on the dark sidewalk. I hear them say "no, look at him. He's gone." A few efforts are made, and on no change of the patient's condition, the patient is pronounced dead.
It takes us over an hour to clean the ambulance. There is blood everywhere. From the patient, from bloody gloves, from soiled equipment. We spray a disenfectent on everything, wiping carefully to leave no trace behind.
I find my medic partner sitting alone in the EMS room, staring at his EKG strips and a blank run form. He looks awful. None of us have seen anything that bad before, but this was his call. It was his patient. I was there to help, as was the medic student and the firefighter, but this patient was in my partners care. The outcome rests on him. I tell him that he did a good job. Our times were great. The kid was dead anyways and we did our best. The doctors said we did a good job. All of this, positive, but my partner's expression doesnt change. He asks me about the cardioversion. "Do you think we should have shocked him?" He asks me. He's upset about missing the intubation as well.
I sit with him as he writes the run form. There were probably twenty police officers on scene. Four people in the back of the ambulance, at least 10 people in the trauma room, two of us in the EMS room, and one medic writing the run form. One of him. This patient was his. He was the paramedic, THE guy treating the patient. Despite everything and no matter everyone, there was one person making decisions for this patient during the last minutes of his life: the medic.
He sits there, hunched over the run form as he runs through the call in his mind.
To clarify out of respect of those involved with this call:
1. The medic did not "miss" the intubation. The patient was an extremely difficult (if not impossible) tube with the amount of blood involved. Constant suction was unhelpful in clearing the airway enough for intubation.
2. Defib/Cardioversion was absolutely indicated for this patient based on the assessment performed and presenting conditions of the patient. There are details left unmentioned in the above entry that support this decision.
3. The call was run VERY well considering the conditions we were under. I worry that based on this story, some readers may think poorly of those I wrote about simply because of the way the entry was written. Please refer to a newer entry, entitled "Clarification" posted on 11.26.06 for further information.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
I graduated from Boston University in 2004 with a BA in both Psychology and Philosophy- a major chosen more out of amusement and momentary interest rather than lasting career-choice. Since then, my efforts and thoughts have rested heavily on medicine. I became an EMT-B during my Junior year at BU, convinced by my roomate Rich that it was both exciting and profitable. He was only half lying.
I have come to love the job, and with it- medicine. My aim has since been set higher towards dreams of becoming a Doctor, something I wrestle with constantly as the reality of my academic history and the contrasting demands of medical school are more sharply drawn to focus. Since my graduation from BU I have worked as an EMT in a fairly large urban city, while at the same time bumbled through a post-bacc approach to finishing pre-med science requirements.
Almost a year ago now I decided to attend paramedic school. I wanted *more* medicine. I told myself that this would truly help me decide about medical school (as I have wavered much on the subject), and that it would be fun in the process. I was frustrated as an EMT, knowing enough only to know that I knew nothing, and worse that I could usually DO nothing... made me angry and unhappy at work. Deciding to become a paramedic has refocused my interest in medicine (and medical school), as well as given me solace as to my patient care. Soon, I say. Soon I will be able to make people better.
Currently I am about to start the very last portion of paramedic school: the internship "ride time" period. Over the next month and a half I am scheduled to ride as a third on three different ambulance services, all the while behaving as an actual paramedic: performing assessments, making clinical decisions, and- finally!- treating patients based on my knowledge. Needless to say I am very excited. I have spent 10 months listening to lectures, passing through clinical rotations, and taking exam after exam after exam. Finally I get my chance to test my knowledge and understanding with real patients, in real situations. The prospect has made many of my classmates nervous, but today - still five days away from my first rotation - the excitement has yet to allow another emotion in.
I have created this blog as a means to both document my progress through this process, as well as to - I hope - provide real experience and first-hand insight into those who may be going through the same thing. I also redially admit that I have been heavily influenced by the writings of Mr. Peter Canning, a long-time paramedic who has a blog here on Blogger, has written two books about his own experiences, and also happens to work for the same ambulance service I do. I have a lot of respect for Mr. Canning both as a paramedic and as a writer. I find his words not only heavy with experience (as they are), but also saturated with an interest in the field that we dont seem to see often these days. He looks through medicine into people, a view that I believe serves him clinically, intellectually, and literally- as a writer. To you, Mr. Canning, I tip my hat sir.
Tonight I go to bed. When I wake up, four days will stand between me and my first patient as a paramedic.