Rescuing Providence: Part 2 - 2056 Hours Through 2233 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
Monday, April 25, 2016
I always thought that a day in the life of a Providence Firefighter assigned to the EMS division would make a great book. One day I decided to take notes. I used one of those little yellow Post it note pads and scribbled away for four days. The books Rescuing Providence and Rescue 1 Responding are the result of those early nearly indecipherable thoughts.
I’m glad I took the time to document what happens during a typical tour on an advanced life support rig in Rhode Island’s capitol city. Looking back, I can hardly believe I lived it. But I did, and now you can too. Many thanks to GoLocalProv.com for publishing the chapters of my books on a weekly basis from now until they are through. I hope that people come away from the experience with a better understanding of what their first responders do, who they are and how we do our best to hold it all together,
Enjoy the ride, and stay safe!
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTCaptain Michael Morse (ret.)
Providence Fire Department
The book is available at local bookstores and can be found HERE.
A Note From the Author
As the hours add up and fatigue sets in the calls keep coming. A suicidal man sitting alone in his apartment, barely furnished brings back memories of another man; this one found hanging in his basement by a roommate. The loneliness and desperation that so many people live with – and die with is not lost on me, and I see the hanging man in the eyes of the latest patient to cross my path. He ran out of depression medication and called 911 when he became despondent. He needed some kindness and understanding, and a ride to the hospital. We gave him what he needed, and his life went on, and so did our night.
PART 2
2056 HOURS
SUICIDAL
“Rescue 3, a still alarm.”
I shovel the last spoonful of chowder into my mouth and grab a stuffie to go. Renato, not usually assigned to rescue, mistakenly believes that he has all of the time in the world to eat. He was still waxing his car when we started eating and has barely taken a bite.
“Rescue 3, respond to the Charlesgate Apartments for a suicidal male.”
We leave the Branch Avenue Station and head toward downtown. The Charlesgate Apartments are another high-rise. Elderly residents are still the majority here, but younger, disabled people are quickly filling the apartments. When drug and alcohol addiction became an official “disability,” a lot of younger people flocked to these places. Some mentally ill and drug-addicted people prey on the lonely elderly population. This program designed to help has gone horribly wrong. I don’t know what we will find at our destination, but experience has shown me that a lot of these calls are actually for drug-addicted patients who have run out of drugs and money and are looking to “get clean.” It is a desperate cry for help by desperate people.
We arrive on scene, put the rescue in the assigned place, and head for the elevator. Charlesgate is a very clean and well-run high-rise. The people who live here don’t put up with a lot of nonsense from residents who act out. A few elderly residents are milling about on the first floor, eager to see who called us. We are entertainment for some of these folks who don’t get out too much.
The elevator takes us to the fifth of 14 floors, then to the last room on the right-hand side of the corridor. “Providence Fire,” I say loudly and knock on the door. I stay to the side in case someone starts blasting the door with a gun. It is a little dramatic, but you never know.
“It’s open” comes the response from inside.
I open the door. Bright lights, the smell of Lysol disinfectant, and a middle-aged man sitting on a folding chair in the middle of an immaculate apartment greet me. The tile floor is spotless. The living room has only a chair and a television, and the kitchen is empty. There is no evidence of food or cooking supplies. The patient sits in the middle of the living room, dressed in a cotton workout suit with a New England Patriots logo on the front of his sweatshirt. Slightly overweight, he is sobbing uncontrollably.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Dennis.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask as Renato quietly looks on.
“I’m being treated for depression, but I’m not taking my meds.”
“Why not?”
“I ran out,” he continues between sobs.
“Why don’t you get some more?” I inquire.
“I just want to die. I’m sick of fighting it.”
He means it. Whether he planned on killing himself tonight or some time in the near future, I know that without some serious help this guy will go through with his plan. I have seen too many suicides to not take this threat seriously.
Every time I enter an unfamiliar basement I feel gooseflesh rise from my skin, and images of hangings invade my subconscious mind uninvited. One beautiful Saturday morning early in my career a guy in his 20s tied an electrical cord around a nail embedded in a rafter in the basement of the apartment he rented and then strung it around his neck. The ceiling was only 6 1/2 feet high. To die, the man had to use his body weight to strangle himself. Pretty committed.
Three apartments filled the upper floors. The third-floor tenant went downstairs to switch her laundry. There she saw her friend from the second floor hanging around the basement. She talked to him for a few minutes while moving her delicates from the washer to the dryer. When she completed her task and walked by her friend toward the stairs, she noticed the cord tied around his neck. Only then did she realize he wasn’t participating in the conversation. She ran screaming into the street, where somebody saw her and called 911.
I was there with the crew of Engine 9 in 45 seconds to see a hysterical girl sobbing uncontrollably in the front of her apartment building. Being the junior man at the time, I was first to enter the basement. A solitary lightbulb suspended by a cord swung left and right illuminating the dank basement with dull light, cobwebs and shadows outlining a still form hanging in the corner. Slowly I crept toward him. As I drew closer, I noticed his fresh haircut and the tribal tattoo on the back of his neck. His jeans were sagging, at least 6 inches touching the dirty cement floor. I shook him and turned him toward me. I saw the extension cord tied tightly around his neck and the glazed look in his eyes, still open, and then felt his skin as cold as midnight in January. I was standing in a puddle of piss (his, not mine), but I couldn’t move, frozen in place by the horror I was witnessing. His skin was a greenish gray, a perfect match for the worn army fatigue jacket he wore. Finally the trance was broke, and I stumbled up the creaking stairs into the bright sunlight.
The girl who found him had gained control of herself by then and was sitting with a bunch of 20-something-year-olds who had huddled by the basement window, crouching to get a better look through the dusty glass.
“I knew he was going to do it!” one of the kids exclaimed, barely able to conceal his excitement. “He said he was going to do it, boy did he! I thought he’d pussy out and OD. Man, he did it right!” he said, worshiping his hero, now hanging dead in the basement.
Days later I read the boy’s obituary. He was a talented tattoo artist with a loving family from Smithfield, Rhode Island. He had played hockey in high school and loved to write. He moved to Wickenden Street on the east side and got involved with a notorious group of junkies. No second chance for him.
I don’t understand what goes wrong with some people. I’m sure Dennis is not sitting here sobbing and wanting to die pur - posely; he is nothing like the thrill-seeking junkies on Wickenden Street. He appears like any other guy in his 40s, more at home in a bar having a beer with his friends and watching the game than sitting by himself in a sparse and immaculate apartment, crying. I see posters and championship banners from the Patriots, Red Sox, and Bruins on the walls and try to engage him in some sports talk, but he won’t bite. He sobs as we walk him out to the truck and transport him to Rhode Island Hospital. There he will be put under observation until a psychologist has time to assess him, and then he will be referred for outpatient counseling or committed to a psychiatric hospital. The fact that he called 911 for help is encouraging; I hope that he gets some help before it is too late.
I had planned on listening to the end of the Bruins game on the radio as we make our way back to the station, but I have lost interest.
2129 HOURS
MOTOR VEHICLE ACCIDENT
Halfway back to the Branch Avenue fire station, fire alarm dispatches Engine 14 to the intersection of Atwells Avenue and Harris for a motor vehicle accident. All the Providence rescues are out on calls. I have been going at a pretty good pace, and I need a break. A typical rescue run takes between 30 minutes and an hour, depending on the severity of the emergency. Between calls your brain and body catch up. I don’t normally feel it, but there is a discernable increase in my stress when I am on duty. It takes a few days off for me to realize that I have been operating on a different level.
My first impulse is to ignore the radio and recuperate. There is no way that five rescues can keep up with the demand, so if I don’t respond to this call, another will be right behind it. My conscience takes over—if I don’t take this run and there are serious injuries, the victims will be the ones who pay. Somebody’s mother, lover, friend, or child could be involved in the accident in need of medical care. I key the mike.
“Rescue 3 to fire alarm, we are clearing Rhode Island; we’ll handle.”
“You have it, Rescue 3. We have a report of four cars involved.”
Renato hits the lights and sirens, reverses direction, and heads to the scene. The majority of auto accidents in the city do not result in life-threatening injuries. Minor scrapes and bumps, small lacerations, and the like are common. The most prevalent complaints are neck and back pain, and soft-tissue injuries. Insurance fraud is epidemic. Lawyers advertise their business on daytime TV, their premise being that if somebody causes an accident, that person should pay. Often there is no visible damage to the vehicles or occupants, but in hopes of a big insurance settlement some victims insist on going to the hospital. Talent agents could scout accident scenes looking for the next big star, the acting is so remarkable. Some of the injuries are legitimate; most are not.
Four cars, probably 10 people involved, this could tie up the EMS system for hours. If every person on scene claims to be injured, at least five rescues will have to respond. The victims must be extricated from the cars, a process that usually takes three firefighters. If you fail to do the extrication perfectly, you can and will be sued. There are actually advertisements asking the public if EMS and emergency room personnel have mistreated them, and, if so, you can “Make Them Pay!” After extrication, each patient will have to be placed on a long back board, have a cervical collar applied, and be transported, per state protocol, lying on the back and immobilized.
We navigate through the traffic on Atwells and pull up to the accident scene. The officer of Engine 14, Bob Dunne, has already assessed the accident scene and gives me his report.
“Minor damage all around; looks like everybody’s refusing.”
“That’s a miracle,” I reply.
“We’ve got an old guy in the white Buick who says his shoulder hurts. You might want to get him to sign a refusal.”
“Good idea. Thanks, Bob.”
The four cars that are involved in the accident have all pulled over to the side of the road, except for the white Buick. I walk over to the driver’s side and see a well-dressed man in his 80s sitting at the wheel.
“Sir, are you hurt?” I ask.
“Yup,” he answers, looking straight ahead.
“Where are you hurt?”
“My shoulder. I’m waiting for my wife,” he replies.
“If you want to be seen at the hospital, we’ll take you. Your wife can meet us there.”
“I’m not doing anything without my wife,” he says, all business.
“That’s fine, but you’re tying up traffic. Why don’t you let us move your car out of the way until your wife gets here?” I try.
“Nope.”
“Then sign this refusal and wait for the police. I can’t wait here all night.”
“I don’t care what you do—I’m not refusing, and I’m not signing anything. I’m waiting for my wife.” This guy is really starting to get on my nerves.
“We’re not waiting for your wife, so come with us or sign the refusal.”
“When my wife gets here, I’ll decide what to do,” he says, and that appears to be the end of it, for him anyway.
“When is your wife getting here?” I ask.
“When she gets here,” he retorts.
The man refuses treatment, refuses to sign the refusal form, and refuses to move his car from the intersection. Anybody who refuses treatment is required to sign a refusal if he or she is competent. The man in the Buick is competent; he is just an asshole. The police have not made it to the scene yet; the guy can sit in the intersection for the rest of his life for all I care. I walk away from the car, unsigned report in my hand, and back to Lieutenant Dunne.
“Bob, the guy in the Buick won’t come with us, won’t move his car, and won’t do anything until his wife gets here.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bob says, “we’ll wait here for the police. Not much you can do with a guy like that. Try to get some rest.”
Lieutenant Dunne has been with the fire department for at least 20 years. He is one of the last of a dying breed. He has done it all. He loves the job and is one of the most liked and respected people we have. Firefighters are not given respect just because they are firefighters; it must be earned on the streets and in the stations. Bob has earned the respect that he now enjoys by being a hardnosed, frontline firefighter as well as a great guy in the station. He respects the guys working the rescues and understands that our workload is extreme. He would give you the shirt off his back in a blizzard if you need it; I’d do the same for him. His willingness to stay on scene gives us the opportunity to get back to the station and rest for a little while, and it lets Renato finish his dinner.
Renato has assessed the other passengers in the cars involved and confirms that there are no injuries. I shake Bob’s hand, and Renato and I leave the scene. During the ride back to the station I explain to Renato what has happened. Without trying, Bob has earned the respect of another new guy. The kids striving to make their mark as firefighters never forget little gestures from grizzled veterans.
The trip back down Atwells Avenue toward home is a little more peaceful since Bob has bought us some time. The restaurants and clubs are in full swing, and there are plenty of sights to see as we cruise down the busy street. The restaurants lining the street are beyond compare, the cuisine and atmosphere unparalleled, spoiling the residents in the area. Only when traveling away from the city do we realize the treasure we have in our own backyard.
We hear on the radio that both the Red Sox and Bruins have won their games. I wish that Dennis could share my happiness rather than sitting at Rhode Island Hospital under a suicide watch waiting for a psych evaluation. Renato, it turns out, is a Yankees fan. Too bad. I had hoped to lure him into the rescue division as a possible replacement for Mike, but realize that would not be possible. Yankees fans have genetic defects, making it impossible for them to behave like civilized human beings.
It is nearly 10 o’clock. If I have any luck, I will make it back to the station, call my wife, and get some rest. It has been an exhausting day, but not one without a few high points. Every run doesn’t end with the satisfaction of making a difference in somebody’s life—a lot of our calls are routine transports—but if you can squeeze one or two good ones in during the course of a day it makes the mundane worthwhile. I try to keep that in mind as the long shift grinds on. The difficult, life-threatening responses are easy to handle; instinct and training guide you. Routine calls to us are emergencies to the people making the calls. Some are looking for a ride, but a majority of the callers truly believe that their situation warrants a fire department response. By treating each caller with respect, I have learned to respect myself.
Back at the Branch Avenue Station, the dinner dishes have been cleared, the remains of Renato’s meal are covered with foil and set aside, and the guys are either playing cards or in the dormitory getting some rest. I go to my office to call Cheryl and hopefully get a little sleep. My cell phone is almost dead, just enough juice for one more call. I dial the number and hit send.
“Hello,” she answers on the first ring.
“Hi, babe, it’s me.”
“Who else would it be at 10:30?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“He already came and left.”
“I hope he didn’t wear you out. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll be too tired.”
“You’re never too tired for me.”
“Yeah, right. How is your night?”
“Not bad. We had chowder and stuffies.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Pretty good, I’m going to get a little rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”
The overhead lights click on, and the PA system comes to life. I make a silent prayer to the rescue gods that the engine or ladder is going. My prayers go unanswered.
“Rescue 3, a still alarm.”
“So much for the rest. I’ve got a run.”
“Be careful.”
“Of course, love you, bye."
“Love you too.”
2233 HOURS
SWOLLEN TESTICLES
“Rescue 3, respond to 3 Hagan Street at the Hagan Manor for a man who wants his testicles looked at.” The dispatcher barely conceals his amusement.
The couch looks so inviting, but duty calls.
“Rescue 3, responding.”
My cell phone rings as I slide the pole. I know it is Cheryl. She sometimes listens to a scanner that we have at the house. She usually shuts it off at bedtime and probably had her fingers on the off knob when this call came in.
“Hello.”
“Did I just hear that you are going to look at somebody’s testicles?”
“That’s right. I am an expert, and I have a few of my own you know.”
“Try not to touch them.”
“Very funny.” I hear her chuckling as I hit the end button on the cell phone.
“Do we really have to look at somebody’s testicles?” asks Renato on the way to Hagan Manor.
“We don’t have to—the junior man has to,” I reply with a grin.
“Rank has its privileges.”
“What if somebody wants their breasts looked at?” Renato asks.
“I’d have to assess the situation before making that decision,” I answer.
“All my life I wanted to be a firefighter. I just didn’t know testicle tests were part of the job,” says Renato with resignation. He will do whatever it takes; I can tell he is that kind of guy.
The ride from the station to Hagan Manor takes about five minutes. The place is a three-level apartment building full of elderly and disabled people. There are not too many troublemakers here, mostly older folks. Whenever I have been called here there has always been a welcoming committee at the door telling us who called and what for. Somebody usually accompanies us to the person’s room. Living there is good if you don’t mind people knowing your business. They do seem to take care of each other.
We pull in front of the building, get the stretcher off the truck just in case, and head for the door. The housecoat brigade greets us. A similar brigade can be found at every elderly housing complex in the city. Day and night they patrol the corridors, never sleeping, always alert. Three women dressed in colorful housecoats wait to help us in the door and to the elevator. They somehow know what we are here for; the delight on their faces barely concealed. This one will be talked about for weeks, maybe even months.
We ditch the ladies, much to their chagrin (no easy task), and head for the victim’s door. He is inside, waiting.
“What’s the problem?” I ask once we are in with the door closed.
“My testicles are swollen. Look at them; they’re the size of cantaloupes.” He lowers his sweatpants to expose his testicles, which are indeed the size of cantaloupes. “It’s not the first time. I have a heart condition that causes lower extremity swelling. My balls are the first things to grow.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Just about two days. My doctor is at Miriam; I need to get there.”
“We’ll take you, but this isn’t an emergency,” I say. “In the future you should either arrange transportation or call a private ambulance. We only have five trucks and can’t be tied up on routine medical transports.”
I explain the situation to the patient, but he could care less. He called 911 for transport and truly believes that we are required to cater to his wishes. Renato and I can barely contain ourselves, but somehow we pull it off and act like professionals.
Miriam Hospital is one of seven area hospitals that we transport to. We are only required to take victims to the nearest hospital but can make exceptions. Roger Williams Medical Center is closer to us, but I decide to be a sport and take this guy to Miriam. The patient can’t walk without rubbing his testicles, so we put him on the stretcher and wheel him to the truck. The housecoat brigade waits at the door to send us off.
Once we are in the truck, Renato gets the patient’s vital signs, and I ask the necessary questions. He is only 50 years old. Three years ago he was diagnosed with a heart problem, and his life has gone downhill since. His wife left him; he lost his job and is living on disability. He has only lived at the Hagan Manor for three months but says he was starting to feel good about things again. The people there are a little nosy, but at least they care.
Miriam Hospital is located on the East Side. I haven’t been there in some time. It is affiliated with Rhode Island Hospital, and the same doctors practice at both facilities.
The temptation to treat this patient in a lighthearted manner is overwhelming, and I can’t resist having a little fun with Christy, who is working triage.
“Fifty year old male, conscious and alert, vitals stable,” I say. Christy doesn’t look up from her report, just writes down what I tell her. I continue my report in a deadpan voice as if reading an excerpt from a biology textbook. “Testicles the size of cantaloupes, otherwise everything appears normal.” That gets a rise out of her. The look on her face is priceless. The patient isn’t pleased, but that’s what he gets for calling 911 for a free ride to the hospital.
Christy, a naturally beautiful nurse with spectacular blue eyes that seem to see right through me, was working the triage desk on my first night in charge of a rescue. I was scared to death; the responsibility on rescue can be overwhelming when one is new and inexperienced. I was bringing Christy a patient suffering from difficulty breathing. While giving my report on the patient’s condition in what I believed to be a very professional and efficient manner, I mentioned that the patient’s pulsox reading was only 91 percent. Christy looked me in the eye and asked if the reading was “on room air,” a very common reference to determine whether the patient was using supplemental oxygen. In my mind, I heard her say “on rumeir” and thought that she was flirting with me by speaking French. I responded with a big grin, “Oui, oui.” She gave me a wry look and asked again, “On room air?” I was totally embarrassed; she shook her head and walked away. I’ve never lived it down, though she claims to not remember the incident at all. I think she’s being kind.
Our patient is checked in, his cantaloupes are being tended to, and the paperwork is done. I am hoping for a quiet night. We roll out of the ambulance bay at Miriam down the hilly road toward home.
Michael Morse lives in Warwick, RI with his wife, Cheryl, two Maine Coon cats, Lunabelle and Victoria Mae and Mr. Wilson, their dog. Daughters Danielle and Brittany and their families live nearby. Michael spent twenty-three years working in Providence, (RI) as a firefighter/EMT before retiring in 2013 as Captain, Rescue Co. 5. His books, Rescuing Providence, Rescue 1 Responding, Mr. Wilson Makes it Home and his latest, City Life offer a poignant glimpse into one person’s journey through life, work and hope for the future. Morse was awarded the prestigious Macoll-Johnson Fellowship from The Rhode Island Foundation.
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