Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 18, a Book by Michael Morse

Monday, September 26, 2016

Michael Morse, Author

 

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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!

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Captain Michael Morse (ret.)

Providence Fire Department

The book is available at local bookstores and can be found HERE.

Note from the Author

“The Job” is seven minutes from my doorstep, five, maybe six miles away. I could have lived my life never knowing that more different worlds than I ever imagined exist just down the road. Our role as firefighter/EMT’s allow us an all access pass into the homes, businesses and minds of people from all over the world and from every economic situation imaginable. On any given day we could be called to a home on the east side, and help an elderly millionaire with chest pain, then over to the north end for a machinist with a diabetic problem, downtown to a college dorm for a kid from California with an allergic reaction, the west end for a lady who lost consciousness, and to the south side, for a possible seizure at a restaurant. The people we meet depend on us, each and every one is just as important to us as the others, it matters not if it’s a kid who got involved in a gang who is shot in the head, or an executive at Textron who might be having a heart attack.

Seven minutes away. The people I have helped, the ones I couldn’t and the ones who helped me all come together at the end of the day, and I realize that through our differences one thing matters; we are all in this together, and nobody is more important than anybody else.

Chapter 18

 

1929 hrs. (7:29 p.m.)

 

“Engine 13 to fire alarm, do you have a better location?”

“The caller stated there was a man in a restaurant at that location who appears to be having a heart attack.”

“Engine 13, received, we’ll look around.”

“Rescue 1 on scene.”    

Engine 13 is at one end of the plaza. We take the other.  The plaza consists of a thrift store, a liquor store, a nightclub and a Chinese take-out.  The 13’s are looking for the victim in the nightclub and we are in the thrift store.  We exit at the same time, make visual contact and give the universal sign of nothing yet by holding our arms upright and shrugging shoulders.

I find our victim in the Chinese take-out; a middle aged man unconscious, his face planted in an order of fried rice and General Tao’s Chicken.

“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, the victim has been located in the restaurant.”

“Engine 13, received.”

We approach the man not knowing what to expect.  I don’t think he had a heart attack; this looks more like a seizure, alcohol intoxication or a diabetic emergency.  Mike lifts his head from his dinner and I look into his eyes.  Through the rice and oyster sauce I can see that they are glazed over and unseeing.  I shake him gently.

“Buddy, what’s going on?” I ask.  He makes no reply and doesn’t move.  His pulse is strong and his respirations are regular.

“What do you think?” asks Mike.

“I don’t know, maybe a diabetic.  I’ll try to find out what happened.  Why don’t you and the 13’s get him in the truck and try to figure things out?”

“Right away,” says Mike as the Captain, Steve, Jay and Art enter the place.  Art and Steve have retrieved the stretcher from the rescue and are helping Mike load the patient onto it.  He gives no help or resistance as he allows the guys to lift him onto the gig and wheel him out

“What happened here?” I ask the people behind the counter.  They shrug their shoulders, claiming to have not seen a thing.  There are three other people in the restaurant that I hadn’t noticed until now.  A mother and her two daughters are sitting at a table off to the side.  The mom looks confused and her girls look scared.  They are just kids, about eight and ten years old and have probably already seen too much.

“Did you guys see what happened?” I ask them.

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“We were in line when he started shaking like he was crazy,” said the older child.  “He fell, then got back up, sat in his chair and fell into his food.  My sister was crying and my mom didn’t know what to do.  Somebody called 911 then left.”  The other girl is gently sobbing while their mom talks to them in Spanish, probably trying to comfort them I surmise, listening to the soothing sound of her voice.  The mom looks like a teenaged girl.  Her children are wearing colorful dresses and new shoes with colorful ribbons in their hair.  All three have luxurious dark hair and beautiful, soft dark skin.  Easter Sunday is tomorrow, they look ready for the celebration.    

“Tu edis baya,” I say to them and they giggle a little.  I think I told them that they look beautiful, but Renato, my Spanish tutor and with a little luck my new partner, once Mike leaves has an evil sense of humor and I may have said I smell like a monkey.

The patient is on the stretcher on his way to the rescue.  I’m sure Mike and the guys have things well under control.   I have a few minutes to help these kids.  I sit on a chair next to them and let them know what happened.

 “What you saw is called a seizure.  A lot of people have them and they’re not that bad, he is going to be fine when we get him to the hospital.  He needs medicine and he will be as good as new.  I’m sure that what you saw was pretty scary, but don’t worry, you have been a big help.  Without you, I never would have known what happened.  Thank you very much for helping.”

The kids are beaming from the compliments.  It amazes me how such small acts of recognition go so far.  I’m glad I stopped and talked to them.  I’m not sure how it is that the kids speak English and their mom doesn’t.  There are a lot of undocumented immigrants in Providence. Often a woman will get to America and have a baby as soon as possible.  The common term for these kids is “Anchor Babies.”  They are citizens of the United States of America as long as they are born on American soil.  I see the desperate conditions these folks live in and can only imagine how bad things are where they came from.  What I see is extreme poverty with a few luxuries, they must see things differently considering where they came from. 

“Bye, now and thanks again,” I say as they wave and I get in the rescue and shut the door.  

Inside the rescue, Mike has the patient lying on the stretcher.  He is still out of it but appears stable.

“You guys are all set,” I say to Captain Healy.  He would do whatever necessary if I asked, but there really isn’t much more that they can do.  The Thirteens head back to the station, and their dinner.

“He’s postictal, blood pressure 140/100 and his pulse is 130,” says Mike, giving his report while getting the IV ready.

“I wonder why his heart rate is so high?”  I get the leads and put them on.  His heart rate is fast, but without any other irregularities.

“Hey buddy, how are you feeling?” I ask him.  He has come around a little, but is still confused from the seizure.  He groans in pain.

 “Dolor?” I ask.  

“Si.”

“Donde?” My Sesame Street Spanish will have to do, Renato only taught me how to flirt with women.

He points to his left leg.  He may have injured it when he fell.  Mike is already assessing the situation.

 “Come se yama?”

“Jesus.”  He is coming around a little more.

“Jesus is right!  Look at this!”  Mike has cut the man’s left pant leg  and has exposed the bottom half of his limb. The smell coming from a gangrenous wound there fills the back of the rescue.  I quickly open the side door and turn on the vents.  Jesus has a festering sore that covers half of his shin and calf.  Green pus and clear liquid is oozing through a filthy bandage and onto the stretcher.  I cannot believe his condition.  I will be shocked if the doctors can save the leg. 

“What is his temperature?” I ask Mike.

“Wait a second.”  He gets the thermometer from its compartment, presses the on button, puts the end into Jesus’s ear and waits for the result.

“One hundred and four!  This guy is septic.”

“Let’s start a line and get him in.”  Mike gets going on the IV and I try to get more information.  I have pretty much exhausted my Spanish vocabulary so this is difficult.  I get an identification card from him and find out full name and address, which I copy onto the state report.  Jesus has been living in misery for a long time from the look of his leg.  He probably has no insurance and is possibly in the country illegally, which is probably why he has delayed seeking medical treatment.  His decision may cost a lot more than deportation.  Maybe where he comes from is a worse place than where he is and a leg is an equal tradeoff.  I certainly wouldn’t want to be forced to make that decision.

Mike has the IV line running and goes in front to drive.  A few minutes later we are back at the ER.

Jan and Jim are working triage.  The pace is frantic, three rescues are ahead of us and the waiting room is full.  I wait my turn in the doorway; Jesus is sleeping on the hospital’s stretcher that Mike and I have moved him onto.  When I make it to the front of the line Jim is waiting.

 “Hi, Jim, How are you?” I ask.

“Glorious.”

I love it when Jim is working with Jan.  They compliment each other perfectly, both voracious readers and freakishly witty.  At times I try to match wits with them but find myself out-matched.  They run triage better than anybody, the patients moved along in a professional manner, never missing a thing.  People who are good at what they do are able to do their jobs with such ease that they are easily taken for granted.  

“What have you got?” Jim asks.

“Fifty year old male, possible seizure at a restaurant, no trauma but he was witnessed falling from his seat onto a tile floor.  Heart rate 130. BP normal, temperature 104.  He’s complaining of pain to his left leg and here is why.”  I take the towel covering Jesus’s leg off.  The smell hits Jim first.  He shakes his head in dismay.

“Trauma,” says Jim and leads the way.  We wheel our patient through the triage area into the back where a medical team is assembling.  Jim signs my report and takes over, explaining to the team the situation.  The wound speaks for itself.  

Mike is in the truck waiting for me.

“Are you still hungry?” I ask him.

 “Starving,” he responds. “Let’s eat.”

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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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