Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 20, a Book by Michael Morse
Monday, October 10, 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.
Note From the Author
“Dealing with a constant torrent of other people’s emergencies has a tendency to make one put their own well being aside. Before you know it some difficult life problems creep up on you and you find yourself ill equipped to deal with it. It’s amazing how people in our profession can be so good at handling other people’s problems, but so bad at handling our own.”
There is a disconnect between home life and work life, and nowhere is that void more dangerous than in the lives of first responders and their families. I found that communication is the remedy for most of the problems that occur in a relationship punctuated by separation. Those little devices we all carry with us have saved many a strained relationship, or managed to halt a problem before it had a chance to take root. Taking a few moments to connect with the home front while on the front lines brings things back into perspective, reminds us why we are doing what we do and makes coming home after a grueling shift easier than it would have been if there was no connection at all.
Chapter 20
“That guy is nuts,” says Mike.
“I don’t know who’s crazier, him or us,” I say.
Things at the station are quiet. All I’m thinking about is getting some rest. An hour of sleep is what I need to get through the rest of the night. The reflection I see in the mirror while brushing my teeth is not pretty. Bags have developed under my eyes. No matter how many hour-long naps or ten-minute showers I get, the drawn and haunted look on my face will remain until I get some real rest. The hours are starting to take their toll. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep up this pace for much longer; it takes too long to recuperate.
Working in the same station as the engine and ladder companies is difficult. The temptation to hang up my rescue shoes and go back to fighting fires is sometimes overwhelming. The rescues are out running around like nuts, taking a beating day in and day out. The fire companies work at a more realistic pace. This job is not designed for us to constantly be on the move. Rather than being “on call,” we are usually “on calls.” Dealing with a constant torrent of other people’s emergencies has a tendency to make one put their own well being aside. Before you know it some difficult life problems creep up on you and you find yourself ill equipped to deal with it. It’s amazing how people in our profession can be so good at handling other people’s problems, but so bad at handling our own. Numerous studies show that the divorce rate of people in the emergency services occupation is well above the norm. I happen to know the reason for that. You have to come through with the manicotti. It’s that simple.
Every week I put myself through the same torment. In the end I always come to the same conclusion; I actually enjoy this work. I’m sure I’ll feel refreshed and have a better outlook when I return next week after my days off. For now, I just have to quit being a bitch and suck it up. I call home. Cheryl picks up on the first ring.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Babe, how‘s things?”
“Good here, how about you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Yes you can and usually do.”
“I know but I promise, no more complaining. The people just keep calling and calling. They never let up. If it weren’t for all the nitwits this would be a piece of cake. The last guy we had was a real piece of work. He actually wanted us to take him across the city to Roger Williams so he could get more painkillers. I’m sure Darryl will be calling any second, he’s due. The clubs will be getting out and you know how those assholes are, and I guarantee if they don’t call some moron will crash his car or beat up his wife. If we don’t get more rescues soon, I’m quitting.”
“I’m glad that you’re not going to complain anymore.”
“Complaining never got me anywhere so what’s the use? Anyway, Happy Easter. Do you need anything?”
“Everything is all set. The house is clean, Danielle is picking up my mother and Brittany is taking her home. I’ve got the ham seasoned with Heinz 57 and cloves, the veggies are ready and my mom is making the potato croquets.”
“Excellent. I’m bringing the manicotti. Who’s bringing the pie?”
“Tara made one and Dylan brought it over. We’re playing cards with Bob and Tara on Monday.
“I hope they’ve been saving their money, I feel lucky.”
“The way you’ve been playing you need to be lucky.”
“Rescue 1 a still alarm.”
2142 hrs. (9:42 p.m.)
“Rescue 1 respond to 96 Gallatin Street for a twenty-nine year old female complaining of abdominal pain.”
“Rescue 1, responding.”
“Got to go,” I say to Cheryl.
“Be careful.”
“I will. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to get to bed early and get some sleep.”
“You too,” she says.
“Love you, bye.”
“Love you too. Goodnight.”
For the first time all week, I get to the truck before Mike. A few seconds after I get in, he opens the driver’s side door and sees me.
“An Easter miracle, you’re here before me.”
“The old guy still has some get up and go, you know,” I say.
“My get up and go got up and went,” he says.
“I hear you.” Got up and went. Nice. Another one bites the dust.
Gallatin Street runs between Broad and Elmwood. Broad Street is starting to get busy again, the nightclubs are opening and the early crowd is coming in. The people on the street barely notice us as we pass. The drivers we share the road with are in no hurry to get out of our way. Mike changes the tone of the siren from the usual long wail to a series of chirps. That wakes up the guy in front of us who wouldn’t get out of the way - he pulls to the side of the road.
We have to park in the middle of Gallatin, there are three cars parked in front of the house we are called to. I get out of the truck and walk through a gate in a chain link fence, up six or seven cement steps to a landing then knock on the door.
“She’s in here,” says a man who looks like a leftover roadie from 1980’s Monsters of Rock tour.
“Why did you call?” I ask.
“She needs to get to the hospital,” he answers, sounding more annoyed than concerned.
The patient is lying on a small couch in her pajamas. A small trash pail is on the floor in front of the couch. She leans over and vomits into it, then puts it down and lies back down. A lit cigarette burns in an ashtray near the pail of vomit. She is a big woman, at least two-fifty. Her hair is long, greasy and tied in a ponytail. The tip of the cigarette glows in the dim and smoky light as she takes a healthy puff. She rewards us with her exhaled smoke.
“How long have you been feeling sick?” I ask.
“Not that long. I had my liver replaced two years ago. An hour ago I had some wieners and a couple of beers and have been feeling sick since then.”
“It doesn’t sound like you need to go to the hospital.”
“She’s going,” says her husband.
“Why don’t you take her?” I ask.
“She’ll get in faster if you do it,” he says.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I say.
The patient vomits again then starts gasping for breath.
“I can’t breath!” she says. They win.
“Get your shoes and a coat, we’ll take you,” I tell her.
“I can’t walk,” she says.
“We are not carrying you. If you want to go to the hospital, get some shoes and your coat and let’s go. Otherwise forget it.”
“You guys had better carry her, she’s sick,” says the biker.
“I’ll get the chair,” says Mike. “It’s easier than arguing and I want to get out of here.”
I’m so tired that I go along with Mike. I just don’t have the energy to get into a pissing contest with these people. The woman starts to vomit again. While she has her head in the bucket and Mike is getting the stair chair from the back of the truck I ask the guy the usual questions.
“What is her name?”
“Rose Wallace.”
“Date of birth?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s your wife and you don’t know her birthday?”
“What of it?”
“I think it’s weird.”
“Too bad.”
Mike comes back and sets the chair up next to the couch. I ask Rose if she has the energy to get onto the chair. Slowly she makes the move, groaning and complaining the entire time. Mike rolls the chair to the door, and then I get a grip on the handles at the foot of the chair and lift. She weighs a ton, but Mike and I handle it without a problem. Mike rolls her to the rear of the truck where we transfer her to the stretcher then put her in the back of the truck. Her husband stands at the door and glares. We get in and close the door without him saying a word. No goodbye, no thanks, no nothing.
“What an asshole,” I say to Mike once we are in back.
“I’ll say,” he responds. Rose neither agrees nor disagrees; she sits on the stretcher and looks miserable.
“120/80, pulse 90. Do you need anything else?” Mike asks.
“No, let’s go. Rhode Island.”
Mike gets out of the back, then into the front and starts the four-minute ride to Rhode Island Hospital. Rose moans and groans the entire way there, but thankfully doesn’t vomit. I sit in my seat and watch the world go by. Mike is cranking Van Halen. Panama drifts from the cab into the back of the rescue, joining Rose, myself and the smell of stale cigarettes and vomit.
A young woman falls to her untimely death from an escalator in a shopping mall. Her bereaved family finds some solace knowing that her vital organs were put to good use, saving the lives of people in desperate need of them. It takes everything I have not to grab this patient by the throat and let her know exactly how lucky she is to be alive. I want to look her in the eyes, maybe squeeze her neck a little, and tell her just how lucky she is, and just how unlucky somebody else is that is dead, and what a waste she is making not only of her life and the second chance she has been given, but to the memory and legacy of the person who donated their very life essence to her so that she could smoke, drink, and eat “hot wieners” to obesity. Instead, I sit behind her in the Captains seat and fill out the report, leaving my commentary to myself.
Triage is packed with sick, injured and drunk people. Jan is still at the desk and greets us as we wheel Rose in.
“What have you got?” she asks.
“Twenty-nine year old female, liver transplant two years ago, vomiting for an hour possibly related to some hot wieners and beer she had a while ago.”
“Why did she eat hot wieners?”
“Good question.”
Jan signs the report. We hang around the hospital for a while, but none of our rescues are there, and Jan and Jim seem bored with us so we head back to quarters.
The radio chatter drones on. Rescue 2 is on Friendship Street for an assault, Rescue 3 was sent to help a twelve year old with emotional problems, Rescue 4 is headed to Thayer Street for an intoxicated female and Rescue 5 is transporting thirty-six year old male who “smoked too much crack,” and wants his heart checked.
“I’ve got a big day planned, I hope we get some rest,” says Mike.
“Me too. Too bad all of the rescues are out. I don’t think we’ll even make it back to the station,” I say.
“Maybe we’ll have another Easter miracle,” says Mike.
“We can only hope.”
I’ve spent a lot of time on rescue yet I never stop hoping for a quiet night. I’ve never had one, but the old timers tell stories of the days when people called the fire department only for emergencies. Legend has it that long ago people only called if somebody was really sick or hurt. I wish we could go back to those simpler times, but I know it will never happen. There is a culture, mostly located in the bigger cities that are dependent on government services. We have allowed this way of life to fester, and until our leaders smarten up, the problem will get worse. The “what can you do for me” attitude is spreading and until a major policy shake-up occurs, will continue to grow. Providence doesn’t need more rescues; more people need to take responsibility for themselves and stop looking for a free ride.
“See you in the morning,” I say to Mike as we make our way upstairs.
“Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he says as the door to his dorm closes. I laugh to myself, lie on the bunk and slip peacefully into unconsciousness.
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.
Related Articles
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 6, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 7 & 8, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 9, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 5, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 4, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 2, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 3, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 10, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 11 & 12, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 17, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 18, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 19, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 16, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 15, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 13, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 14, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 20, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 1 - 1036 Hours Through 1339 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 1 - 1355 Hours Through 1646 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 1 - 0800 Hours Through 0840 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Prologue, a Book by Michael Morse
- Starting Next Week: GoLocalProv Starts Publishing “Rescuing Providence” By Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 2 - 1800 Hours Through 1946 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 2 - 2056 Hours Through 2233 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 3 - 1252 Hours Through 1543 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 3 1158 Hours Through 1245 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 2 0530 Hours Through Part 3 0915 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 2 - 0004 Hours Through 0230 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
- Rescuing Providence: Part 3 - 1615 Hours Through Epilogue, a Book by Michael Morse
