Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 6, a Book by Michael Morse
Monday, July 18, 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
As time away from home adds up the so too does the need to be there. Homelessness plagues the streets of the city, and the people responding to their needs feel the emptiness as well. We see our own children in the faces of the kids we come across during our shift, neglected, abused and worse. There is little we can do, and documenting what we see then handing the problem off to others seems cheap and ineffective. We are the middlemen of human services and healthcare; there when it’s too late to prevent things, gone when the real healing happens. Somehow we sort it all out while we are at work, and try to come home with a clear head and optimistic outlook, our families deserve that. Sometimes we pull it off, far too often we fail, and bring the job home with us.
Chapter 6
“Rescue 1, Respond to 329 Parkis Street for a four-year-old, vomiting.”
0334 hrs. (3:34 a.m.)
“Rescue 1 responding.”
I can’t believe that it is already 3:30. The bar crowd has departed the city without calling us. I had turned my radio off and slept for an hour or so and missed hearing if any of the other rescues responded to calls. I’m sure that they did.
Years ago I partied at the same downtown clubs that are popular today, but I have no recollection of any fire department responses during my visits. I do recall a few incidents with the police, but those are stories best told another day.
My generation was more self-reliant than the kids who go to the clubs today. We took care of each other. Kids today would rather call 911 and leave their drunken or injured friends in the back of a rescue with strangers than take responsibility for them.
Some of the clubs in Providence are not friendly places. Fights are rampant. Ecstasy calmed things down for a while, but that craze has died down, with cocaine becoming more popular. I miss the Ecstasy. The kids all loved each other and were too wasted to fight or cause much trouble. Now, every night somebody gets a beating. Rescues are called and often find heavily intoxicated people with bloody noses, or swollen eyes and bumps on their heads. It is state protocol for all emergency personnel to transport patients with head injuries to the emergency room only after applying a cervical collar and placing them on a backboard. This setup presents numerous problems. For one, the patients are inexperienced drinkers. Traveling in the back of a truck, lying backwards with their neck immobilized is a sure recipe for a disaster. The patients sometimes have to throw up, but are lying on their back and can’t turn their head. We are supposed to keep them immobilized during transport, but that becomes impossible. Allowing somebody to drown in his or her vomit is counter-productive. The patients are usually very uncooperative. People with head injuries can be difficult to begin with; add alcohol to the mix and they are impossible. Often we need a fire company to assist us on scene. The firefighters hold the patients onto the stretcher and provide necessary manpower in restraining people who become combative. I am glad we managed to escape all of this tonight.
We have pulled the truck in front of what once was a respectable apartment building but is now a crack house. The four-year-old who is vomiting is inside this shithole, somewhere. Mike and I walk gingerly up five rotted wooden steps onto a sagging porch. The front door is more secure than a bank vault. Six doorbells are on the right side of the entryway; I don’t know which apartment the patient is in, so I push all six. After a minute a voice comes over an intercom.
“Who’s there?” the voice asks
“Providence Rescue,” I respond.
“How do I know you’re the rescue?”
“Are you near a front window?” I ask.
“Yeah,” comes the tinny reply.
“Look outside.”
“Hold on.”
“Do you see the rescue and all the flashing lights?”
“Yeah.”
“Then who the hell do you think we are?” I ask. A buzzing sound comes from the front door allowing me to push it open.
“Rescue 1 on scene,” I tell fire alarm. If we disappear I want somebody to know where we were last seen.
The hallway is dark. Tenants steal the light bulbs from the fixtures as soon as the landlord replaces them. Mike lights the way with a tiny penlight. The smell of smoke, body odor and stale booze permeates the narrow passageway.
“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, do you have an apartment number?”
“Roger Rescue 1, Apartment 102.”
“Received.”
Mike flashes his beam onto barricaded doors as we walk past - 102 is at the end of the hall, past a stairway that leads to upstairs apartments. The building is zoned for six units, but I’d bet the rescue there are at least ten apartments here. The population of Providence is exploding, but affordable housing is not keeping pace. Illegal apartments have become a huge problem. I knock on the door of apartment 102, hear some shuffling, then the door opens, letting a plume of marijuana smoke into the hall. A young man wearing nothing but piss-stained jockeys leads me into a two-room apartment over to a bare mattress lying in the corner of the “living” room. Dirty dishes lie about; spent cigarette butts sharing the dish surface with mold covered food. The walls are crawling with cockroaches and an army of flies is feeding on cat, dog and human feces that litter the floor. On the bed is a beautiful four-year-old girl, sweating and pale, with a vomit filled bucket perched next to her. The pail looks ready to spill onto her and the mattress and may already have.
“What is going on here?” I ask the man who answered the door.
“I don’t know. Her mother dropped her off at eight. She’s been crying and puking non stop since.”
“She’s sick,” I say, while moving the bucket of vomit away from her. “Mike, get a clean blanket from the truck.” He looks glad to get out of the stinking place.
“What is her name?”
“Cassandra. You gonna fix her?” Underwear Man asks.
“I’m taking her to Hasbro. She needs to be seen by a doctor,” I say.
“Don’t you got no medicine or nothin to give her?” he asks. Mike has returned with the blanket and wastes no time wrapping the little girl in it. She looks at him with glazed eyes and miraculously smiles.
“Take her to the truck, I’ll be right out,” I say to Mike. He carries her out. The girl doesn’t look back. I radio fire alarm and request the police to meet us at Hasbro. This is a blatant case of child neglect. There isn’t much I can do, only report my findings to the proper authorities
“What is the matter with you, letting a little kid live like this?” I ask
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like an animal.”
“Fuck you man, you can’t talk to me like that.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Hasbro.”
“Bullshit, we’re staying here.”
“Look buddy, your daughter can’t stay here. She’s sick and needs medical attention. I can’t leave her here, and you don’t have a choice. Now let’s go.”
Reluctantly, he gets dressed and follows me to the rescue. Mike has Cassandra wrapped up tight and sleeping on the stretcher.
“She’s got a temperature of 104, BP 140 over 78 and a pulse of 120,” he says.
“Have you given her any medicine?” I ask Underwear Man.
“I can’t afford no medicine.”
“But can afford pot and cigarettes.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Yes it is.”
I’m done talking to this piece of shit. When I get to Hasbro, I’ll inform them of the deplorable living conditions and they will alert the State Department of Children, Youth and Families. Cassandra will probably be placed in a foster home until a caseworker can be assigned to them. The police will file a report. I don’t know what will happen to the father, but if I had my way he would be locked up for good.
“Do you believe this shit?” says Mike as we leave Hasbro and head toward the station.
“We’re here, away from our families trying to make a living and that asshole is home with his kid, who knows where the mother is. That girl was burning up and he sits around smoking reefer like there isn’t a care in the world. Fuck him and fuck the mother and fuck everybody who lives in that piece of shit hellhole. They should be locked up. For good. I wish I could take that kid home.”
I let Mike vent. There really isn’t anything I can add to his diatribe - I feel the same way. I worry when the job gets to him. Things are pretty bad to get through his thick skin. His family means the world to him; it is unfathomable when he sees other people who just take it all for granted. I feel the same way.
It is impossible to forget the things we see. At some level, the sights, smells, sounds and emotions are with us for the rest of our lives. At any time, anywhere something could trigger a flashback, and what was a pleasant night at home, relaxing day at the beach or a nice dinner with friends suddenly loses its luster. It’s taken me years to realize why.
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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