Rescuing Providence: Part 1 - 1355 Hours Through 1646 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
Monday, April 11, 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
We see them on the corner, cardboard sign in hand, looking for money. We know that they will turn the cash into bottled escape or brown powder as soon as they have enough, sometimes we offer them a sandwich, most of the time we simply ignore them. They are homeless, and desperate. They are not working the corner, changing their clothes, getting into their BMWs and heading back home with their take when their shift is through. They live on the streets, in the bushes and on the floors and cots of the homeless shelters. And they die long before their time.
1355 Hours
Intoxicated
“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, we’re coming in service from Women and Infants. We’ll handle.”
“Message received. Rescue 1, you have it. Rescue 5, disregard.”
Darryl calls 911 every day, sometimes twice a day. He’s done it for years. One of the numerous homeless alcoholics living in the city, he abuses the health care system. His survival mechanism incorporates the city’s rescues, emergency rooms, homeless shelters, and the state penitentiary system.
As we approach 1035 Broad Street, I see a human form crumpled on the sidewalk, lying under a pay phone. A convenience store sits 50 feet from the street; the store’s customers have to step around him to get inside. We stop the truck and glove up.
“Darryl! Wake up, it’s time to go,” I say, nudging him with my foot.The store’s patrons barely glance at us; they have seen this show hundreds of times.
“Come on, let’s go,” adds Mike. “There’s a seafood buffet waiting at the hospital in your honor; everybody is waiting for you. Drinks, entertainment, you name it. Today is Darryl Day in Providence—the mayor is going to give you the keys to the city.”
“Gimmee a sandwich” is all we got out of Darryl.
Some days he can walk; others he has to be carried. We get on both sides of him, helping him to his feet and assisting him to the door of the truck. We let him sit on the bench seat; he hasn’t lost his bowels or bladder yet.
“Aren’t you tired of this?” I ask him on the way to the ER.
“Fuck you.”
That went well. We ride to the hospital together in the back of the rescue, physically close yet worlds apart.
The smell of Darryl mixed with Mike’s contribution from earlier fills the truck, making me wonder whether I am breathing contaminated molecules. I turn on the ventilation system in back, the sound of the fan a comforting hum.
On the door of my office is a picture of Saddam Hussein, disheveled and filthy with a long straggly beard, after his capture. Darryl could be his double. Prison tattoos adorn his forearms, the blue ink faded but legible. One says “Mom” and the other “Love.”
“What’s with the new clothes—did you hit the lottery?” I ask him. His taste runs toward dirty sweatshirts and jeans, but today he has on a nice pair of khaki pants and a button-down shirt. He is even wearing nice shoes and socks rather than his usual sneakers. Darryl mumbles some unintelligible grunts and passes out while sitting on the seat.
I used to wonder how he could be conscious one minute and then comatose the next. Recently I found out his secret. He opens a newspaper vending machine with 50 cents that he panhandles from somebody and steals the entire stack. He then takes his papers a few blocks away and sells them to people heading into a convenience store. When he has made enough for some cheap vodka, he ditches what papers are left in the trash and buys a bottle. Some days a half pint will do; others require a quart. The next step is to go to his favorite phone booth, call 911 and claim there is an intoxicated person at the pay phone. The dispatchers know what is going on but have to send us. If they refuse, he will continue to call and claim he is having chest pains or has been assaulted. He then guzzles the bottle of vodka. He drinks it straight from the bottle in about 30 seconds. If we get there quickly, he is still coherent for a little while and then lapses into a drunken stupor. If we are in a different part of the city when the call comes in and have a delayed response, the vodka has time to work its magic and he is unconscious when we arrive on the scene.
Eventually, he will kill himself. Some days when we get to him he is so far gone that we have to start an IV and intubate. His liver is shot, his heart ready to give up, and his brain damaged to the brink of retardation. The health-care providers have given up hope of rehabilitation; he has been given every chance, yet he refuses to follow through with his treatment. I wish I could say that I feel sorrow or pity toward him, but I truly don’t. When he dies, another homeless alcoholic will take his place, just like he took the place of the last one who died. The real tragedy is that he and those like him are allowed to squander the limited resources of the health-care system. He is on full disability and receives a check each month from the taxpayers to spend any way he chooses. He chooses to drown himself in vodka while we pick up the tab. If I sound bitter, that is because I am.
“Mike, you’re going to have to get a stretcher,” I say as we backed into the rescue bay at Rhode Island Hospital. “Our patient is no longer with us.”
“He died?”
“Kind of.”
I wait for the stretcher. A few moments later, Mike wheels a hospital stretcher to the side door of the rescue, and we haul Darryl onto it.
“Why don’ you guys leave him in the woods?” Domingo asks as we wheel him past. “He be better off livin’ wit’ the animals.”
Ron sees the patient and rushes over.
“Get him in the back—we need him right away!” he says, a look of relief on his face.
“What’s going on around here?” Mike asks.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Ron wheels Darryl into one of the back rooms of the ER.
My skin feels disgusting. I want to take a shower, but a good hand scrubbing will have to do. The sinks in the middle of the treatment area serve as my shower. I take a look around the room as I scrub.
The ER is in full swing. Critical patients are seen immediately, but there is a four-hour wait for patients seeking “routine” emergency care. I never fail to be impressed with this place; the volume of patients would overwhelm most health-care facilities. Rhode Island Hospital is the only Level 1 trauma center in the area. Patients are evaluated, tests ordered, illnesses diagnosed and medicated, bones set, lacerations stitched, and everybody cared for at levels of professionalism from the doctors and nursing staff that you can’t find anywhere else. Controlled chaos fills the halls between the patients, the frantic pace exhausting to watch. Trauma and medical teams are routinely called to trauma alley. The teams don’t sit around waiting for trauma or life-threatened patients: they provide quality care to the hundreds of routine patients who seek it here. When the speaker blares out “Trauma team to Trauma 1,” they drop what they are doing and go. They have no idea what to expect—a gunshot wound, an amputation, an electrocution, anything could be waiting for them. They finish the job in trauma alley, sometimes with heartbreaking results, and then pick up where they left off.
“He came back just in time,” says Ron as I return to the triage desk.
“What is the rush?” I ask. “I’ve never seen Darryl go to the back so fast.”
“That guy look familiar?” Ron asks me, nodding at a man leaving the ER through the waiting room door.
“Kind of.”
“Rescue brought him here last night around the same time as Darryl. They found him intoxicated at the Foxy Lady. We put them in the same detox room. Darryl was released first and took his roommate’s clothes.
“Ever the opportunist,” I say.
“Maybe that guy is still wearing Darryl’s undies,” says Mike as we walk out of the ER.
Mike and I head back to the truck and into the city. We drive past the man possibly wearing Darryl’s underwear as he makes his way back to whatever life he leads.
I’m going to miss Mike.
The departmental cell phone rings. “Mike, do you want to work tonight?” It is the division chief. Every inch of me screams no, but I say, “Yes, sir.”
“How about Leclaire?” the chief asks.
“Mike, do you want a callback tonight?” I ask him.
“Only if I see monkeys fly out of my ass.”
“He says no, sir.”
I’ll be going to Rescue 3 in the city’s North End. Captain Fortes hurt his back a while ago, and the department has been filling his spot with overtime. Good for me.
“You shouldn’t work so much overtime,” says Mike.
“You should work more overtime,” I reply.
“But look at how well rounded I am,” he continues. “You’re a burned-out shell. You need to spend more time with your family.”
“I know.” I key the mike and go back in service.
1458 Hours
Trouble Walking
“Rescue 1, head over to 20 Great Street for a woman with difficulty walking.”
Twenty Great Street is another high-rise apartment building inhabited by elderly and disabled people. The people who live there have established their own community where English is seldom spoken. Occasionally somebody’s children or grandchildren will be visiting and we can use them as a translator, but for the most part we are on our own. The language barrier is something that we deal with daily. I communicate with sign language and a few Spanish words; my patients respond likewise. Experience has taught me how to treat patients with very little verbal communication. A heart attack looks the same in every language; you just have to recognize the signs and symptoms.
A security guard buzzes us into the lobby, and we head toward the elevator. It is small, and we make the stretcher fit by folding up the back. I hate being crowded into these elevators— the things I have seen crawling on their walls make my skin crawl. A resident tries to get in with us, but I tell him to wait for the next one and the door closes on him. He is pissed; I think he is swearing at us in Spanish.
“What’s the matter with that guy?” Mike asks.
“He likes your ass and wanted to get a little closer,” I respond.
“Well, why didn’t you let him in?” he asks. “I could have used a little stimulation.”
“Maybe he’ll be waiting for us on the way down,” I remark as the elevator door opens and we make our way down the corridor. Dead bugs trapped in the fluorescent light fixtures cast shadows on the doors that line the hallway, some of which are decorated but most are bare. What lies behind those doors is a mystery. Pungent aromas seep out, giving some clues: somebody is baking; someone else hasn’t bathed in years. You never know what to expect until the door opens. Our patient is behind the last door.
“What’s the matter?” I ask the lady sitting on a couch in her parlor. Her place is well kept and nicely furnished. Her kitchen is to our left as we enter; candies sit in a bowl on the table.
“I’ve been throwing up since yesterday,” she says in English with a faint Southern drawl. “I’m so weak I can’t make it to the bathroom.”
“Let’s get you to the hospital then; you look awful,” I tell her. Her name is Ethyl, and she is dressed in red pajamas with yellow fuzzy slippers on her feet and a bright yellow scrunchie holding her hair in a bun. As sick as she is, she brightens the room. We help her to the stretcher, lock up her place, and make our way to the truck. Ethel rides in the stretcher and greets everybody we pass in the hallway and lobby in Spanish by his or her first name.
They all look concerned and wish her well.
“You are the only person I’ve met here who speaks English,” I tell her as we load the stretcher with her on it into the back of the rescue. “You could be the ambassador!”
“Not so many speak English,” she explains. “When I moved here from Columbia, South Carolina, 50 years ago there weren’t many Hispanic people at all. Me and the rest of the black folks are a minority around here now. Times have changed, but people are still the same.”
“Do you speak Spanish?” I ask.
“Just enough to get by,” she responds. I wonder how much that is.
“I would have taken myself to the hospital, but I don’t drive. My granddaughter was going to take me, but she said I should call 911 and she would meet me there.” =
“Why don’t you drive?” I ask.
“Never did; I can’t even ride a bike. The Good Lord provided me with legs, and that is what I use.”
Ethyl’s vital signs are stable, so we transport to Rhode Island Hospital without any medical procedures. She is probably dehydrated from throwing up and just needs fluids. We get to the hospital at around 3:00. The traffic is brutal; shift changes bring chaos to the area around the hospital. Finally, we pull into the rescue bay and get Ethel checked in. This is a routine call for us; we welcome the break from the serious runs and drunks we usually encounter. Ethel is a beautiful person; it is good to know that such people still exist in the city. I go back to the truck to call Cheryl and tell her about Ethyl.
“Hello.”
“Hey, babe, what are you doing?” I ask.
“I just finished cleaning the house. I’m headed out to the store. How are you?”
“Great. I’m working at Rescue 3 tonight.”
“I wish you didn’t have to work so much overtime. I feel responsible. If I were still working, you could go back to Engine 9 and we could have a normal life.”
“I wish you didn’t have multiple sclerosis, but you do and nothing is going to change that. I know that you do what you can, so don’t worry about it. Thank God, I love this stupid job; if I didn’t, I would really be miserable instead of just acting like I am. I just had a great old lady in the truck. She was sick as a dog but managed to tell me all about her life in South Carolina. She moved up here 50 years ago with her family and has made a pretty good life for herself.”
“Why is she going to the hospital?”
“She’s sick.”
“I know she’s sick, you idiot. What’s the matter with her?”
“Nothing a little IV fluid won’t cure,” I say.
“Call me later.”
“Will do. Love you, bye.”
“Love you too.”
We make it back to the station at 3:30. Mike stays on the apparatus floor to finish washing the truck; I head upstairs to finish my reports. Every rescue run is carefully documented. We fill out a state EMS form in triplicate before we leave the hospital. Information concerning the patient’s medical history, allergies to medicine, and medicines taken is provided on the form. We give a detailed narrative pertaining to the patient’s present condition, record vital signs, and document treatment we provided before the triage nurse signs the form. The hospital gets a copy; I take the rest back to the station with me.
At my desk, I transpose the information onto the hard drive of my computer and file the hard copies. The EMS chief picks the reports up weekly. Any rescue report needed can be retrieved in minutes. A lot of lawyers request the forms for cases they are preparing. Occasionally, we get dragged into court to testify. I’ve yet had to appear, but I have heard some horror stories about what happens. The wheels of justice turn slowly, we can be called to testify on cases years after the incident and be expected to remember the smallest details.
The guys are gathered around the sitting room torturing each other. My appearance gives them a new target.
“I didn’t know there was a full solar eclipse happening today,” says Captain Healy, the man in charge of Engine 13.
“There’s not; Mike’s head just passed the window,” says Steve as he looks up from the paper he is reading.
“Doesn’t your neck get tired holding up all that weight?” asks Jay.
“His head may be big, but there is nothing but air inside,” the Captain contributes.
My head really isn’t that big. The helmet I was issued years ago in the academy was too small, and I have never heard the end of it.
“The chief called,” I say to Captain Healy. “They’ve perfected the super-stretch spandex material for your pants; they should be ready any time.”
“They’re waiting for a new machine that fastens giant waistbands to tiny legs,” adds Steve.
“I thought they ran out of material after making his last pair,” pipes in Jay.
“Rescue 1, a still alarm.”
“Five bucks for lunch,” says Steve as the loudspeaker continues to blare.
“Rescue 1 respond to 14 Lennox Avenue for a child with a laceration to his head.”
I put the five on the table and head back out, leaving the guys to their own devices.
1646 Hours
Pediatric Laceration
This is Mike’s last run for the day; I have 25 hours to go. We are heading into a rough section of the city. Providence may be the Renaissance City to some, just don’t tell that to the people who live in this neighborhood. Here the Renaissance passed without a backward glance.
A gang of young guys stand around the front of the house, dressed in jerseys, gold jewelry, jeans, and expensive sneakers. The jerseys they wear are a status symbol in the neighborhood and cost up to $300 each. I remember one of these guys from an ugly incident on this street last summer.
A street brawl had erupted, and one of the fighters had been stabbed. The crowd that had gathered was emotionally charged as they watched their friend dying before their eyes. Some frantically dialed 911 from their cell phones expecting us to rush to his aid. They waited for what must have seemed an abnormally long time, but in actuality was only minutes. Because firefighters have been attacked by hostile crowds in the past, the fire department has procedures in place that direct us to wait for the police to secure an area where a violent incident has occurred before we move in. This night there were no police on the scene, and a large crowd had formed. Engine 10 had been dispatched along with us and slowly approached the scene from one side as we approached from the other. The victim’s friends didn’t think we moved fast enough. It is our nature to help people; we just don’t want to get killed along the way. Cautiously, we moved in. As I was getting the stretcher out of the back of the rig, one of the guys standing in front of the house accosted me.
“If he dies, you die.”
“You stupid bastard,” I told him, focused on the patient and annoyed by the interruption, “your friend is bleeding to death, and you have to bust my balls. Get out of the way, or your friend will die on those steps.”
He relented, realizing we were the best chance his friend had. The rest of the crowd shouted racial epithets and stood in our way. As six middle-aged white guys, we stood out in this neighborhood, where we normally didn’t belong. The tension in the air was thick. I continued to make progress toward the patient. The guys from Engine 10 kept the hostile crowd under control somehow and helped load the patient, a 20-year-old male with a 2-inch stab wound to his abdomen and his shoulder sliced wide open, onto the stretcher and into the truck. Once we gained control of the scene, the crowd let us work. In two minutes we had the patient stabilized and on the way to the ER. The police showed up as we sped away.
The victim’s wounds were life threatening. We got him to the ER, where the doctors saved his life—and possibly mine.
Mike pulls the truck in front of the house. The gang gives us some space as we walk past them up a flight of stairs and into a second-floor apartment. Those gathered are not friendly, but we have earned their respect.
The apartment is filthy. The victim, an adorable 3-year-old boy wearing only a diaper sits on an old chair, the stuffing falling to the floor from rips in the upholstery. He has a small bump on his head, no other sign of injury.
“He was running around and ran right into a wall,” reports a 20-year-old guy dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans. “I told his mother not to call you, he’d be fine.”
“I’m going to check him out,” I say. “What is his name?”
“We call him Gordo,” replies the man, grinning. Many more people are in the apartment, watching us with wary eyes.
I get down to the boy’s level and say, “Gordo, are you hurt anywhere?”
He looks me in the eye and shakes his head no.
Though the living conditions are deplorable, it seems that these people love the boy and look out for his interests to the best of their ability. Gordo seems comfortable and unafraid. This is the lifestyle these people are used to, and they are comfortable with it. Because I disagree with it doesn’t make me right. Some people grow up in houses like this and become successful. Most stay and bring more kids into a world they cannot escape. Gordo is fine, no need for transport.
The day shift is done, and we go back to the station. Mike goes home, and I head to the North End of the city and Rescue 3. I can’t believe I’m losing Mike to Engine 15. I want to ask him to stay but don’t want to put any pressure on him. His decision to leave the truck puts me in a tough spot.
Before Mike was assigned with me, I had seriously considered leaving the rescue division and going back to my old assignment, a firefighter on Engine 9. It would mean a reduction in rank and a cut in pay, as well as lost overtime. Mike was like the cavalry coming over the hill, just in the nick of time. The relentless calls for help never end. I was tired of helping people, most of whom refuse to help themselves. During my days off I found it harder and harder to sleep and snapped at my family. The people I worked with were good at what they did, but I never felt a bond with them. They were just people to work with; I never was able to share with them my downward spiral. Mike changed all that. He helped me see the job from a new perspective and made it fun again. I could talk to him as a friend. I didn’t want to work with anybody else.
When I think back on the day’s events, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I am a little tired but can’t worry about that. I have a long night ahead.
The ride to the other end of the city takes about 20 minutes, depending on rush-hour traffic. Some days when traffic is light, I can make the trip in 10. I enjoy the ride, listen to talk radio, and relax for the first time all day. It is only 20 minutes, but to be away from the rescue and all that comes with it is a welcome relief. I needed a little time to clear my head.
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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