Rescuing Providence: Part 2 - 1800 Hours Through 1946 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse

Monday, April 18, 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

I'm a big white guy from the suburbs working in a city comprised mostly of minorities. When I experienced racism it wasn't even close to what I expected. I was accepted into the homes and lives of the people who called 911. Maybe it was the uniform, maybe not, I simply don't know. I do know that racism is alive and well in the inner city, and it's not all about white people. Society has made progress, but we have a very long way to go.

Part 2 

Rescue Log, Lieutenant Morse 

Wednesday, 1800 Hours 

 

I steer my wagon off the highway and turn into the driveway of the Branch Avenue Fire Station. I started my career here, running with Engine 2 and Ladder 7. The station itself is similar to the Allen’s Avenue barn, only twice as large. I saw a lot of fire while stationed there and learned some important things about station life and fighting fires. Just as important, I made some lifelong friends that I look forward to seeing whenever I work overtime on Rescue 3. It is a homecoming of sorts whenever I enter this building. 

I pull my car around the side of the building and drive into an underground parking garage. This station also has three levels, the basement parking garage, the apparatus floor in the middle, and the living quarters on top. The indoor parking is a nice perk that most stations don’t have. Guys stationed here have the cleanest cars in the city. As I walk up the stairs I see that Rescue 3’s bay is empty, giving me some more time away from the stress of being on call. I say quick hellos to some of the guys as I pass them on my way up the stairs. Change of shift is a busy time at the station—12 people coming, 12 going. 

Rescue 3’s office is twice as large as Rescue 1’s, but that doesn’t make it better. Even though I spent years here, I feel like a stranger in this room. A desk and bunk fill one side of the room; a bureau with a TV on top stands at the end of the bunk. Years ago one of the officers brought in a sectional sofa from home and put it in Rescue 3's office. He has since retired, but the couch is still there. It beckons; I'm asleep in seconds. 

1815 Hours 

Assault 

“Rescue 3, a still alarm.” 

It seems like I have just shut my eyes.

 “Rescue 3; respond to 57 Pleasant Street for a man bleeding on the sidewalk, stage for police.”

 I get up from the couch and slide down the pole to the apparatus floor. The rescue will be driving past the station on the way to this run. The guys working the day shift must be ready to go home; I’ll catch them on the ramp. A new guy, Renato, waits outside, my partner for the night. I don’t know him that well and have heard that he has very little rescue experience but a great attitude. I’ll take a great attitude over an experienced bad one any day. Renato introduces himself and shakes my hand, and the night is under way.

 I see Rescue 3 heading toward us from North Main Street. When they see us, they turn off the lights and sirens to avoid attention. We do the change of shift on the ramp with the engine still running. I am in a new truck with a new partner, ready for whatever the night has to offer. 

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PHOTO: Eric Norberg

Pleasant Street is anything but. Three streets away from the station and you would think you have entered another world. There are rumors of extensive drug dealing going on in this area. The tenement houses are in disrepair; broken windows, peeling paint, and years of neglect stifle whatever beauty may have once thrived here. It appears that those who now live here have abandoned all hope. Graffiti mars the pavement, fences, and houses, while broken glass and spent bullet casings litter the ground. Lawlessness pervades the area, passed from one generation to the next. 

We drive from North Main into the thick of things. A young man is leaning against a curb, bleeding. A crowd of neighborhood kids surrounds him. From my vantage point, the scene looks relatively safe: kids on bicycles circle the area, and nobody appears openly hostile. There is a pretty young nurse helping the bleeding boy, and I am worried about her safety. 

“Head up there, Renato.” He guns the motor and closes in. I key the mike, “Rescue 3 on scene, no police.” 

“What happened here?” I ask as we get out of the truck and walk over to the victim. “

A bunch of niggers kicked his ass and stole his jewelry,” responds a young Hispanic girl of 15 or so. Racism is alive and well in Providence. They don’t need white people to keep the tradition alive. 

“I was driving home from work and noticed a gang of kids beating him up,” the nurse explains. “He didn’t lose consciousness, but he has a pretty good laceration to the back of his head.”

 “Thanks for helping,” I say. “This is a pretty rough section; you could have gotten yourself killed.” 

“They’re just kids,” she responds. She is right—they are just kids. I wonder if she realizes that some of these kids carry loaded weapons.

 At one time African Americans dominated this street, but in recent years the Hispanic population has exploded. At times I don’t see much love between the two groups. 

“Do you know what day it is?” I ask the victim. He doesn’t. Some days I don’t know the answer to that question either, so I ask another. 

“Do you know who the president is?” 

“Bill Clinton,” he responds. 

Close. I was asking simple questions to determine the severity of his head injury. If the person is oriented to his surroundings, his level of consciousness can be determined. 

“Do you know who you are?” He looks at me with bewildered eyes.

“Renato, get the board and grab a collar. I think he has a concussion.” 

Renato gets the necessary supplies from the truck, and I get the stretcher from the back. We have the patient lie flat on his back after applying the cervical collar. With help from the nurse on scene and some of the kids in the crowd, we load him onto the stretcher and into the truck. A crowd has gathered and watches us work. They are not openly hostile, but I sense tension rising. There is always the risk of violence erupting, especially at violent incidents. The boy’s girlfriend comes along in the back, quietly observing as we do our job. I thank the nurse and watch as she returns to her car, and then I close the rescue doors and get to work. I put an oxygen mask over the patient’s face and adjust the flow to 10 liters. Renato places three EKG leads in the appropriate places and runs a strip. I place a blood pressure cuff on the patient’s right arm while Renato looks for a vein to establish an IV on his left. We put a pulse oximeter lead over a finger of his right hand and record a reading before the cuff inflates. Renato probably needs the practice so I let him attempt the IV. Young people in good shape are easy to stick and good confidence builders. He gets it on the first try. The IV line is attached to the end of the catheter, the flow set, the line secured, and we are ready to go. I write the report:

 Pt. Found semi-conscious leaning against wall, contusion and small laceration to back of head. Pt. Punched and kicked by numerous assailants, no loc. IV est, 18 G. L. a/c. B/P 188/110, spo2 98%. Sinus tach at 124. 10 L. 02 adm. via mask, board and collar applied, transported to Hasbro. 

I hear some commotion on the outside and look out the rear window. A middle-aged woman is at the door of the rescue yelling in Spanish. Renato opens the back door, and they talk for a while until she settles down. Renato translates for me. 

“I told her what happened. She’s going to follow us to Hasbro.” 

“Tell her to meet us there; it’s dangerous following a rescue.” 

Renato translates. 

“She said she’ll meet us there.”

 I would bet my house that she will be right behind us as we transport the victim. 

Two police officers approach the scene as we leave. I give them a brief summary of the assault before taking off. The kid in the rescue is in a tough spot. If he decides to press charges, retribution could be swift and heavy. If he takes matters into his own hands, he runs the risk of getting involved in a cycle of violence that can only end badly. If he does nothing, he will be considered easy prey. He has some hard choices to make with no easy answer. Getting out of the neighborhood could be his only alternative. I am thankful I don’t have to put my kids in the position to make those decisions. Just getting through adolescence is hard enough without having such big problems to wrestle with. 

Traffic is light since rush hour is over. I look out of the rear windows of the rescue and see a car 10 feet behind us with the emergency flashers activated. 

“Are you all right?” I ask the girlfriend. 

“Just upset. I just moved to that neighborhood yesterday. I can’t believe this happened. My boyfriend was just visiting. He didn’t need this.” 

“Where did you move from?” I ask. 

“Potters Avenue.” 

Potters Avenue is in South Providence, Pleasant Street, the North End. There is a little gang war going on between the two neighborhoods. The kids getting shot don’t tell me much, but we have an idea of what is going on. 

“Isn’t there some bad blood between those two neighborhoods?” I ask. 

“There is, but I don’t get involved in that stuff. Neither does he.” She points to the boy on the stretcher. He is doing fine: vitals stable, heart rate a little high but nothing life threatening.

 I have a feeling that these two kids will make it out of their present situation. The streets they live on are the roughest around, but if they don’t get involved with the gangs and all that comes with that, they have a chance. If they are seduced by the “hood life,” they will spend the rest of their lives in places like this. There isn’t a lot of hope for the future on these streets; the present is pretty bleak also. 

Renato backs the rescue into the bay at Hasbro; the boy’s mother is right behind us. The waiting room is packed. Every seat is full, and little kids litter the floor. People are having to wait about six hours to be seen. My patient goes directly to the back and into a trauma room. There the trauma team assembles and starts his care. The boy’s girlfriend waits outside the doors, next to the boy’s mother. Each does a great job of pretending the other doesn’t exist. 

“If those kids can get out of here and go away to college, I think they will be all right,” I say to Renato, as we traverse the city from the south side back to the north end. 

This is my favorite time of night. The commuters have made their way home, the people who live here are busy with dinner, and things are quiet. The thoroughfare toward the station has made a remarkable transformation in the last decade. 

The truck hugs the Providence River for the first part of the ride. Eventually, the Providence converges with the Moshassock and Woonasquatucket Rivers. Water Place Park is the newest addition to the city’s numerous parks and museums. Providence was once listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the widest bridge in the world. The beautiful waterway was covered by concrete, rebar, and gravel, giving the illusion of land. Underneath the bridge flowed what now is heralded as one of the most beautiful parts of the city. The ugly roadway has been torn down. Venetian-style bridges now cross the rivers, and a gondolier can often be seen plying the waterways. What once was a polluted mass of dead water moving under a dying city is now a less- polluted waterway boasting restaurants, park benches, and festivals such as an event called “WaterFire.”

 Twelve times a year, bonfires blaze in the middle of the three rivers on cauldrons created just for that purpose. One hundred bonfires burn in the center of the moving water, opera music flows into the park, and thousands of people flock downtown to share the serenity. Artists, performers, and giant puppets known as the Big Nazo mingle with folks out for a leisurely stroll. People put aside their fears and differences and come together to embrace the best the city has to offer. Even if only for a short while, it is time well spent. 

Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) has built dorms and classrooms along the route. Students from RISD and other local colleges make up a large part of the city’s population. Every year, as summer grudgingly gives way to fall, new students converge on the city with their families, eager and alive with anticipation. The city welcomes them with open arms, showing off Providence’s best assets and conveniently sidestepping its ugly underbelly. Some kids look for housing away from the dorms and end up living in triple-deckers surrounded by drug addicts, prostitutes, and murderers. Proud parents, heads filled with propaganda supplied by the savvy marketing people employed by the city and colleges, leave their kids and head to their homes in Jersey, New York, and elsewhere, secure in the knowledge that they have done their best to prepare their children for adulthood. The kids are eager to experience their freedom and explore their new surroundings, fearless and full of bravado. They experience for the first time the joy of discovery. Too many make it into the back of my rescue, beaten senseless and robbed not only of material possessions but their innocence as well. 

Some take it in stride; others fail and head back home, not ready for the college experience. The ones who stay blend in with the school’s personality. They show up in the fall looking like average kids. By spring they have been transformed into eccentric RISD students: pink hair, black clothes, tattoos, piercings, and a host of other “improvements” that their parents must love. 

Days on rescue go by quickly. I showed up for work 12 hours ago, and it seems like half that. We make it back to the station at 6:30. Renato shows me his new car, a 2004 Lexus glistening under the fluorescent lights. My old Toyota wagon is parked on the other side of the garage, looking dull and tired under the same lights. The drivers of these vehicles look a little like their cars—me, old and tired; Renato, new and fresh. Oh well. Renato stays in the garage to wax the Lexus, and I go upstairs to check on my family. 

“Hey, babe, what are you doing?” I am sitting at the desk in Rescue 3’s office, talking on my cell phone. 

“Making topiaries for the wedding. How was your day?” 

“Not bad. I’m at Branch Ave. Renato speaks Spanish.” “Who’s Renato?” “A guy from the last school. He’s brand-new but seems pretty cool.” “That should help.” “I guess, but the bad news is, Mike is leaving rescue. I was hoping he’d stay.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know. I love the job, but without Mike I don’t want to do it anymore. He makes it bearable. You know, he never complains about anything, keeps me sane when I think I can’t take it anymore.” 

“Why don’t you tell him?” Cheryl thinks like a woman. God forbid that men would let other men know how they really feel. 

“I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to him. You know what really sucks? I’m actually pretty good at this. I loved fighting fires, but I never got the same satisfaction from that as I do on the rescue truck. I actually do some good every day.” 

“You were a pretty good firefighter from what I hear,” she says.

“I guess, but there are 400 good firefighters on the job. Not that many are good at rescue. I want to stay, but without the right partner it’s unbearable. The number of calls makes it almost impossible to keep a good attitude.”

 “Why don’t they get rid of some of the fire trucks and add rescues?” 

“We have a good fire force. You can’t rob Peter to pay Paul. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just can’t see myself riding rescue with somebody who hates it.”

 “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Did you get to Venda?”

 Shit. “No, I’ll get there tomorrow.”

 “You forgot.” 

“No, I didn’t. I figured tomorrow would be more convenient.”

 “Bullshit.” 

“Right.” 

“Rescue 3 a still alarm.” 

Just in the nick of time. “I’ve got a run, I’ll call you later.”

“Be careful.”

 “Love you, bye.”

 

1946 Hours 

Double Shooting 

 

“Rescue 3 and Engine 12, Respond to Hawkins and Admiral for a reported shooting.” 

I key the mike. “Rescue 3 on the way.” 

Renato is in the truck, engine running and emergency lights flashing. The overhead door opens and we head into the night. Cars pull to either side of us as we make our way to our destination. We have about four minutes before arriving on scene. 

“I’ve never been to a shooting,” says Renato. I prepare him. 

“Be careful. Try to get the victim to the hospital as quickly as possible. IV, O2, and an EKG are mandatory. Use a lot of towels to control the bleeding and get away from the scene as quickly as possible. Keep your eyes open; sometimes the crowd turns on us.” 

The adrenaline rush en route to a shooting is similar to that of responding to a fire. Not only is there a victim at the destination, your own life could be in jeopardy as well. We fly out of the station toward the incident, monitoring the police radio all the way. After a few minutes Engine 12 gives the initial report. 

“Engine 12 to fire alarm!” I could tell from the voice on the radio that this was the real thing. Not panicked by any means, but urgency usually not heard from a seasoned fire officer.

“Confirmed shooting, police on scene, two victims, send another rescue, expedite.”

 We step it up and make it on scene in three minutes. The door to an apartment building stands wide open, letting in the cold air. Police are everywhere, their radios blaring indecipherable messages. A firefighter from Engine 12 directs us through the front door of the apartment building, down a long hallway, and into a crowded room. A crowd has congregated inside, police and party-goers. A smoky haze envelopes the area, giving it a dreamlike aura. 

I see a young black man slouched in an old wingback chair, barely breathing, frothy sputum escaping from his nose and mouth. His girlfriend, hysterical, stands behind the dying man, screaming. I stand in front of the two, assessing the victim’s condition before asking the firefighter if anybody is in worse condition. He indicates that a man in the rear bedroom is shot also. Seeing me start toward the rear of the apartment, the screaming girl suddenly jumps from behind the chair and attacks me. Renato stops her before she can do any real harm. Understandably upset, she is screaming all sorts of things at me while begging me to save her son’s father. I can’t pay attention to her now since the other shooting victim may have a better chance of survival than the father of her son. 

I have a backup rescue en route, and the worst patient will get priority. I make my way back to the rear bedroom. A young black man lies on his back with a penny-sized hole in the middle of his forehead. His eyes are open but never see me shake my head and walk away. I walk back through the smoky hallway, gun smoke clogging my nostrils, toward the dying man in the wingback, put him on the stretcher, and wheel him out the door through the narrow, dimly lit hallway and into the rescue. Renato keeps us safe until the police gain control of the scene. 

The guys from Engine 12, Renato, and I transport the victim to Rhode Island Hospital trauma room, while his girlfriend is held for questioning. En route to the hospital, I run an EKG, Renato starts a line with a 16-gauge catheter, and the guys from Engine 12 bag him. Once at the ER, the trauma team cuts off his clothes. When his chest is bared, next to a smoking, bleeding hole under his right nipple, the tattooed image of a barrel of a .44 Magnum, with the inscription “Thug Life” tattooed below, points at the doctors trying to save his life. How appropriate.

 A party had been in full swing at the apartment prior to the shooting. Some bad blood existed between the party-goers and some kids who wanted to crash. One of the kids who wanted to join the party opened fire, mortally wounding the older brother of a kid who had been murdered only a month before. The younger brother had been only 14 when he was gunned down in a playground outside the housing project he called home. The guy bleeding to death in the armchair returned fire, hitting the original shooter in the back. He managed to flee the scene, hole in his back and all. 

While we are at Rhode Island Hospital bringing our victim to the trauma room, a car pulls across the street into the Hasbro Emergency Room parking lot and dumps off a guy who has been shot in the back. Were the shootings related? You tell me. The victims “didn’t know nothing.” 

My patient, the one with Thug Life tattooed on his chest, survived his wounds. The guy he shot in the back lived also. The brother of the dead 14-year-old joined his sibling in the graveyard. Days later, people wearing T-shirts bearing pictures of the dead boys were seen on the streets of the hood. “RIP,” read the inscriptions below the images, “you will be missed.” Too bad the bullets didn’t miss them as much as their friends and family will. 

As we ride through the city on our way back to Branch Avenue, I ask Renato, “How did you learn to speak Spanish so well?” 

“Learning Spanish was easy,” he explains. “English was the tough part. My Mama and Papi came here from Ecuador in the ’60s. All they knew was Spanish. They learned English the best they could and taught us what they knew. Now, me and my brother teach them.”

 “I didn’t know you were Hispanic,” I reply. 

“I’m not. I’m Americano!” he says with a contagious laugh. The ride back to the station goes quickly. We listen to the local rap station, and I find I actually like the music. “If we’re going to work in the ’hood,” Renato explains when he sees me tapping my foot on the dashboard along with “Fitty Cent,” “we may as well enjoy the soundtrack!” 

The sights and sounds of the shootout linger in my mind for a little while before being replaced with more important things. The images are traumatic; nobody can witness things like that and not be affected to some degree. Years from now, perhaps sooner, the emotional carnage could come out of the closet when least expected. 

My family is at home, waiting for me to join them as we prepare for Danielle’s wedding. Brittany has just graduated college and is actively seeking decent employment. I am fiercely proud of my family and can’t imagine ever seeing pictures of their dead faces on a T-shirt reading, “You will be missed.”

 I faced my share of adversity in the ’70s and ’80s—even spent some time behind bars. There are choices to be made as you reach the crossroads to adulthood. Working for minimum wage isn’t nearly as glorious as dealing drugs or stealing cars, and certainly not as lucrative, but it sets a foundation to build on. Time pro - gresses, opportunities arise, and a record of responsibility is established. Without it your choices are limited, and you may end up with a bullet in your head. Nobody gave me the job of rescue lieutenant; I earned it through years of hard work, building on my reputation as a dependable member of society. I made mistakes, and I learned from them. 

Renato has two boys of his own and a past that I’m sure he would rather have not experienced. He too learned from his mistakes and is well on his way to a respectable career, raising responsible and law-abiding kids. I’m sure they will make their share of stupid mistakes, but their foundation of decency is set by their father’s resolve. His boys are playing sports and studying hard, and have every opportunity to be contributing members of society. Every day people make hard choices that determine the outcome of future generations. 

Renato and I grew up on the same streets as the gangs of today, faced the same temptations, and found our share of trouble. Maybe our parents loved us more than the kids who have just been loaded into our rescue and the medical examiner’s truck. Maybe they did everything right, and circumstances beyond their control decided their fate. Maybe the dead boys’ parents don’t know any better and are waiting for government programs to keep their kids out of the morgue. For them, the wait is over. I hope others stop waiting and get off their asses and teach their kids a thing or two about respect and responsibility.

 One of the good things about the Branch Avenue Station is the camaraderie. Twelve firefighters are stationed there at all times. A big house is always more active than a single company house— more people, more fun. Cooking for that many people every day is a challenge. As time spent together increases, tastes become apparent. One guy doesn’t like corn, another can’t have sugar, and somebody is always on a diet. Somehow it all comes together at mealtime. The complaining is legendary; you can never keep everybody happy. Throughout the ball-busting one fact remains: a good cook is welcome in any firehouse.

 Before becoming a firefighter I worked in kitchens. I spent my high school years washing dishes and then worked my way up to line and prep cooking in some of Rhode Island’s best restaurants. I learned a trick or two in that time that I can use in my current profession, much to the delight of the guys. At times my creative side has gotten the best of me, and I have prepared some well- intentioned bombs—things like sweet-and-sour crab-stuffed peppers—but for the most part I keep it simple. Individual meat loaves stuffed with spinach, mushrooms, and cheese are always a big hit. Linguini with clam sauce goes over well on Fridays. I always go all out when I make that dish. I either dig fresh little necks from the bay if I have time or buy them from the local fish market. I clean the shells meticulously and then add them to the sauce, which steams them open. The fresh juice blends with the sauce to give it a great taste. Pour the sauce onto a bed of linguini, garnish with the little necks, put a little garlic bread on the side, and you have a meal fit for a king—or a firefighter. 

Tonight the fare is simple: chowder with homemade stuffies. I am so hungry I could eat the shells. 

In early spring, there is something for everybody when it comes to sports. The Bruins are my first choice; they are playing the Canadians in the first round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The Red Sox have just started their season, no doubt the start of more heartbreak. One guy mans the remote as we eat, switching back and forth from the Bruins to the Red Sox, occasionally foraging into other channels but not for long. Nobody complains about the changing channels; we simply switch gears with the channel changer. I was banned from the remote years ago; I flicked too fast and stopped at the wrong places. The general rule for stopping the channel surfing is 1: Fire; 2: Explosions; 3: Space suits; 4: Nudity; 5: Sports. Stopping anywhere else is grounds for remote dismissal.

 

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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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