Rescuing Providence: Part 3 1158 Hours Through 1245 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse
Monday, May 16, 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
It’s not all adrenaline and saving lives, the role of social worker comes into play during just about every shift. There are a lot of lost, lonely people living in Providence. For reasons I have no business knowing they have lost friends, family and hope and live isolated lives. For some, the only human contact they have is the people who respond to 911 calls made on their behalf. It is not for us to judge, although sometimes the sheer volume of calls and unwillingness to cooperate brings out behavior in me that is less than desirable. It is often the mundane, thankless tasks that wear a person down, and both ends of the 911 call are not immune to losing compassion and understanding that we are all in this together.
1158 HOURS
LEG FRACTURE
“Rescue 1 and Engine 13, head over to 359 Montgomery Avenue for an elderly woman with a possible broken leg.”
“Rescue 1 on the way.”
Leaving the battlefield, we follow the engine and head toward the incident. Another high-rise, this one is close to the city of Cranston in a residential area. The engine flies toward the destination, its Federal siren wailing and air horn disturbing the noontime serenity of South Providence. We follow behind at a safe distance, not making nearly as much racket. When traveling through intersections, the little white truck behind the big red one is often not seen and collisions happen.
The engine pulls past the front door of the building, with us right behind them. A few people are mingling around the lobby. Mike and I wheel the stretcher past the crowd.
“All right, ladies, who’s coming with us?” he asks the members of the housecoat brigade. They chuckle and say, “Not us today.”
“Seven B,” says one of the ladies.
“She probably tripped over her beer can,” retorts another, much to the delight of the crowd.
“Be nice,” I tell them as the elevator door closes.
Six firefighters are crammed into the elevator, five of them soaked. The elevator stops on the seventh floor, and we file out, our war temporarily forgotten. The door to 7B is open; we leave the stretcher in the hall and go in. Sitting on the arm of an old gray couch is a woman in her late 60s, who is rubbing the bottom of her leg. I let Captain Healy do the talking because he does whether I let him or not.
“What’s the problem?” he asks, all business.
“I tripped and broke my fucking leg,” she responds.
“How do you know it’s broken?” asks the captain.
“Because it fucking hurts,” she replies.
I get the stretcher from the hall and wheel it to our patient. She doesn’t waste a second in hopping right on. Her apartment is full of smoke, and there is a lit cigarette in an ashtray on the edge of a wooden coffee table that is covered with burn marks. Empty beer cans litter the cheap, cigarette-burned carpet, and a wastebasket is spilling over with empties.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Gertrude,” she replies.
“Let’s get you to the hospital so they can get a look at your leg.”
“No shit,” she says, folding her arms across her chest waiting for us to put out her cigarettes and lock the door. The guys from Engine 13 secure her place while Mike and I transport.
My cell phone rings on the way to the hospital. I know it is Cheryl but hope Gertrude does not.
“Rescue 1, go ahead with your message,” I answer in an official tone.
“Why do you answer the phone with a patient in the truck?” Cheryl asks.
“We’ve got a 60-year-old female, possible multiple fractures to her lower legs; we’ll need a trauma room,” I say.
“You are an idiot. Call me later.”
“Roger that, over and out.”
I put the phone back in my top pocket and evaluate my patient. Her lower left leg has a small bruise, nothing more.
“I don’t think you broke it, Gertrude; it may be just a bruise,” I say.
“How the fuck do you know that?” she asks.
“Because I am an EMT,” I answer.
“Big fucking deal.”
“Why do you swear so much?” I ask her.
“Why the fuck do you care?”
“I don’t; I was just making conversation.”
“Does it bother you?” I think she actually cares if it does.
“Not really.”
“Honestly, I don’t realize that I’m swearing,” she explains. I don’t think anybody has listened to her for some time. “My husband died six months ago, and I have been talking to myself since. I don’t notice, and those assholes at the high-rise never talk to me, so fuck them.”
“Have you lived there for long?”
“We moved in about a year ago; then Harv died. He died in his sleep, nice and peaceful. We used to live in a big house on Alabama Avenue—big yard, nice house, you know. We never should have sold it; I think that’s what killed him. Our neighbors had 11 kids, used to drive us crazy. It’s funny; you don’t miss nothing till it’s gone. Those kids weren’t all that bad. Some of ’em anyway.”
As we approach Rhode Island Hospital, Gertrude appears lost in her memories. It appears that she has endured her share of heartache. I hope there is still room for joy between the cracks. Maybe someday happiness will find her again. She hadn’t sworn once while she told me her story. I wondered if she realizes it.
Annie is at the triage when we bring in Gertrude for treatment. Annie and I share a love of Bruce Springsteen. Springsteen fans usually have a lot of soul and compassion, so I know Gertrude is in good hands.
The stretcher wobbles a little when Mike puts it into the back of the rescue because the thing that holds it in place is loose. We need to get to the repair shop soon, or it will fall right off.
“Are they making lunch?” I ask Mike.
“Chicken caesar,” he replies.
“Think they’ll have olives in it this time?”
“I hope so.” “When are you going to Engine 15?” I ask.
“Not this week but the week after,” he answers. “I feel pretty bad leaving. We’ve had a lot of fun.”
“Believe me, I’m going to miss you. I think you’re doing the right thing, though. Everybody on this job needs to see some fire up close, or you may as well work for a private ambulance com pany. You’ll do great over there; the officer is a good guy, and when your bid is up you’re always welcome back here.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. A couple of years on a fire truck and I’ll be eligible to take the fire lieutenant’s test. Then I’ll come back to rescue. These nitwits will miss me too much if I’m gone too long,” he says.
We are almost back to the station when Engine 13 is called to Oxford Street for a man unconscious on the sidewalk. Since no Providence rescues are in service, the 13s would have to wait up to a half an hour for a rescue from a surrounding town to respond and transport. Being conscientious guys, we jump right in.
“We better get that, or the 13s won’t have time to make lunch,” I say to Mike.
“Let’s go,” he says and turns the truck around.
1245 HOURS
INTOXICATED
“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, clearing Rhode Island; we’ll handle Oxford.
“Received, Rescue 1. We received this call from a cell phone caller.”
“Roger, on the way.”
I put the mike back in its cradle and lean back in my seat. The long hours are starting to take their toll. I have less than five hours to go, yet it seems like an eternity.
There are still some kind souls who will stop and help a person in need. The rest call 911 from cell phones and let somebody else do the work. It’s neater that way, and there is no guilt—a person needs help, and help is on the way.
It only takes a minute to reach our victim. He sits in a gravel pit next to the road in a construction site, under a bridge, leaning against the abutment. Mike wheels the truck beside him, and I get out and close the door. The vibration of the trucks above us on Route 95 shaking the ground and the sound of the door slamming shut wake him. His bloodshot eyes pop open at the sound, and he jumps to his feet and slowly walks away from me. I easily catch up and stop him.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“I’m fine. Why don’t you leave me alone?” he responds miserably.
“A concerned citizen drove past and thought you needed assistance. They called 911 from their cell phone,” I explain.
“Why don’t they mind their business?”
“I don’t know. Are you all right?”
“If people left me alone, I would be.”
“Have a nice day then.” I walk back to the truck. I wonder what happened to this guy to make him wander around the city in the middle of the day. He doesn’t appear homeless; if he is, he hasn’t been for long. He is another lost soul in a city full of them. How could such loneliness exist with so many people living so close to each other? Maybe he and Gertrude will meet. I think they would be good for each other.
“What’s up with that guy?” asks Mike.
“I don’t know. I hope he doesn’t turn into a regular.”
“None of the regulars have died lately; there’s no room.”
“I heard they’re taking applications in case there’s a vacancy,” I say sarcastically.
Our callous comments make me remember an article I wrote about the plight of a homeless man, back when I was new to the rescue division. The local paper published this story in the Sunday edition as a human interest story. Few people were interested.
Behind Every Nuisance Call Is Someone Like Sivine
I didn’t think I cared. The frequency of the calls made it hard to care. Nuisance calls made up a large part of our routine. Spaced between medical emergencies, calls from the city’s underground emerged. Sivine Thatch made a lot of calls. He was a nuisance. One of many.
The tone from the station’s PA system was the new alternative to the traditional fire bell. Rather than being shocked into action by a loud bell like our predecessors, we were alerted to an emergency by a soothing tone. This sound woke you from a deep sleep as well as any bell. During a thirty-eight hour shift, the peaceful tone becomes your worst enemy. The station’s quiet is shattered by the “relaxing” noise as your body vibrates from its sound. It sounds hourly, twenty-four hours a day.
“Rescue One, respond to 1288 Broad Street for an intoxicated male,” boomed the voice from the loudspeaker. That voice alerted us to tragedies in other people’s lives far too often. Annoyed that I had to respond to another “nuisance” call, I was relieved that a real tragedy was not what waited at 1288 Broad Street.
I knew from experience that Sivine would be waiting, full of cheap vodka, spewing venom from his filthy mouth. He was a small man, five feet tall, usually dressed in old doctor’s scrubs. Periodically the staff at the area hospitals cleaned and dressed him in whatever cast-off clothing they could find, usually donations or forgotten items from previous patients. Not long ago, I had transported him to RI Hospital’s detox unit. When his blood alcohol level became acceptable, he was released back into the city’s waiting arms. The hospital staff knew he wouldn’t be gone for long. They were aware of Sivine and others like him.
There are countless homeless alcoholics in the city. When they receive their disability checks from the government, they quickly change the cash into alcohol. After consuming as much as their tired bodies will allow, some find a pay phone and call 911 requesting medical assistance; others, they collapse where they stood, and a concerned citizen will make the call for them. Either way, one of the city’s five rescue units gets called to haul them off the street and out of the tax paying public’s eye. We would load them into our trucks, which we cleaned and sanitized diligently after each run, and take them in. Most of the time they left us with vomit, urine, and feces or a combination of the three on the floor and stretcher as a reminder of their visit with us. The smell lingered for hours. It saddened the rescue crews and stripped them of their morale seeing their hard work and professionalism being wasted time and time again on the same patients and their self-inflicted sickness.
After transferring care of the patients to the emergency room, they would be put into hospital beds, cleaned and fed, then put into the detox room until they were ready to leave. The taxpayer got the bill. Most of the alcoholics know how the system works, and the ones that don’t quickly learned how easily the system could be abused. They would make promises of sobriety with a grin on their faces as they left the hospital. Nobody believed them.
The path to Sivine from the station is a road that I traveled often. Triple-deckers loom on either side of the street. Litter fills the gutters which the rats call home. I turned down one of the streets that cut through the South Providence neighborhood between Broad and Allen’s Avenue. Like most of the inner city, this street is worn from years of neglect. Some homes showed the pride of the people inside. Sadly, most did not. When I allowed it, I recalled the horrors I had witnessed on these streets. Over the years I have seen a lifetime of bloodshed and heartache. Today, I have a job to do. Sivine waited.
I pulled the rescue next to the curb where he sat on the filthy sidewalk. This time his pants were around his knees. I approached him, he spit at me and screamed, “You go away!” I put on some latex gloves, and with the help of my partner carried him to the back of the rescue.
“I don’t care for you!” he shouted in broken English as we placed him on the floor of the truck. On the way to detox he rambled of his hatred of America. He wanted to go back to Vietnam. I did not think that he would be alive long enough to make the trip.
I met Sivine in 1996. Alcohol and despair were the only constant factors in his life. I didn’t know why he lived in Providence. I did know that he would never leave. His lifestyle had destroyed his ability to make rational decisions. He could no longer take care of himself. He spent his days roaming Broad Street, one notorious for violence. Nobody bothered him; they knew that he had nothing to offer. The few nights he didn’t spend in the hospital he slept in a burned-out garage located behind some trees, a few yards from the street. People had tried to help him, but he pushed them away. Eventually, nobody bothered; he had become a waste of time and effort.
At the hospital, I brought the rescue to the emergency room door, parked it, and wheeled a bed from inside to the rear of the truck. I opened the door, the smell of unwashed humanity filtered into the night. Feces and urine covered Sivine’s legs. As we wheeled our human cargo past the ER staff we were met with a mixture of laughter, sadness, and revulsion. Again I heard the chorus, “Welcome back, Sivine.” He spat onto the floor. “I don’t care for you!” he shouted at anybody who got near him. The routine of caring for him got under way.
While leaving the triage area where Sivine had been placed, I covered him with a blanket. Looking up at me with empty helpless eyes he simply said, in English, “Thank you.”
As night progressed toward dawn and the end of my shift, the look of empty despair in Sivine’s eyes came back to haunt me. I remembered joking with my partner about being better off when Sivine died. One January, we found him in a snow bank, unconscious and frostbitten. I don’t know how he survived. The temperature outside was in the low teens. He should have de was in the low teens. He should have Rescuing Providence 123 died that day just as surely as the day he was found passed out in a field on an oppressively hot July day, his body temperature an astonishing 106 degrees. We started a pool to guess when we would be rid of him.
We brought our final patient of the night, a 64-year-old woman suffering from a seizure into the ER. I was shocked at what I saw. A clean, smiling Sivine sat on his hospital bed. A small crowd of workers and patients stood around as he entertained them, animatedly telling stories. Later, I discovered he spoke fluent French, Spanish, and Vietnamese as well as broken English. His audience thought he was quite charming. He looked me in the eye. I looked away.
I thought of Sivine during my days off. I wondered if the spark of life that he showed in the hospital could be a new beginning for him. I honestly hoped that it would.
It was business as usual when I returned to work. By mid-morning we had responded to four or five emergencies and another homeless alcoholic. Somehow, I managed to take a seat in the hospital’s break room. The conversation there ranged from the hockey game the previous night to a bad date over the weekend and everything in between. One subject got only a small mention. Sivine lay dying.
A call from a concerned citizen came in requesting help for an unconscious person lying in the street. The rescue crew working that day found Sivine. Whatever spark of life there once was now was extinguished. The crew did what they are paid to do, they brought him back to life with CPR and other advanced life-support techniques. They managed to get his heart beating, but his brain had died a long time ago. He lay in a coma for a few days before the plug was pulled. I thought of going to his room to see him but never did. Sivine died alone in his hospital room. At least he did not die on the street.
I searched the obituaries for a while to find some more about him, but no obituary was ever printed. Nobody cared. Sivine was gone. At times while dealing with “nuisance calls,” I think of Sivine and the spark of life that he showed on the last day that I saw him. His memory has helped me to find some compassion that I hope I’m not losing.
There are still plenty of homeless alcoholics rummaging around the city. Some manage to sober up; most die broken and alone. As annoying as they are, I know and genuinely like some of them. Their familiarity is welcome. It helps knowing what to expect in a job full of the unexpected.
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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