Rescuing Providence: Part 3 - 1252 Hours Through 1543 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse

Monday, May 23, 2016

Michael Morse, Author

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.

 

1252 HOURS 

LEG PAIN 

 

“Rescue 1, a special signal.” 

“Rescue 1, respond to Broad at Dudley. Engine 10 on scene at a street box with an intoxicated male.” 

“Rescue 1 on the way.” 

Mike activates the lights and siren, and we are off. Street boxes are a throwback to the days before cell phones. To alert the fire department of a fire while away from a phone, citizens can use the street box. Every few blocks there is a red box wired to the fire alarm office waiting to be used. False alarms emanating from these boxes are abundant. Slowly the boxes are being removed, and someday they will all be gone. Even now they are coveted collector’s items. 

I see Engine 10 in the distance as we turn onto Broad Street from Oxford. The crew is standing outside their truck talking to three men. We pull our vehicle beside them. 

“What’s going on?” I ask Dan, standing a few feet from the crowd. 

“This asshole pulled the box because his legs hurt,” he responds while pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the people standing around the street box. “We should arrest him for pulling a false alarm.” 

The guilty party is sitting on a cement retaining wall a few feet from the alarm box, obviously intoxicated. His friends come over to me to plead their case 

“His legs hurt real bad; he ain’t walking,” says one man, horrifically skinny, his scraggly, gray beard full of crumbs. 

“You got to take him to the hospital,” says another fellow, this one in a motorized wheelchair and wearing beautiful snakeskin boots with red flames stitched on the sides. 

“Where did you get those boots?” I ask him. 

“Don’t you be worryin’ ’bout my boots. My boy can’t walk; you best be worryin’ ’bout him.” 

“If he can’t walk, how did he get here?” I ask. 

“He’s here—that’s all you need to know. Now git him in the truck and take him to the hospital.” 

“The hospital is only half a mile away. Why didn’t you call a cab or take a bus if you’re so concerned?”

 “Cause you are free; he don’t got no money to be takin’ a bus.” 

“He has money for booze and cigarettes.”

 “Are you gonna take him or not?” 

“How ’bout I take you instead?” I ask graybeard.

 “What you talkin’ ’bout?”

“You’re intoxicated; maybe you should go to detox. Or, better yet, maybe I’ll call the police and have you arrested for pulling a false alarm.” 

“Fuck you, man.” He walks away, the fight taken out of him. 

“What you wanna fuck with us poor folk for?” flaming boots asks me. “We didn’t do nothing’; just tryin’ to help a friend in need.” 

“Why don’t you help yourself?”

I am getting tired. Normally, I would just bring the drunken man to the hospital without any fuss. Today the abuse really bothers me. My patience has worn out, and I am taking it out on these people. They are wrong, but I am wasting my time arguing with them and I know it. Engine 10 has already left the scene, and Mike is putting the drunk into the truck. He has witnessed my mood swings before and only intervenes when I get irrational. For now, he lets me waste my time trying to talk sense into the senseless.

 I get in the truck with Mike and the patient. The latter is sitting on the bench seat, and Mike is taking his vital signs. 

“What’s your name?” I ask, beginning the procedure.

 “Ivan,” he responds. 

“Date of birth?” 

“Ten, five, fifty-four,” he replies automatically. 

“Do you have any medical problems?” 

“Yeah. I was in an accident 10 years ago and hurt my back. I’m waiting for a settlement.” 

“What’s wrong with your legs?”

 “They hurt.” 

“How long have they hurt?” 

“Ten years.” 

“Are you taking any medication?” 

“Yeah, Vicodin, but I ran out.” 

Bingo. The “patient” wants painkillers. He has probably been living on them for years. “Beans,” as Vicodin is sometimes called on the street, produce euphoria in the person taking the drug whether or not he is in pain. The pills sell on the street for $5 each.

“Do you have any allergies to medicine?” 

“Yeah, Tylenol and Advil,” he answers. If he is allergic to Tylenol and Advil, I’ll eat the rescue. He is narrowing the options for the doctor to prescribe, knowing how the game is played. 

Mike moves to the front of the truck and heads for Rhode Island Hospital. Ivan will get his painkillers, I’m sure. Vicodin is extremely addictive; some people will do anything to get some. 

The hospital is less than a mile away, so we were there in no time. Every stretcher is full; the wait is five to six hours for routine care, immediate for emergencies. Terry is waiting at the desk. I give her my report; she listens to me and then interviews the patient. I was impressed by her professionalism. I have become cynical after only a few years on rescue; Terry just celebrated her 25th anniversary in the ER and treats every patient who comes her way the with the same care and respect I imagine she did on her first day. Being surrounded by good people helps me keep things in perspective. She doesn’t know it, but her example stays with me for the rest of the day, making me better at what I do. 

Later back at the station we sit around the table eating chicken Caesar salad. Nothing ever tasted so good. The water fight is forgotten, and food is all that matters. The TV in the corner is tuned to the Senate hearings regarding intelligence failures and the war in Iraq. Condoleezza Rice is on the hot seat, but I am too tired and hungry to pay attention. 

“Why didn’t you cut the lettuce smaller?” Steve asks Arthur, today’s cook. 

“Any bigger and you could have put the whole head in the bowl,” adds Jay. 

“If you used the bowl Mike’s wife puts over his head when she cuts his hair, you could have fit in a whole field of lettuce,” contributes Captain Healy. 

“The reason I left the lettuce in large pieces is so the dressing could properly adhere to the leaves,” answers Arthur, who immediately returns to eating his salad. 

“All I know is lettuce gives me gas,” says Mike as he let one rip, drawing groans from everybody in the room. Mike is in his glory, bathing in the pungent aroma surrounding him while he continues to eat. 

“This is the ultimate compliment to the chef,” he says and lets another one go. 

“What is the matter with you?” I ask him, moving to another table on the other side of the room. 

I have three hours to go. A good lunch helps my spirits considerably. After eating, everybody pitches in and cleans the dishes. I could use a shower but doubt whether the rescue gods will permit one. There is no worse feeling than getting into a nice, hot shower, soaping up, and then hearing the tone go off. 

Before I put my plate into the dishwasher, I bring it to the sink to rinse. I turn the faucet on and am rewarded with a spray of water directly in my face. I can’t believe I have fallen victim to my own friendly fire. The guys think this is the funniest thing they have ever seen. So do I. I have gotten my shower. I retreat to my office, wipe my face, take my cell phone out of my top pocket, and close the door. 

“Hey, babe, how’s things?” 

“Great. I miss you.”

 “Me, too; I’ll be home soon.” 

“Are you tired?” 

“Nah, I feel great.” 

“I’ll bet.”

 “I’ve only got a few more hours to go.” 

“I’m sorry you have to work so much,” Cheryl says. 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” I mean it. 

When I met Cheryl, I was bartending at a local restaurant, and she started as a waitress. It was only a matter of time before we were together. Two people couldn’t have hit it off better. Within a few months, we were dating; a year later I moved in with her and her two girls. Eventually we married. We raised the girls together—they are my daughters. They call me Michael. Years ago, Brittany, the younger of the two, was asked why she didn’t call me Dad. She thought for a second, tilted her head and said, “Because Dad and Michael mean the same thing.” Any doubt of their love for me disappeared that day.

 In addition to working at the restaurant, Cheryl worked a few days a week cleaning houses. I started to go along with her. One thing led to another, and before we knew it we had a successful cleaning business going. At one point we had 28 accounts. We bought a tiny house, worked together, and were well on our way. We never hired anybody to do the work; we did it ourselves. The money was good, but the work was demanding. Cleaning houses five days a week and then doing a few offices on the weekends eventually take their toll. We were both pulling shifts at the restaurant a few nights a week as well. We knew we couldn’t take the pace forever but kept plugging along. 

I had been applying for employment with the fire departments of local cities for years, never expecting to get hired but always hoping. After years of hard work and perseverance, I was accepted into the Providence Fire Department’s 42nd training academy. Cheryl enrolled in court reporting school. She did well and worked incredibly hard for three long years. She sat in a corner of our little house for hours every day working on her speed. Two nights a week she packed up her briefcase and court-reporting machine and drove to Cranston for class. The curriculum is grueling: 90 percent of those who start the program never finish. On Saturdays she went to the community college to take related courses. She aced the medical terminol - ogy, law, and English courses, and kept pace with or surpassed her classmates. 

In her fourth year she started to have difficulty concentrating. Then her fingers went numb. It became more and more difficult for her to keep her speed without making mistakes. One night at dinner she calmly informed us that she had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. MS is a cruel disease; it takes the vitality out of the best years of your life, and then punches your loved ones in the face. The disease ended her court-reporting dream. We kept the cleaning business but cut way back.

 We lost most of Cheryl’s paycheck, and one reason I am on rescue is the overtime. The lack of people in the department willing to do the work creates more opportunity to work extra shifts. We still have a few cleaning accounts and do a better job than any “professional” company out there. Cheryl is the heart and soul of the operation and works herself to exhaustion making sure the jobs are done right. Her courage is remarkable and keeps me going when I feel sorry for myself after a long shift. As tired as I get, it pales in comparison to the ravages of living with multiple sclerosis. 

“I’ll see you when you get home,” she says. 

“Soon.” 

“Love you, bye.” She hangs up before I can say anything.

 I hit the couch and fall asleep instantly.

 

1310 HOURS 

FALL

 

“Attention Engine 10, Engine 8, Engine 13, Ladder 5, Ladder 2, Special Hazards, Battalion 2 and Rescue 1: a still box.” 

Before the speaker stops vibrating, we are in the trucks waiting for the second round. Sometimes you just know when it’s for real.

 “Attention Engines 10, 8, and 13; Ladders 5 and 2, Special Hazards, Battalion 2 and Rescue 1: respond to 184 Hamilton Street for a report of an occupied house fire.” 

We roar out of the station, following Engine 13. Every truck dispatched to a still box has a job to do, and every firefighter on the way to the scene—rookies and veterans alike—goes over in his or her head what awaits. The only definite is that the unexpected will occur, but our training and experience overcome that. Plan B we call it. Our first job is to follow procedures that have been in place for decades. Every fire crew has a job; everybody’s safety depends on each crew doing its job with no delay or screwup. When there are screwups, we fix them fast. 

Engine 10 arrives on scene and gives the initial report. 

“Engine 10 to fire alarm, heavy smoke condition.” 

Firefighters don their Scott airpacks, check their pass devices, and purge valves and Kevlar straps. From all directions, fire apparatuses converge on the scene. What looks to an outsider like madness is actually controlled chaos to the experienced firefighters. 

“Engine 10 to fire alarm, Code Red!” 

Definite house fire. We fly through the streets of Providence, praying that nobody is at the home. At this time of day, a lot of kids are home from school unsupervised, with their parents at work.

Engine 10 pulls their truck past the burning structure, leaving room for Ladder 5 to set up its aerial ladder. Keith and Roland from the 10’s takes a line from the back of their truck and make their way toward the house; Paul stays at the pump panel to provide water. Dan, the officer, surveys the scene, doing a size-up until a chief officer arrives so he can join his men as they enter the burning building. 

“Engine 10 to fire alarm, three-story wood frame, possibly occupied. Fire on the third floor, side 1.” 

“Message received. Battalion 2 on scene, establishing Hamilton command.”

 Battalion 2 takes control of the fireground. All communications go through him. 

While Engine 10 stretches its initial attack line through the rear door and up the stairs toward the fire on the third floor, Ladder 5 sets up in front of the house and raises the aerial ladder to the peak. The goal is to “get the roof,’” meaning to get a hole in the highest point to ventilate. 

“Engine 8 to command: we have a hydrant; will take care of the water supply.”

“Engine 10, charge my line!” Dan’s voice is distorted by the mask on the airpack he wears, but it is understandable. He and his crew are in the thick of things. 

“Message received,” says Paul.

 Engines 10 and 8 go to work. Two men from Engine 8 dress the hydrant, putting ports on the outlets, enabling four 3-inch feeder lines to be connected if necessary. Another firefighter takes two 3-inch feeders from the back of the engine and gives the command to move to Engine 8’s driver. The hydrant is properly dressed, two feeders hooked up, two ports ready to go if needed, and the feeder lines on the way to Engine 10’s pump. The driver of Engine 8 helps Engine 10’s pump operator hook up the feeders to the intake valves on the pump panel and then radios the chief: “Turn in the feeders.” 

The men at the hydrant turn the spindle of the hydrant 13 or 14 revolutions, opening the gate all the way. The feeders fill with water, expanding and slithering down the street toward Engine 10’s pump. 

Engine 10 has found the fire. After dragging 200 feet of 1 3/4- inch line up three flights of narrow, winding stairs, they fight their way into the third-floor apartment. Dan forces the heavily bolted door with his Halligan tool. Through the thick, blinding smoke and toward the rear of the apartment they go, sensing the heat, experience guiding their moves. They have to crouch lower and lower. The exposed skin on Dan’s ears burns but doesn’t blister, providing a primitive temperature gauge. He will feel if flashover is imminent and back his guys out. His ears will have to be burning for him to give the order to evacuate. Conditions inside the burning house improve slightly, letting the guys inside know that Ladder 5 has “got the roof.” As flames nearly roll over Engine 10, water from the pump, starting at 150 pounds per square inch (psi) but diminishing to about 90 psi by journey’s end because of friction loss, makes its way through the line to the top of the stairs and to the “pipe” in Roland’s hands. As soon as he feels the line fill, he opens the gate, backed up by Keith, and hits the fire with about 300 gallons a minute. They knock the visible flames down. 

While Engine 8 is taking care of the water supply, Engine 13 arrives on scene, takes another line from the back of Engine 10, and advances through the rear door to back up Engine 10. Ladder 2 has arrived on scene and starts search and rescue operations. They split into two two-man teams, enter the smoke-filled house, battle their way up three flights of stairs and search for victims. Engine 8, having established a water supply, joins the fight, taking a line through the front door to the second floor. 

“Command to ladder 2, I need a status report. I have reports of people inside the third floor apartment.” 

“Ladder 2 received; starting primary search.” 

Special Hazards arrive and raise ground ladders to the windows on the third floor, giving possibly trapped victims and firefighters a secondary means of egress. 

“Engine 10 to command, we’ve got most of the fire knocked down and confined to a third floor bedroom.” 

“Command received.”

 I watch the drama unfold and silently pray that there are no kids in the house. The specter of a similar scenario from early in my career appears in my mind through the smoky street and chaos. I never know when disturbing memories will haunt me. The images from that dreadful day years ago are so fresh it feels as though I am reliving the horrific experience all over.

 

 

On that day, a Sunday at 3:10 in the afternoon, I sat playing cards with the guys from Branch Avenue. I had been detailed to Rescue 3 for the day and was bored. Being new and eager to fight fires, I said, “A little fire around here would be nice.” I got my wish. 

Seconds later the bell tipped, alerting us to a house fire. The house was diagonally across the street from the Admiral Street Station, about five miles away from us. A mother had left her kids at home with a young baby-sitter while she went out for a drink. The baby-sitter left shortly after the mother, looking for fun, thinking the kids were sleeping. They weren’t. The gang from Branch Avenue roared out of the station toward the fire: Engine 2 in the lead, Ladder 7 close behind, me driving Rescue 3, and the chief behind us. We all had a job to do and looked forward to the excitement and challenge that fires provide. Sometimes, the best part of the fire is responding to the scene. Engine 12 and Ladder 3 from the Admiral Street Station had already begun the battle. We waited to hear what awaited as we roared toward the scene. 

The radio confirmed, “Code Red!” We stepped it up. 

As soon as we arrived, a firefighter ran out of the house, his mask still covering his face, pass device blaring, indicating that his airpack was nearly empty. In his arms he carried a smoldering, unconscious child. Seconds later, another firefighter came out of the building with another child. We placed both kids on the stretcher and broke for the rescue, 100 feet away. 

Neither child had a pulse or was breathing. We attempted CPR. The protective gloves that I wore melted to one of the babies when I attempted compressions. The other child’s lungs were so badly burned we were unable to get air into them. Six of us, with Captain Dave Raymond in charge, rode to the trauma room with two dead, smoldering kids. Dave probably knew they were gone but did his best keeping us busy in the lifesaving efforts, knowing the emotional carnage that was to follow. Maybe we worked so hard trying to keep ourselves sane. We arrived at the trauma room and handed our tiny patients over to the trauma teams. They were pronounced dead soon after. Captain Raymond stood in the doorway as the babies were covered with sheets. I stood alone, farther down trauma alley. I watched as he finally let go, his body slumped, his head hung low; one hand ran through his hair, and the other wiped tears from his face. He slid down the wall, stopping in the same spot I would be in years later, numb from watching a college kid fall 80 feet to his death. Thank God there is a floor at the bottom of the wall to catch us when we’re falling.

 I will never forget the feel of tender, young flesh melting into my own. The smell of their burned skin haunted me after the flames were doused. The pungent scent lingered for weeks—every time my hands drew near my face, I inhaled the essence of those two suffering kids. I’ll never forget them, their names, and their lives. I read all the news stories that followed the tragedy. I felt as though I knew them, though all I really knew was the anguish they felt as the fire—which one of them had started accidentally by playing with matches—burned their tiny bodies. Their faces were frozen with fear, their last expression reflecting the horror of their final minutes. They ran away from the fire that grew bigger than they could ever have imagined, into a back bedroom and under a bed. The firefighters found them under a mattress, much too late. 

Dave held a bunch of new firefighters together during that frantic rush to the hospital, made us feel as though we had made a difference. Almost everybody on the scene of that fire would eventually receive a department commendation and a medal to pin on their dress uniforms at Medals Night in April honoring the firefighters who performed heroic deeds during the previous year. One guy who didn’t get a medal that day, but in my opinion deserved it most, was Captain Raymond. The official reason for the slight was that he didn’t put his life in jeopardy attempting a rescue. The real reason is that guys who ride the rescues don’t get much respect from their fellow firefighters. Captain Raymond’s actions that day have stayed with me through my career, and I only hope I have handled myself as well as he did. 

The next day, another hero of mine from that terrible day helped put things into perspective. I was in the station, blaming myself for the disaster. Chief Ronny Moura, grizzled veteran firefighter and all-around tough guy, overheard me say, “I’ll never wish for another fire.” 

Chief Moura stopped in his tracks and, voice deep and scratchy from eating smoke for decades, said, “Kid, any firefighter worth half a shit wants fires. Quit crying and get off the fucking cross; we need the wood!” Then walked away. That fact that Chief Moura thought I was worth half a shit made my night. Eventually I got off the cross and waited for wood to burn again, but never with the same passion.

The report from Ladder 2 brought me back to the present. 

“Ladder 2 to command, primary search negative.” 

There is nobody home! Relief floods the fireground. Something else floods the fireground, soaking Mike and me as we stand outside, waiting for victims who thankfully never appeared. 

Captain Healy stands in the second-floor window holding a charged line. He looks right at us and says, “Sorry, didn’t see you,” blasts us again, and then pulls the line through the window, looking like the cat who ate the canary. The water fight is over. There is always next year.

 

1543 HOURS 

DEHYDRATION

 

“Engine 11 with a Cranston rescue; respond to 111 Reservoir Avenue for a man with 10 days of diarrhea.” 

“Rescue 1 clearing the fire; we’ll handle.”

 “Roger, Rescue 1. Engine 11, disregard. We’ll cancel Cranston.” 

With one radio transmission I’ve made a lot of friends. Cranston rescues hate coming to Providence. The rescue crews from surrounding communities think the Providence rescues hang around all day waiting for the good stuff—shootings, stabbings, electrocutions, and the like—and hide when the shitty runs come in. They are only partly right. 

“I love these runs,” says Mike as we drive to our destination.

“We’ve been running like crazy,” I respond. 

“I hope we don’t get the runaround.” 

“Let’s run right over there.” 

“Time could be running out.”

 “We’ve had a lot of runs today.” 

“We’ve had the run of the city.” 

“I hope we don’t run out of gas.”

 “This is my kind of run,” Mike finishes the absurd conversation. I let him get the last word, not because I’m a nice guy but I because I have run out of comebacks. 

A man in his 40s waits outside. He has a door at the top of 10 cement steps propped open. 

“Hey, guys, thanks for getting here so quick. It’s my father; he’s been throwing up and having diarrhea for 10 days. I’m worried he’s getting dehydrated. What’s up with you guys?” he asks. “You’re soaked.”

 “We don’t want to get dehydrated, so we soak ourselves with water every hour,” replies Mike. I grin and shake my head. 

“Where is he?” I ask. 

“Right over here,” he leads us into their home. The kitchen is clean but cluttered with paperwork. Pictures of Red Sox and Bruins players decorate the walls. On the refrigerator door, a banana magnet secures a signed photo of Roger Clemens posing with the man who met us at the door. 

“Hey,” the son says, looking at me as if he knows me, “you could be Roger Clemens’ brother. You look just like him.” 

“Really?” I ask. Nobody has ever said that to me before.

 “No way,” says Mike, shaking his head. 

“No, really,” the man continues. “I met Roger at the Marriott a couple of years ago. I’m telling you, you could be his twin.” 

I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not. 

The patient sits in a recliner in a room just off the kitchen. He looks awful—his skin the gray of the coldest sky of winter yet with sweat on his forehead, giving the illusion of transparency on his seasoned face. His eyes are encircled by black circles, three layers deep. He is wiped out. 

“Mike, get the chair.”

 Mike is gone before I finish saying it. One look at the man tells us he wouldn’t be walking to the truck. 

“How are you feeling?” I ask him. 

“Awfully weak,” he responds, tired. “I’ve been vomiting with diarrhea for 10 days now. I can’t stop.” 

He is apologetic, as though his condition is his own fault. 

“Let’s get you to the hospital then; you look terrible,” I say. 

“His doctors are at Fatima. Any chance you could take him there?” the son asks.

 Fatima is the farthest hospital from us. With rush hour traffic to contend with, the trip will take 15 minutes, but his condition isn’t life threatening. Rhode Island Hospital is a nut house with a six-hour wait, and, more important, I like these guys. I don’t have to take people to the hospital of their choice, but I want to help them out. 

“No problem,” I say. I would have taken this guy to Florida. I really don’t know why, but sometimes I instantly like people. 

“Thanks, we really appreciate it,” responds the son.

 “Pop, these guys are going to take care of you; I’ll meet you at the hospital later.” 

“Make sure you lock up,” Harry, the older man, says to his son as we wheel him out the same door he had walked out of thousands of times and carry him to the rescue. How humbling old age can be. After a quick set of vital signs, we are on our way. 

“How long have you lived in that house?” I ask Harry. 

“Be 50 years next week. There’s five bedrooms upstairs. Me and my wife would have celebrated our 50th anniversary if she hadn’t died a couple of years ago. We bought the house for $7,000! Can you believe that? I could sell it tomorrow for $200,000.” His voice picked up steam as he went on. 

“More than that, I bet. The place is beautiful.”

“You should have seen it when my wife was alive. Women have a way with those kind of things.” He has a far-away look in his eyes as he reminisces. I wonder what he’s thinking. 

“Do you live there alone?” I ask. 

“No, my boy lives with me. He’s a great kid. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” 

“From the look of him, he feels the same way about you.” 

“We’re lucky to have each other. He looks out for me, and I give him something to do.”

 A Teamster’s baseball cap sits proudly on Harry’s head. He was a big man in his day. Though his shoulders are hunched and he has shrunk with age, he still exudes a certain power. The days of vomiting and diarrhea haven’t taken the sparkle from his eye when he talks about the past and his family. This is a good, hardworking man, the kind that I aspire to be, and hope I am. He took care of his family to the best of his ability, “done his damnedest,” provided a beautiful home, and lived a good life. These things are obvious to anybody fortunate enough to be in his presence. I am glad I went in service and took this run. 

“What kind of work did you do with the Teamsters?” I ask. 

“I started driving trucks, then went on to manage the warehouse at the print works. Thirty men worked for me back then. I don’t think the warehouse is even in operation now; all the work is overseas.” 

My father started his career after the war with the phone company as a janitor. He stayed with the company until he died at 61. He was an engineer with 30 or more people working for him. 

“You’re right. It’s a shame what’s happened to the country.” 

“It still is the best country on earth,” he says the words simply, without any unnecessary embellishment. 

On impulse I ask Harry, “Were you in the war?”

I like to ask people his age what they did during World War II. I am amazed at the different answers I get. Some served in the armed forces; others stayed Stateside and helped in their own way. I wonder how people of his age feel about answering questions from people of my generation. Are they decorated war heroes? Do they feel shame if they weren’t heroic fighting men? Were they proud that they didn’t participate? 

“Army. Pacific for three years.” 

“How was it?” I ask. 

“Terrible.”

 He isn’t upset but obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. I have the feeling that if he did we would be in California before his story is through. 

“Thank you for your service to the country.” I am barely able to get the words out, as my voice chokes up. I don’t know why I get so emotional, but I always have. These old geezers bring it out in me. Some day I’ll be in their shoes and hope I have half of Harry’s dignity.

 I feel the truck stop and know we have arrived. Our Lady of Fatima Hospital is actually in North Providence, a city separate from Providence. It is confusing—South Providence is part of the City of Providence, but North Providence and East Providence are not. They each have their own government and services. For such a small state, Rhode Island is very confusing. West Providence doesn’t exist, but we do have the West End, a part of Providence. The East Side is also part of Providence, but don’t confuse that with East Providence. There are a lot of politicians in such a small area. 

“What’s all the chatter back here? I’m getting an earache,” Mike says while opening the rear doors of the rescue. He has a way with words. 

We bring Harry into the hospital by way of the rescue doors. One indication that we are not in the inner city anymore is the sign asking the rescue drivers to turn off their engines. It reads: “Due to the close proximity of the patients to the ambulance door, we kindly ask the ambulance drivers to turn off their engines before leaving their vehicles. Thank you so much for your cooperation.”

I always get a chuckle from the sign when thinking of the security guards at Rhode Island Hospital telling the drivers the same thing, only not so kindly: “Turn off the fucking engine” is more like it. 

I say good-bye to Harry. People come into my life and leave too quickly. Some hang around for a while in my mind; others are forgotten as soon as they leave the truck. Harry will be around for a very long time.

 It seems like an eternity since I was last here, but it was only last night. I take a look around the treatment area for the lady from Sandringham Avenue with congestive heart failure, but she is nowhere to be found. She was probably was admitted to one of the rooms. I hope so. 

“Those guys are pretty cool,” Mike says as we drive around the back of Fatima, through the parking lot brimming with parked cars and onto the road toward home. Every hospital in the area is full of patients. One patient comes, another leaves. One lives, one dies. There must be a plan; there has to be. 

“Yeah, they are. I hope the old guy is all right.”

 Mike missed much of my conversation with Harry, and I’m not sure he would be interested. “Do you think I look like Roger Clemens?”

 “No way. He was sucking up, trying to get you to take his father to Fatima.” 

“You think so?” 

“No doubt about it.” Mike drives while I doze in the officer’s seat. Rank has its privileges. 

Rush hour traffic is unbearable. The trip back to our district from Fatima is about 7 miles long. At this time of day it normally takes half an hour to get back to quarters. Not today. The radio is tuned to WBRU, Brown University’s excellent FM station. I’ve been listening to it for 30 years, although lately the music doesn’t do it for me. At one time I liked most of what they played, now I find that only a small percentage fits my taste. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the number of birthdays I have endured. 

“Hey, the Dropkick Murphys!” I exclaim, waking from my nap and turning up the volume. The guys in the band are regular joes from Boston who love traditional Irish music. They combined that with punk and hard rock to create a heavenly sound, for those so inclined. Anybody who can incorporate bagpipes into a punk rock band has my loyal following. They are on the verge of making it big, but I don’t think that is what motivates them. They have a joy and an edge to their music that I haven’t heard in years. 

I play hockey for the Providence Fire Department’s team. We play in a league against other fire departments. For the past 10 years, Anthony Lancelotti, the guy who runs the league, has organized a charity tournament involving firefighter and police teams from all over the region. As part of the festivities, he holds a steak fry and raffle at the end of the tournament, with all proceeds going to charity. I sent an e-mail to the Dropkick Murphys in January asking for some help with the tournament, hoping for a CD or something to use in the raffle. The band came through with CDs, an autographed picture with all the band members, some tour shirts, and some hockey jerseys. They went so far as to offer their services on the ice, but scheduling conflicts nixed that. 

“Isn’t this the band you saw last week at Lupo’s?” Mike asks. 

“Same one.” The fire department requires a firefighter to be on premises at events of more than 1,000 people. I worked the night of the concert. 

“The place was packed, people milling about having a good time and waiting for the band. The crowd started chanting, ‘Let’s go Murphys; let’s go Murphys.’ Then the lights went down, with nothing but a spotlight focusing on a bagpiper in the middle of the stage in full Scottish regalia. He played a nice traditional tune, and the people really got into it. When that song was over, the rest of the stage lights came on, and the Dropkick Murphys took the stage and began to play. The crowd was moshing, the band was rocking, and then the piper put down his pipes and dove into the crowd for some surfing. The place went wild. It was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell Mike, but he doesn’t seem impressed. 

“You’re a little old for the mosh pit, don’t you think?” he says, shaking his head. He is more of a classic hard-rock guy.

 “I invented the mosh pit. We were slam-dancing to the Ramones before most of the kids in the crowd were even born.”

“Like I said, a little old for the mosh pit.” 

I’ll never understand the younger generation. 

“You’re too old to be playing hockey, too.” 

“I feel too old to be doing much of anything. I don’t know if it’s the job or Father Time, but the last few years have really taken their toll. But I’ll still kick your ass.” I say as we close in on South Providence.

 “Getting old,” Mike retorts, ignoring me. “At least I have something to look forward to.”

 I pick up the mike and throw myself to the wolves. 

“Rescue 1 is in service.”

 “Roger, Rescue 1. Respond to 1035 Broad Street for an intoxicated male.

 

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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