Standing By

14 March, 2010. 1228.

Last night, when I went to the office to get the gear for the standby, I was well into mentally preparing myself for the night ahead. I had vomit bags in my back pockets, ready to be pulled out, two sets of gloves in my front pockets, a little notebook in my other pocket with a pen, so I could take down patient information on the go, I had a snack in my jacket, tic-tacs for if the smell of drunk partygoer vomit got too intense—I was ready for a long night of introducing myself over the music and attempting to get the minimum of information before we transport (name, age/birthday, meds, allergies. A set of vitals if we can).

Instead, I spent the next four hours sitting at a table in the lobby, bonding with the secondary, dance-attacking the primary and supervisor with said secondary and telling people that, no, they couldn’t leave their coats at the BEMCo table. We needed the space to, you know, care for patients.

Our one patient was not even that—we gave them band-aids and an alcohol swab.

My duty, as the sole female on the crew, was to periodically patrol the women’s room and make sure that no one was slumped over on the toilet/sink/floor/dividing wall. The first time I did this, I received the response of, “Hey, you’re a man—never mind.”

I’m well aware of the fact that I often appear less than female. With short hair and a uniform that still manages to be too large on me, it’s understandable. I ought to use this little talent for my own benefit—evading long women’s room lines sounds like a good plan.

Now, the reason for our lack of patients was not that people decided to be responsible and not consume a week’s worth of alcohol in one evening—no, they were just leaving and going to their rooms before they went to us. The main crew split to three calls at one point, there were more, I think. Meanwhile, the three of us sat at a table and bounced around condom balloons.

After it ended (four hours later, technically five with the time change) the three of us went to CVS to get some food and returned to our places of residence. I crashed, rather unexpectedly, after removing my completely drenched clothing. To the crew that’s still on now—I hope you are managing to stay somewhat dry.

I’m a little disappointed at our lack of people—I was hoping to get some decent experience out of this. But you know, getting paid to hang out with friends for four hours isn’t too bad.

25 March, 2009. 11:00 PM.

Want to curl up in a ball and sleep until the weekend. Had full day of classes, voice lessons, theory plus lab, hour of Chamber Choir, run to Lown to Vince’s class (last one, previous week had been cancelled due to him holding a CE and office hours for EMT class students), run back down for two more hours of rehearsal, curl up for an hour, go to Chum’s to perform with UTO. Fuck, simply.

Vince’s class was upstairs in Lown, and I walked in, once again expecting way more people. It’s Vince and Paul. We got handouts! We’re doing trauma today. By the time I walked in, I had already decided that I was going to be late to rehearsal. We learned about burping wounds and that the abdomen bleeds internally easily and he explained the numbers in the blood pressure when I asked. Left a little after seven, instead of ten minutes before—rehearsal can wait. Very sad that class is over forever. There were only three. ::sad face::

It was a taste of what I don’t hear about from Matt. On-campus calls are rarely to the caliber that Vince’s examples were. I’m still ambivalent about training. Not only is the training apparently difficult as hell (seeing my friends train—not fun), but the things he tells us—I just don’t know if I could handle them.

Oh well. Mother called tonight, and my first words to her were, “I want to sleep forever.” Find myself saying it a lot lately. Mental stability is still there, mostly. Matt’s keeping me sane. And safe.

(This entry marks the end of older entries. All entries following this one will be posted in real-time. Whoa. This also means that updates will be more sporadic.)

15 March, 2009. 2:10 AM.

Oh my. Pachanga. Enough said.

Meh, elaboration. So Matt was on the standby crew for BEMCo for Pachanga tonight. For anyone not part of the Brandeis community reading this, Pachanga is a twice-yearly dance party known for being filled with drunken people. I didn’t go last semester, but decided to go this time. Whoosh.

I didn’t drink at all prior to going (and I’m not writing this statement as an under 21 individual trying to protect herself), but many (most?) people going did. Arrived at 10:15 ish, Brandeis and Waltham police were already there. Went through a metal detector (only had my keys). No drinks inside. There were suited people for security around the doors that were emergency exits only.

I saw Matt at the beginning of the night. He told me to have fun, and that I had better not see him for a while. I’m not supposed to let bad things happen to me when he’ll have to deal with it. I went into Levin and was there for the better part of three hours, leaving at one. I saw him once filling out paperwork and once running to get something. Nothing really to report, despite this long entry.

Nothing was happening when I was leaving, so I figured it was safe to say goodbye, despite the fact that I couldn’t hear much that he said to me.

The other night, I was asleep and Matt wrote a note to me about these entries, mostly about confidentiality things that I needed to fix, but also about why I write this. He explained that there’s really no danger as an EMT here—I feel like I knew that, but needed someone to say it before I could believe it. He said that the biggest danger to his person was that he would trip wile running to a call. When I asked Vince for consent to post these entries, he mentioned talking to a professor about emotional regulation in healthcare workers. I suppose that that’s my main concern. I’m not worried that Matt’s going to get hurt, but that something that happens in the field will hit him in a way we never expected. He’s fairly good (read: the master) at compartmentalizing. In spite of this, I think I’m worrying less, which is nice, for both of us.

I feel silly for writing this sometimes. I feel like I’m complaining, even though I’m not—I wouldn’t have my life any other way (and I’m happier than I’ve been in years and yes, this entry just went here). At this point, I don’t really care if people read this, or if they get anything out of it. I’m recording these things so that I remember them. If you’re with me, it’s all the better.

10 March, 2009. 7:28 PM.

Phil and I went to dinner in Sherman and stumbled upon Kassie, who was on call. We got food and sat down with her, and she and I tossed back and forth stories of “this is a dream I had after I was certified as an EMT/lifeguard.” It’s interesting that even though we’re completely different types of rescuers(?), there are common experiences. We talked about the BEMCo uniform and random little things.

The three of us were finishing up dinner when her pager went off. She had an open mug-thing of milk which could not be easily transported to the call, so Phil and I took her things and that back to her room after dinner. Phil and I discussed this blog for a bit—it’s good to know that at least one person cares what I’m writing on here.

11 March, 2009. 10:08 PM.

Second of Vince’s classes was today. Missed most of the orgasm workshop that was part of V-week, but it was totally worth it. Today was altered mental status (AMS) day. Once again, due to class I missed the introduction to everything and jumped in the middle of it all. We had one woman in pre-stroke (I have the words in my notes somewhere) and someone who had already had a stroke (Vince asked me how to tell, addressing me as “non-EMT” at one point, possibly because he already knows that I know. Makes me happy to know the right answer, though.). Also one person who was hypoglycemic from not eating due to illness and one who was possibly suicidal (learned what questions to ask) and registered “High” on the glucometer. Babysitting a diabetic girl for a few years gave me enough to understand what was happening in both of these situations.

Oh, the first one. Drug addict. Track marks, some other telling sign, collapsed outside some place with alcohol. Learned about Narcan, and by that, how to induce projectile vomiting. Thanks!

Class the week before had been canceled because Vince had work. Walking from Slosberg to Lown in the dark without having had dinner to find a “class cancelled” sign on the door is not pleasant. =/