"...Look, Pal..."

I'm 12 years old and my grandfather is the biggest man in the world. His arms are huge and strong. He moves through the world with confidence and poise. His big belly somehow grounds him and makes him more real.

"C'mon," He says, "We're going to the Creamery."

Oh boy! Ice cream with my granddad!

We get into his big brown Buick. It's just me. No older brothers or cousins. I get the front seat. Privilege!

"I gotta stop for gas." he says to me as if he's asking my permission. Whenever he talks to me, he turns his whole head to me. He's 62 or so and I'm just 12 but he talks to me like I'm a man just like him. I adore Granddad.

"Wait here." he commands and gets out to pump the gas. I hear a voice from over the huge dashboard.

"Jim, You're a sonavabitch!" says this small voice. The owner of the voice moves into view and it's a man who's as tall as Granddad but not as big. Clearly, he's got a beef with my Grandfather and he's ready to tell him all about it.

"Hey, I got my grandson in the car and we're going to the creamery. I'll talk to you tomorrow." My Granddad works at the local gas station in his retirement and everyone knows where to find him.

"No! I'm gonna talk to you right now..." the dialogue goes on like this for a few minutes. My Granddad trying to placate and deflect this guy and the guy continuing to confront my Granddad.

The guy becomes more strident. From where I'm sitting, he seems to be jumping up to get into my Granddad's face. Granddad is doing his best to defuse but there's only so much he can do.

Then, I hear it. The phrase that even I know means business.

"Look, Pal..."

I hear those two words and I know that my huge, grounded, unstoppable Granddad has lost the last of his infinite patience.

"..I told you. I've got my grandson in the car. I'll talk to you tomorrow at the gas station."'

He turns to get in the car but the guy wants a confrontation.

In the middle of a particularly strident and inane tirade by the guy, I watch with fascination as my Granddad seems to just stick his arm out. Somehow this simple gesture has rendered the guy unconscious and made him horizontal next to the Unleaded Premium pump. Imagine the same simple and comfortable motion you would use to reach out and pick up the handset of a payphone. This is how gracefully my Granddad knocks this guy out.

If I were to give voice to this action, it would be the word, "Boop!"

He gets back in the car.

He turns to me with his head and shoulders, as if I'm the only person in the world.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

He made me promise not to tell Grandmom.

To this day, I'm amazed by the 62 year old man who has the confidence to lay someone out at a gas station.

Two weeks ago, in a Veteran's Hospital, I held his hand and cried as I watched him die. He slipped away as smoothly and easily as we all hope we will.

He, a veteran of WWII, was buried with full military honors. My brothers, cousins and I were his pall bearers. At taps, we active and former military (in uniform and in suits) stood at attention and cried openly. We honored him with our tears.

Fair winds and following seas, Granddad. I miss you already.

--maddog

Nice Day for a Jog

I went out for a run today.

So did 30,000 other people.

26.2 miles later, I completed the 30th annual Marine Corps Marathon.

At mile 23, someone handed me a beer.

I love that man.

--maddog

Snooze for 5 miles on an interstate? Car is Definitely in the ditch!

I walk past the car that's resting gently in the ditch with water up to the doors.

"What happened?" I ask the driver, who's standing on the shoulder looking at his sinking car.

"I fell asleep." He says. "And I woke up in the ditch."

"Were you wearing your seatbelt?"

"Yes."

"Do you hurt anywhere?"

"No."

He checks out as perfectly fine. Answers my questions appropriately and doesn't want to go to the hospital.

"Where were you going?"

"Home."

"Where do you live?"

"In ****Town."

"****Town? The exit for that is 5 miles back!" Exclaim I.

"Yep, I fell asleep."

Damn!

--maddog

Doris, the smoocher!

She's 80 years old but looks like she's 60. Doris just had her knee replaced a month before. She takes medicine for high blood pressure. She was wearing her seatbelt. The airbag blew. The front of the minivan is metallic and rubber hamburger. The engine is 2 feet away from where it should be.

I gently take her head in my hands with my thumbs along her jawline. "Doris, I want you to keep your head still, Ok?"

She nods. "No, Doris, you need to relax and keep your head still."

Collar, headroll, backboard, straps, into the Medic unit. Once inside I do a full assessment. for any trauma and get a better idea of her mental status. Biggest complaint is the knee she had replaced. Hit it on the dashboard. She also has pain from the seatbelt in her chest, neck pain, back pain and her wrist hurts too. The whole time I'm talking to her to reassure her. I tell her everything that I'm going to do and I'm honest if something's going to hurt.

She's lucid and with it. No loss of consciousness, pupils are equal and reactive, no signs of head trauma. I get a good IV started and run a 12-lead to get a look at her heart to rule out any cardiac problems. Her EKG looks better than mine!

All of these procedures are difficult in a moving ambulance. (My preceptor is driving because he trusts me enough to run the call!!!!) but I also have to do them all one handed. Doris will not let go of my hand. I can get her to switch hands from time to time but, for the most part, she's hanging on to me.

I think all of the medical interventions I perform don't do as much for her as holding my hand.

Into the crowded hospital. We're in line. A doctor comes out to check out Doris's neck. He directs us to X-ray right away. I give my report to the receiving nurse and assure Doris that she's in good hands.

With a strength that surprises me and the nurse, Doris reaches up, grabs me by the neck and pulls me down for a big smooch on my cheek.

I'm almost skipping when I leave the ER.

Later, on my evaluation form, my preceptor writes, "EXCELLENT bedside manner!"

--maddog

I've been doing some of sailing. I've also run a lot of calls, gone running a lot and have no internet access at my house. (bleah!)

I know, I know. I have NOT been writing as much as I should. I shall endeavor to write entries daily but they seem to pile up. I look at the pile and I say, "Feh! I'm going sailing!"

I'll try to publish more, I promise.

--maddog

Bouncing Babies, Bleeding heads

The voting's done and #4 has squeaked by so, here we go:

Dinner's interrupted by an ambulance call. All I hear on the radio is my ambulance number and the number of the Medic unit. Out the door, I call in as "responding" and ask for the address again. Usually dispatch repeats the nature of the call and address once or twice as they tone it out again. This time the airwaves are particularly busy with dispatch toning out other calls. Basically, I'm going into a call knowing only that it's a medical call and dispatch thinks it's worth a Medic unit too.

I've got two people riding with me as observers tonight. Tootsie is a 21 year old local kid who's trying to decide what the hell she wants to do with herself. I've known her since she was about 13 when she auditioned for a play I was directing. She's joined the fire department after going on a ride-along with me. She's decided that she LOVES EMS. Goody! She's just waiting for her paperwork to clear before she signs up for EMT school.

The other ride-along tonight is Bean. She's another one I know through the theater. Her brother and I worked on A Midsummer's Night Dream together a couple years ago and I know her whole family. Bean, at 19 years old, is as tall and slender as Tootsie is short and curvy. I really like having them on board. They're both enthusiastic and helpful. All the rest of the clowns at the firehouse think I'm a pimp. HA!

We get on scene. As I hop out, "Tootsie, bring the O2 and suction. Bean, AED, I've go the Aide bag." I lead the way into the apartment building and am met by a 13 year old kid who's trying to hurriedly lead me to an apartment.

"Hold up, man. What happened?" I ask. I don't know what's going on and I want to find out a lot before I go in. Scene safety is first, right? The kid mumbles something and heads to the door. He's a little worked up.

"Stop!" That old authority voice works wonders. "What's going on?" From his mumblings I get that his 5 year old cousin fell and cut her head and she's bleeding all over the place.

Into the apartment, "Any pets in here?" No. I round the corner to find an extremely frightened young woman holding a little girl in her arms. There's drops of blood all over the floor, blood on her hands and blood on the head of a bright eyed little girl in the woman's lap.

I get right down on the floor with them and start talking to the little girl. I smile, she smiles back. I ask her her name, she tells me. I ask her if she hurts anywhere and she shakes her head. The young woman holding the girl looks like she doesn't know what the hell to do. She tells me that the girl tripped on her way into the kitchen and cut her head on one of the barrettes in her hair.

I sit cross-legged across from her and put out my arms for the little girl. The little girl gets up and sits right down in my lap with her back to me. This allows me to assess her very easily and look at the cut on her head. From the minute, I saw the kid, I'm using an assessment tool called the Pediatric Assessment Triangle (PAT). This triangle is made up of 3 factors, Airway & Appearance: which I assess by looking at muscle tone, activity level, mental status and whether the kid's breathing or not, Circulation: where I look at skin color, lips and fingers for cyanosis, obvious bleeding, capillary refill, skin temperature, pulse rate and quality and blood pressure. The final side of the PAT is Work of Breathing: Here I look at breathing effort, sounds, rate and depth. A quick assessment of these three factors can tell me if this kid's in trouble or not. With my little patient, she scores very high on all three.

The cut on her head is no longer bleeding. Again, I ask her if her head hurts and, again, she tells me, "No." I ask her to tell me what happened and she tells me a surprisingly clear, articulate and detailed account of her tumble.

The responding medic unit arrives to find a house full of volunteers, a pair of extremely frightened babysitters and a big, bald EMT sitting on a bloody kitchen floor with a giggling kid in his lap. I give them my report and ask them if they want to do any more assessment. One of them talks with the little girl for a bit and then pats me on the shoulder.

"Good job man. See you later tonight, I'm sure."

We leave about 5 minutes after mom shows up. On our way out of the apartment the little girl gives us a hearty, "Bye bye Fireman! Bye Bye!"

--maddog

On my way out of town.

I'm heading off to a remote mountain getaway for 4 days. Running water may be possible but internet is definitely out.

I'll post when I get back. keep on voting!

--maddog

Upcoming stories...

1. Death by Cheeseburger!
2. Crackhead Bobby skips his seizure meds. Medicates with malt liquor!
3. Snooze for 5 miles on an interstate? Car is Definitely in the ditch!
4. Bouncing babies, bleeding heads.

Which one do you want to hear first? Vote on the comments link below.

--maddog

Where has maddog been?

Depression is a monster. An ass-kicking, sneak-up-behind-you-when-you're-not-looking monster.

I'm on the snap-back.

Nothing can keep the maddog down.

ARRR!

more to come

--maddog

Mom's Home

Whew! I was worried!

My mom is my hero.

--maddog

More awesome mom-ness...

My phone rings. The caller ID says "MOM mobile."

We chat a bit. Here's a few quotes from Super-Mom:

"..You wouldn't believe the smell, hon... It's incredible."

"We don't have power at the clinic but we do at the hospital. Without air conditioning the air quality is pretty bad. We spend the day at the clinic until 5 and then go back to the hospital and clean some more. We're trying to get more rooms ready for patients."

I'm amazed at my mom's fortitude. She sounds tired. She also sounds cheerful and happy. She's doing something she loves. I can imagine. I think I'd be in the same mood in her shoes.

Then she says, "Wait! ...Do you have formula?"

I'm a bit confused

"Do you have enough formula for your baby? What kind of formula do you use..."

I hear another voice in the background.

Now I get it!

Mom says, "Hon, I'll call you back." *Click*

Go, Mom Go!!

--maddog

My mom is still the coolest.

My mom, who makes planes land to save lives, has shipped out to Baton Rouge with less than 12 hours notice. She's been helping to set up, clean out and get running a hospital that was abandoned in the flood. They've already started seeing patients and are setting up clinics in local schools and public buildings.

She's working with limited medical supplies, armed escorts and stifling temperatures in the 90's. (No A/C). She's been eating MREs and bottled water. Through my dad, she reports:

"...the smell of rotting food and dead bodies is everywhere, and the level of filth in the hospital and the schools is appalling. The hospial was abandoned in haste in the face of the hurricane, and perishable food was left in meat lockers and coolers and refrigerators, which then lost power. Patients were evacuated by staff, but the dead remained behind in the morgue and in the OR. When she and others are not treating patients they are cleaning - shoveling, mopping, scrubbing, bleaching, disinfecting, bagging, hauling."

...and treating what patients come in. She fears that as the word gets out, the facilities will be overwhelmed and they will run out of supplies. Their support and supply infrastructure is non-existent and re-supply is spotty and inconsistent at best.

She sleeps on a cot in the hospital when she's not out working.

Did I mention that my mom will be 61 years old in November?

Awesome!! Go, Mom Go!

--maddog

"...Thank you very much! You guys are great! I really appreciate what you do..."

A fellow classmate of mine, Guapita, and I are riding with my preceptor, Angel and her partner for a day shift in ******** City. We get a call for an unconscious person at a bus stop at suchandsuch street. Guapita and I are riding in the back of the Medic unit and we don't see anything until we arrive and jump out.

I'm greeted by the sight of several firefighters, bystanders and drunks surrounding a bench at a bus stop. Sitting on this bench is a man who's doubled over at the waist with drool and blood dribbling out of his mouth. Angel and I go up and pull him upright.

He's a big fellow. About 6ft 2in (2 meters) and about 175lbs (about 80kg). He's got pinpoint pupils, extremely slow breathing and is almost unresponsive to almost any stimulus. These symptoms combined with the neighborhood and bystanders leads me to suspect heroin as the culprit. A glance at Angel tells me she's thinking the same thing.

The guy's not so unresponsive that he can't be hauled up into the ambulance with some help from a firefighter and I. Once in the stretcher, he proceeds to snore away at a rate of 8 breaths per minute. I look at his arms: no track marks but he has beautiful veins. Angel is already preparing a dose of Narcan.

Narcan is the brand name of a drug called naloxone. It's defined as a competitive antagonist antidote for opiate overdose. In plain language, it knocks opium, heroin or morphine out of the opiate receptors in the brain and immediately reverses a opiate-based overdose. It also puts the chronic heroin user into immediate withdrawal. I notice that this guy's got big arms and shoulders. He's almost as tall as me and is pretty well built. I'm thinking that the last thing I want is for this guy to go into withdrawal in the back of my Medic unit.

Angel hands me a syringe with 0.12 mg of Narcan and a nasal atomizer. "We'll try a dose in the schnozz before we get a vein." She says. At this point, Guapita, acting as my second, has started oxygen at 12 Liters per minute via non-rebreather mask. I gently rest my knee just above this guy's knees and my other leg is barring his Left arm. His right arm is under a cot strap.

In goes the Narcan, on goes the O2 mask. "Gurgle, snort, gurgle. ..." No change in respirations or mental state. This guy also has not a single obvious track or needle mark on his body. I'm thinking he snorts his hey-ron and that might have an effect on this nasal administration.

By this time Angel's partner has prepared all the stuff to start and IV and hands me an alcohol prep. Guapita shifts around and sits on the guy's thighs and I trap the guys left arm under my armpit to give me a stable site for an IV and be ready for when he freaks out.

Pop! Perfect IV. 16 gauge in the left antecubital fossa. (the hollow of the elbow where a big vein is) and a saline lock (a small tube for the administration of medications without having to hang a bag of fluid). Angel hands me a syringe of 0.4mg of Narcan. In it goes, followed by about 10cc of saline to flush it into his system.

Needles into the sharps containers and we're tense. We're all ready for this guy to explode in a whirling fit of stinky, spitting fury at us for having taking his high for which he probably paid a lot of money.

He sits up.

He looks around.

"Hey! Woah! Thank you very much!" He nods around to each of us. "You guys are great! I really appreciate what you do."

Everyone else in the back of the Medic unit looks as dumbfounded as I feel.

"Hey, man, I feel great! Can I go home now?"

Junkies. Whee!!

--maddog

We the living.

I was working my part-time job as a Park Ranger. As I patrolled a nearby lake park, I came across a neighbor, MS, on his bike.

"Have you seen Mr. Neighborofmine?" he asked me. "His wife's worried about him. He headed out for a run 3 hours ago and she's worried about him"

I don't blame her. The temperature is approaching 100 degrees Farenheit and the humidity is about 98 percent. Mr. Neighborofmine is 70 years old and has 2 prosthetic legs below the knees. I've seen him out running every day.

I agree to keep an eye out for him and I cruise along, stopping to ask each person I see if they've seen Mr. Neighborofmine. A couple people have but not for about 30 minutes. At one point, I'm standing on the path, asking another stroller. I'm situated directly behind Mr. Neigbhorofmine's house. MS's house is the one next door. They both back onto the path that goes around the lake in this park.

As I'm speaking to a person on the path, I hear MS hollering for me. I look up the hill toward the house and see him rushing towards the back porch. I also see a lump on the back porch dressed in running clothes.

Shit.

In my bicycle saddlebags, I have a first aid kit, gloves and a mask for rescue breathing. I run up the hill, dragging my bicycle behind me. On my way I leave a trail of gear as I discard my riding gloves, helmet, sunglasses and, finally, bicycle.

Mr. Neighborofmine is lying on his side on the concrete porch. He's blue and grey. His hands are blue and his face is blue and dusky grey. I perform a sternal rub. No response. I check pusle and breathing. None.

Shit.

Training takes over. MS is a little frantic and is trying to remember CPR. "I've got the CPR. Call 9-1-1." I say.

"I've got them on the phone." Says a new voice. The neighbor from the other side, HW, has shown up and has a cordless phone in her hand."They want to give you CPR instructions."

"Tell them I'm an EMT, here's my number." I rattle it off and she conveys it to the Dispatcher. Good enough. Time to get to work. I put on my gloves and assemble the CPR mask. It's got a one-way valve and a filter to keep me from getting a mouthful of patient. I get his head positioned and try a couple breaths. Air goes in but I hear a gurgling when I blow in. I see a little bit of chest rise but I also see his stomach rise too. Damn! Am I putting air in his stomach? His belly falls as he exhales. Hm.

I move to his chest to perform chest compressions and find my landmarks are a little off. His chest seems to stick up a lot. I ask if he's had heart problems before. Trying to get a history from somebody. The answer comes back "no" and then I have an "AHA!" moment. I remember seeing Mr. Neighborofmine many times when he was out running. His back is curved forward and slightly hunched over. I've seen it referred to as Kyphosis of the spine. It can create a challenge when maintaining an airway and such while the patient is on his back.

I start chest compressions and feel/hear the crackling noise as his ribs separate from his sternum. Ugh! I always hate that. I roll through my chest compressions and back to breathing. Again, I'm having trouble getting good air in the lungs. MS is flapping around trying to both be helpful and not get in the way.

"Put your fingers like this." I say and show him how to position his thumb and finger to press on the crichoid cartilage. (This is a process where pressing on the hard cartilage of the windpipe causes it to push down and close off the soft and floppy esophagus. This allows more air to go into the lungs and helps keep whatever's in the stomach from coming back up.)

"Like this?" he does it right after a few tries.

"Yes. Now press here, gently. Good."

I try a couple more breaths and they go in much better. Still gurgling but air is getting into the lungs. I continue the cycle of chest compressions and rescue breathing. Sweat is cascading off me. Somewhere in the back of my head I remember that the heat index for the day (what it feels like) is 110 degrees Fahrenheit. I'm feeling it now.

EMS is on the way. I can hear the sirens in the distance. After a few more cycles of CPR, I check for a pulse and realize that the patient is pink. PINK!!! This means that I'm doing CPR correctly! He was blue to begin with, meaning he had very little oxygen left in his tissues. The purpose of CPR is to push oxygen into the lungs where it can dissolve into the blood, and then move it around by pumping on the heart. The fact that Mr. Neighborofmine is now pink means I'm getting oxygen in and moving it around. Right on!

At some point, I look up and see Mrs. Neighborofmine standing behind the sliding glass door. She's been watching everything.

My ambulance and Engine show up. It's all business. AED, Oxygen and BVM, move the patient to a back board and then the stretcher. I'm standing on the lower carriage of the stretcher and continuing chest compressions as we roll around the house and to the ambulance.

Into the rig we go and we roll. We meet the Medic unit en route on a nearby highway. Two medics get on board our ambulance. One starts to set up the EKG/Defribillator while the other sets up to intubate. I'm thinking, "IV access?" Of course, I can't do any of the advanced skills because my jurisdiction won't let volunteers practice ALS skills, regardless of one's certification level.

The medic who is intubating prepares a Miller blade (a laryngoscope blade that is long and flat) that's about 2 sizes too long for this patient and proceeds to dig around in the patient's mouth. He looks like he's stirring soup! The then goes to insert the endotracheal tube (ETT) and I notice he hasn't lubricated it.

He gets the tube in but doesn't secure it. I help him get the stylus out but it's stuck!! He didn't lubricate that, either. I find myself both bagging (pushing air down the intubation tube with a special bag) and holding the tube in place. I call out that I see vapor in the tube as a landmark for proper placement. The medic then checks for lung and gastric sounds as another method.

Still no secured tube. I have doubts about it being properly placed. I hear all kinds of gurgling as I push air down.

The intubating medic then connects a device that will tell him how much CO2 is coming out of the tube each time the patient exhales. This is a very definitive way of knowing whether or not you have it in the right place. A tube in the esophagus will not give out a consistent amount of CO2, whereas a properly placed tube with good air exchange will. This is read by a wave form on the EKG monitor that has a CO2 monitoring device (capnography).

The wave form is tiny, almost too small to read. "Looks good." says the medic.

"I'm still getting a lot of gurgling in this tube. Should we check it again? Maybe suction?" Says I as I turn on the suction unit next to the medic. He says nothing and proceeds to prepare another device to check the tube. This is another CO2 detector that merely changes color in the presence of CO2. We attach it, I breathe for the patient. The color remains the same. I'm thinking at this point the medic's going to re-tube the patient to be sure he's got it.

"Hyperventilate him. Go faster." He says to me.

Still doesn't change. The medic then check the inflatable cuff at the end of the tube. This cuff keeps the tube in place in the trachea and keeps air from leaking out around it or stuff from going into the lungs. It's not properly inflated and won't stay that way (this is done by using a syringe attached to a tiny air tube).

Does he remove the ETT and try again at this point? No. He prepares a dose of epinephrine to inject down the tube.

Meanwhile, the other medic has been fumbling around with the EKG. She reads asystole, or no electrical heart activity, on her monitor. She sets up another set of leads to verify and I though she's going to go into transcutaneous pacing. That's where one uses a regular rhythm of shocks to make the heart muscle flex and move blood around. It can also, at times, cause the heart to take over and beat on its own as blood and oxygen get to the heart muscle.

Does she do that?

Nope.

Does she start an IV?

Nope. She seems more concerned with verifying the asystole than with doing anything about it. Oh, yeah. she's also doing chest compressions with one hand as she's fooling with the EKG.

I notice, also that my patient, who I made pink with basic CPR, is now blue and ashen. Dammit!

Once we get to the hospital, Someone takes over respirations from me and I'm back to doing chest compressions all the way into the emergency room. People waiting in the hall show their surprise at seeing a 6 foot 4 inch, 245lb bald man soaked with sweat, standing on a stretcher doing chest compressions with the words "PARK RANGER" written across his back. I'm sure I'm quite a sight.

The hospital staff takes over, I pass what information I have about how long Mr. Neighborofmine was down and I get out of the way. I stagger through the main ER towards the refreshment station where I wash my hands and drink about 2 quarts of water.

A few minutes later, I see the hospital staff filter out of Mr. Neighborofmine's room. "We'll call it at 1358." says a doctor. I think I saw that coming. It still sucks. It always sucks. I think when it stops sucking, I need to get a job doing something else.

I phone my boss to let him know that I'm going to be a little over my shift and tell him why. He offers to come pick me up from the hospital and asks me if I'm OK. The crew from my ambulance gives me a ride back to the scene where I expect to find a disaster area. Instead I find MS has gathered up all my stuff and my bike. He's stowed them away in his shed to keep them from getting stolen.

We talk for a bit about the incident and I ask him if he's doing OK. I also make sure he knows he can talk to me or I can put him in touch with people to talk to. He lost 3 family members, including his father and his sister, in as many years. He says as much and says, "I won't say I'm used to it but I got a good handle on it and a good bunch of family." as he rests his hand on his daughter's shoulder.

At my office, where I fill out a huge incident report, everyone is great. My boss gets me another shirt, someone gets me a big, cold bottle of water. They all want to be sure I'm OK. I do a mental/emotional check and find that, yes, I am OK.

On my way home, I stop by the scene again to speak with the other neighbor, HW. She's with her family, preparing dinner. I chat with her and her husband. Her 4 year old son says, "Mr. Neighborofmine wasn't breathing! That's bad! I'm four years old! I'll be 5 soon!" I thank HW for her help and listen to her speak of feeling helpless. I assure her she did great by having the wherewithal to call 9-1-1 right away.

On my way out, I notice that Mrs. Neighborofmine has returned from the hospital with her 2 sons and a good friend. I stop by there to offer my condolences. "I think it hasn't hit me yet. Thank you very much for what you did. You were super. I can't thank you enough." she says to me. She's really touched. Wow.

As I'm pedaling home, I'm sad for the family and friends of Mr. Neighborofmine. I'm happy to be among the living. I'm also reviewing and checking everything I did to be sure I've done it all right. I think I did. I'm pretty confident I did good and I can find no major faults with my performance. I could have been more of an a**hole with the Medics to be sure they did their job right but I have a feeling that would not have ended well.

I also think about the cycle of life and death. I think I'm fortunate to have been a part of this cycle for Mr. & Mrs. Neighborofmine. I could sense that it meant a lot to Mrs. Neighborofmine to see me and speak to me afterwards. It's a situation I'm not often in. Usually I hand the patient off to the hospital and get ready for the next call. Mrs. Neighborofmine got to see that I do care, that I'm not just a stranger who takes her husband away. THAT'S hometown EMS.

I come home to an empty house. Herself is out for the evening for business. Just me and the dog and the cat. Not for long. Word travels fast and, within 90 minutes I've got a house full of friends and family and I'm making spaghetti for 6.

At some point, in the middle of the wine, food and jokes, I look around a the gaggle of people in my house. I vow to enjoy them all while I have them. It's all good.

We the living.

--maddog