|
Where did you go? For a long time, this was the question I asked myself before going to sleep. I am not the person I was in high school, I’m not even the same person I was last night. Every day my outlook changes, it gets harder and harder to control it; it gets harder and harder to explain it. Will my Husband be there? We get dispatched for a diabetic emergency in a trailer park. My partner is driving as I sit next to him, fumbling with a beat-up map book, giving directions. “This place is the loving boonies” Brandon told me. “Don’t need to tell me man, I have a map out – the closest bit of civilization is fifteen miles away” I say We arrive on scene, police showing up right behind us even though they weren’t following us on the only avenue into this area of the county. I note a female lying on the ground in front of one of the trailers, one of the neighbors motioning for us to come over to her. “Dispatch, 216 on scene with PD” “Roger 216, advise if you need a medic intercept” I hop out of the passenger seat, grab my bag from the side door and move over to the patient. She’s a middle aged female, breathing, cool, pale, diaphoretic, and unconscious. I ask the neighbor if she knows anything about this woman’s medical history and learn she’s a diabetic. While my partner grabs vitals, I put a non-rebreather mask over the patients face to give her some additional oxygen before I set my IV up. I grab saline bag, an amp of dextrose 50%, a vial of thiamin, and a ten drip IV setup. I kneel next to the woman and apply the tourniquet around her left arm and palpate for veins, I find a nice sized ‘pipe’ and grab an eighteen gauge catheter and an alcohol prep pad from my cargo pocket. I get the IV going, check the woman’s blood sugar – a lovely nineteen, put the IV bag on my shoulder. As I’m drawing up some thiamin, the woman’s husband barges out of their trailer, gun in hand. He fires four shots at me and my partner before the police officer on scene draws his weapon and shoots him twice. I continue working through this entire event, I pushed the amp of dextrose 50% and the thiamin while the bullets whizzed by. I instruct my partner to stay with her as I grab my bag and check on the husband. He smelled of alcohol before I even knelt down next to him. The officer wasn’t the best shot in the world – but he did a good job in killing this man. The right top half of his skull was missing and there was a one-half inch hole upper-mid abdomen. The man wasn’t breathing, no pulse; pulverized brain matter flowed freely from the gaping section of skull. “Dispatch, 216” “Go ahead 216.” “We’re going to need a medical control line” “What for 216?” “We need a doc so we can call someone” “Your patient?” “No dispatch, secondary patient.” “Roger, give me a land line” I call our dispatcher on my cell phone and give her a brief heads up on what had occurred while she prepares to patch me over to a doctor at the local hospital. “This is Doctor Andrews, go ahead” “Hey doc, this is India 216 – we have a freshly deceased party on scene, just want to see if we can call him so we can get a medical examiner over here.” “What happened?” “We were on scene working a diabetic call, a man came out of a trailer and shot at us – police on scene dropped him. Currently not breathing, no palpable or auscultable pulse. He has one shot upper center mass of his abdomen – second shot took off the upper right side of his skull.” “Do you have an ID on him?” “Roger” “Deceased as of 1:08 A.M – we’ll contact the ME and get him over there” “Roger – we’ll be inbound to your facility with the diabetic” “See you in thirty.” By the time I walk back to the woman, she’s conscious and semi-alert. I have my partner grab the stretcher while I check her blood sugar again, sixty-two this time. As we move the stretcher back towards the ambulance to load the passenger, I note two bullet holes in the side of our ambulance. We load her into the back, I hop in, and we start transporting. She was confused through the entire event; I checked her blood sugar periodically. In a perfect world, I would have given her a second amp of dextrose 50%, but I didn’t want to explain to her that her husband was dead, killed by the police after shooting at us. “Will my husband be at the hospital?” “Yes ma’am, he’s being held up a little bit – but he’ll be at the hospital in awhile.” It wasn’t a lie; the husband was going to be there sometime. The morgue was in the basement. He died as he drunkenly tried to defend his wife from unknown aggressors. There’s a baby in there. There’s nothing in the world quite like a maternity call. If you’re lucky enough to birth the child, you can count yourself as one of the few living souls who can claim to have helped bring a life into this world. After it happens, there’s nothing that can bring you down from that high – in EMS a maternity call with an uncomplicated birth is the equivalent to the Congressional Medal of Honor. My partner and I were sitting in our ambulance, admiring some of the ‘college girls’ that frequent the section of the city we were assigned to cover when the call came in. “216.” “Dispatch, 216. Go ahead” “We need you to head over to Anson Avenue, no street number given – PD on scene, they’ll guide you in. Pregnant mother, unknown medical and life status.” “Roger, enroute” We flew there. It was a complicated maternity call, unknown status. We parked next to the police cruiser and started up the steps of the apartment complex. The woman didn’t look older than twenty, according to her license she was eighteen. She was lying face down in the bathroom, no chest rise, pale but warm, weak pulse. There was blood all over the floor and toilet – I had an idea what happened, I didn’t want to look in the toilet. We roll the mother and pull her forward, she’s cyanotic, purple and splotchy from the chest up. My partner inserts an oral airway and starts ventilating the patient with a bag valve mask. I grab my bag and start two large bore IV’s, running wide open to keep fluids going. I tell one of the cops to run down to the bus and grab a backboard. I grab a blood pressure, fifty over palp. I put a trauma dressing over the patient’s vagina, we roll the patient onto the backboard. I grab a combitube and insert it into the patient’s airway after removing the oral airway, I inflate the sealing cuffs, and secure the tube with tape. My partner hooks up the BVM to it and continues to ventilate. We note the patient is starting to pink up, her oxygen saturation is on the rise. My partner, two policemen and myself carry the patient to the ambulance. I hop in back, and we start to transport. A policeman stops us. “Dude, the toilet.” “Yeah?” “There’s a baby in there.” “I forgot about that,” I hand the officer a red biohazard bag “Can you grab it in that and bring it up to the hospital?“ “Uh…” “Thanks!” I closed the door and we continued transport. The mother lived, that’s all that mattered.
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:34
|
|
|
|
| # ? Jun 6, 2024 13:13 |
|
|
The life of an EMT is never boring. Did the cop actually get the baby out of the toilet for you? More stories please.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:38
|
|
|
Jesus christ, that's the most matter of fact way I've ever heard this sort of thing described. Thanks for actually having the medical info in here, too; it's pretty educational. Give us more. Character stuff, too; that first bit about you has me interested. You must have more observations on it than just this.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:43
|
|
|
Definitely agreeing with the shout for more stories, the way you write, including the medical knowledge as well is awesome.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:44
|
|
|
Great stuff. More please. Are you a paramedic?
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:50
|
|
|
Solid writing, great presentation. I do hope you have more. I'm subscribed and waiting. I have several EMT friends, myself, so I've heard quite a number of bizarre stories. I'm always willing to hear more, though.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:56
|
|
|
Fantastic writing, it's so disturbingly vivid but fascinating as well. I hope there's more.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:56
|
|
|
Donald Every EMS service has their share of lovable drunks. For us, ours was Donald. Donald was a former CEO of a Fortune Five-Hundred company, a former congressman, a former police officer and fireman, a former navy officer, and a close friend of Hugh Hefner. Of course he really wasn’t any of these things, Donald had an active imagination and a nasty drug habit… We weren’t about to clue him in that he was a homeless black man. Donald was a darling, and I don’t feel feminine or emasculated using that term, he was just a nice guy. Sometimes he was a little odd, but he never seemed to do anything that was ill tempered or mean spirited. When he was lonely, he would call us from a payphone and use the same old tired excuse: “My chest hurts.” Whenever we’d get dispatched, he would always be at the same place – just chilling and relaxing, waiting to see which of his friends came from across town to see him. “216, 216, priority call… Intersection of Fredrick and Denton… Man down, unknown life status, PD enroute and will advise when on scene” “Roger, enroute” We start moving towards Fredrick and Denton on a priority. The police officers that show up on scene let us know what’s going on. “216, five-alpha-two. You’re going to have two patients, one was stabbed an undetermined number of times, the other was beaten. We have the second patient in the squad car, he tried to fight us off.” “Five-alpha-two, roger, see you in one – Dispatch, 216… Roll a second unit please” “Roger 216” We roll up to the scene and we see a familiar coat lying on the ground. My partner looks over at me, a ‘what the hell’ look dancing across his face. We hop out, my partner grabs the bag and I grab a backboard. Donald was laying supine, breathing shallowly, ashy complexion. My partner pops a cervical collar on Donald as I cut his clothes off with my trauma shears. “drat bro, I thought you liked me” Donald said to me, weakly. “You know Donald, you should’ve just stuck by the phone booth, phone booths generally don’t carry knives.” “You smart son.” Donald’s breathing was labored, we had him on oxygen, I note a puncture wound to the left thoracic region, I put a 4x4 on it and cover it with a piece of plastic sheeting, taping it down to act as an occlusive dressing. I put down four more dressings. We roll him onto the backboard, secure his head with immobilizers and move him to the stretcher. As we close our doors, the other unit shows up to deal with the second patient. As we traveled to the hospital, I grab a blood pressure: ninety over palp, not bad for a guy who got stabbed five times. I start two IV’s and keep them running wide open. Donald was alert and oriented throughout the entire ride. “Matt.” “Yeah Don?” “My chest hurts for real this time.” I call the hospital and call for a trauma alert, we show up and the ER techs are waiting for us. They roll the stretcher in and I follow to give report. Donald survived. I go outside to grab a cigarette and start the paperwork for the call. A little over a week later, Donald was dead. The man who stabbed him before finished the job.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 00:59
|
|
|
Jesus. I could never do your job, but I'm glad that there's a segment of the population with balls big enough to handle it. More please.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:05
|
|
|
I love and hate EMT stories at the same time. I have some fireman/EMT friends that tell them without a hint of remorse/disdain/involvement, and it always amazes me. I have my own involving my two-year-old from 6 months ago that I still haven't worked up the nerve to put down in words yet, but I hope to some day. Thanks for doing what you do.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:17
|
|
|
Wow, these stories are amazing... a whole facet of life people never think about. Please post more.
CatanZZZ fucked around with this message at 01:21 on Feb 4, 2006 |
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:18
|
|
|
I can’t do kids There’s a cardinal rule with EMS, “Don’t gently caress your partners.” Most people assume that means covering for each others mistakes, “we ride together, we die together,” and all that other jingoistic crud. Unbeknownst to most, the comment is much simpler and crasser than that. Don’t gently caress your partners. When you work with someone for extended periods of time, you get to know each other exceedingly well. You learn to get along, you learn each others ticks, habits, and pet peeves. But, when you add our duties into the mix – dealing with people’s private crises everyday – you and your partner become brothers from different mothers. Carl and I had been partners for awhile, we were even members of the same volunteer fire house. We just clicked – everything we touched worked, every call we did was great. We were efficient, we were calm, we were polite and empathetic. Even when we got shafted into doing transports instead of sitting in the 911 response pool, we treated our patients well, and they loved us. One day we were transporting a sizable woman from a skilled nursing facility (Gomer-home) to a dialysis center for her thrice-weekly session. We knew Janny, she knew us, we were her handsome lifesavers. There was nothing really notable about this transport aside from the fact that Carl informed me that he wanted to get his fiancée pregnant due to his absolute love of little kids. “Just think dude – I won’t even need to take Ashleigh to the hospital, we can deliver my kid.” “I don’t know Carl, wasn’t your birth all retarded and stuff?” “Yeah, but it’s not like I’m getting reincarnated or anything. I’m not hiding in her cooch and waiting for you.” “Well, I heard a nasty rumor that retardation is genetic.” “Yeah?” “Yep, so is that receding hairline. I feel bad for your kid already.” “I get this sensation you don’t like kids.” “I can’t do kids dude, you always get them when we pick ‘em up, remember?” “True.” Our shift ended, we brought the ambulance back to the bay, parked, punched out, and went out to our cars. We were both off for the next two days. “Matt, going to the bar dude?” “rear end, I don’t hit twenty-one until January.” “Oh yeah? I’ll be sure to tuck you in at bedtime.” “Ok grandpa.” We went our different ways. Hypothetically I could have gone home at this point – but instead I went over to my volunteer EMS service to sit around and bullshit. Maybe take a call if it was something interesting since a set crew was already down there. “Standby for EMS Dispatch – MVA (motor veh. accident) on Route 8 Southbound.” I went. I found Carl. I haven’t worked with Carl in months, I never will again – I miss him greatly.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:26
|
|
|
All of these are completely awesome. And, the Donald story brought a smile to my face Please post more.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:27
|
|
|
I just got my license, can't wait to get some of these kinds of events under my belt. All I've seen are crazy traumas, nothing exceptionally weird yet. Post more stories please.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:29
|
|
|
Dude, that donald story brings a tear to my eye. Also, coming from a diabetic, who's been out of it more than once (once I was recorded at 2, yes, 2, I should've been dead, but alas, I don't die easily) good on the d50. Glucing a diabetic is the goddamn worst thing ever. Like a hangover from a year long drinking binge when you come back to.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:30
|
|
|
Marx posted:Carl/Donald You have a way with words my friend. Both of those left me with a twanging pain.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:35
|
|
|
I could read these all day. I'm glad I'm at the end and can go grab a beer instead.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:36
|
|
|
Since I met my husband, EMT's like you have saved his life at least 8 times over by giving him glucose. I've almost lost him numbers of times and the EMT's always brought him out of it. Your stories resonate in a way you cannot know.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:38
|
|
|
I'm really enjoying thse stories, but I honestly want to know a little more about you. How has this job affected you? Do you think it's something a person could do for a lengthy period of time without having an emotional breakdown? I have serious doubts about my ability to be able to cope emotionally with these situations. I would be a terrible candidate for this job. Thank you for being gutsy enough to do this.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:44
|
|
|
These are fabulous, a gem in the recent shitstorm of crap E/N posts, and for that I thank you! Keep em' coming!
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:48
|
|
|
How about a remarkably happy story?  I like the others, but I want balance.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:49
|
|
|
Dark Rivers of the Heart Dean Koontz wrote a book titled Dark Rivers of the Heart, I’ve never read it – but I recall seeing it one day as I was walking around aimlessly in a Barnes and Noble. The title made me think – my career is spent trudging around in those rivers like some sort of perverse clam fisherman. I’m supposed to be a little bit apathetic – enough to ignore the emotional pain of the patient, but I’m not. My ‘Dark Little Creek’ has since become a ‘Dark River,’ and I’m not sure just what I can do about it. Mississippi My ambulance company was the dominant ambulance company along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. Since it’s a national organization, it had a large pool of employees and equipment to send down after Katrina ripped through. I signed up again and again, while I didn’t get to act like a hero and drive around an ambulance – scooping up bodies and giving tetanus shots, I did get to spend Christmas down there. It was a last minute deal, because AMR was supposedly going to pull out it’s national support since AMR-Gulfport was back at fully operational status, on paper. A couple of days before Christmas, I get a call and I’m told to be ready to leave in sixteen hours. I call my girlfriend and give her a heads up – which was quite comical since prior to the phone call, we were talking about how I wasn’t going to go down. We celebrated Christmas that night, I cried for the first time in a long time. It wasn’t overly emotional or anything – just one line on a card she attached saying how glad she was to be spending Christmas with me. Maybe I was being a puss, I don’t know. So I fly down to Mississippi – it looks like an A-bomb went off along the coast. Some people are trying to rebuild, but they’re a minority. There are a lot of people feeling sorry for themselves, a lot of people drinking, and there were a lot of people rolling their cars along I-10. One my second day, we get dispatched for a MVA on I-10. Man rolled his truck, FEMA trailer with family enclosed attached. He survived, I never learned how his family fared. We called for the life flight helicopter, additional units, and transported. Sometimes you just don’t want to know.  /e Rt 90 is not I-10 Marx fucked around with this message at 02:01 on Feb 4, 2006 |
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 01:52
|
|
|
nepenthe posted:How about a remarkably happy story? I agree. I'm loving the writing and the stories. I've always thought EMS work was fascinating, but all this is getting me down
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:02
|
|
|
You’re Screwed. I was working in my hometown, it’s a nice change – I live in a suburb of another big city. We have a good EMS system, we staff Paramedics and most of them are nice enough people. My hometown is best described as a diamond in the rough, heavy emphasis on the rough. I’m not trying to get ‘street cred’ or make it appear that everyone from my town is a ‘gangsta,’ ‘baller,’ ‘roller’ or anything of the sort – we just have some really cruddy sections of town. One of which houses an orange roofed motel. This motel has history, it is regularly raided by our police because the same old crack-heads end up getting in the same old rooms and do the same old thing. Normally we get called over when they get a bust, the police have these things called PEERs, Police Emergency Exam Requests; they guarantee a 72 hour, minimum, stay within an appropriate psych-care or rehab facility. When we got called to this motel by the PD, we weren’t surprised. “Looks like a bust Greg” “Why don’t they just shut this place down?” “If they do, then the junkies will end up in people’s yards and stuff, they like shooting…” “Fishes in barrels, yeah yeah.” We come on scene and find three police officers sitting outside a particular room, laughing. “What’s going on?” I ask one of the officers who I know. “Matt, you got to see this to believe it.” I look in the motel door to see a teenaged girl, naked, lying on top of a teenaged boy. “What’re you staring at? You going to help or what?” The boy yells at me, while his partner cries. “Well, what exactly is the problem?” I ask as calmly as I can. “She’s loving stuck on my junk!” Says he, this just makes the girl cry harder. I walk over calmly, not quite sure what to do. I grab my penlight and examine the situation. He was in her, to the hilt, she was constricted and cramped – he was in pain as well. “Yeah, I know I got a big cock.” “Maybe that’s the problem here bro.” “…” This particular event was never covered in any EMT, EMT refreshed class, or CME class I took. So I tried the common sense approach first – I try lifting her with my partner. They both cry out in pain. “Dispatch, Sierra-nine-zero-eight” “Go 908” “Is there a medic available?” “Negative” I have my partner grab the stretcher while I put both patients on oxygen. Ideally, we would just give the girl valium to relax her PC muscle, but neither my partner or I were paramedics… We didn’t have access to the magic narcotics bag. “Ok, Sir – Ma’am – we’re going to place you on this stretcher and cover you up as best we can.” Greg and I grab the mattress sheet and pull the two over onto the stretcher just like we would a transfer patient. We wrap the girl and the boy up in sheets and roll them to the ambulance. Every bump we hit caused both of them to scream. We transport, I grab patient information and some vitals. I call the hospital to secure a room in the ER – I didn’t think waiting in triage would be the most appropriate way to handle these two. “CMED - 908, Can I get a patch into 8?” “Roger” “ 908, this is triage go ahead.” “Howdy, 908 inbound to your facility with two patients conjoined at the hip – one male party, one female party – can you have a room set up for us? Don’t think rolling through triage would be a good idea.” “908 – what?” “We are inbound to your facility with two patients, conjoined at the hip.” “Are they twins or something 908?” “They don’t really look alike to me – I don’t believe they’re related.” “Oh, oh. We’ll have a room waiting.” “Roger, thank you Triage” We get to the hospital, and we pull out our patients. She was still straddling him – still whimpering from the pain while he moaned obscenities. It was quite the sight to see, we roll into room three – The nurse goes into the room and gets information from the two. In order to give the girl valium they need to contact and get approval from her parents or guardians. Her mother refused until she could get there and see what tomfoolery was afoot. She shows up about fifteen minutes later – I could do nothing but feel bad for the girl. Cramped up, a bloated piece of man stuck deep within – witnessed by many, and berated by her mother. The mother gives her blessing after yelling at her daughter for several minutes. The doctor givers her an IM of valium and waits. Greg and I part the two after her muscles relax. I lean down to the boy on the stretcher. “You’re screwed dude, I feel for you.” “In more ways than one man. More ways than one.”
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:29
|
|
|
Marx posted:Sometimes you just don't want to know. God drat. Great stories, and like others I'm curious about the storyteller. What got you into the job in the first place? Keep 'em coming, these are fantastic.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:38
|
|
|
AWESOME. Please keep posting more stories, they are really interesting.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:38
|
|
|
This is pretty much the best thread I have ever read. More please.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:54
|
|
|
I am completely hooked.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:56
|
|
|
Marx posted:I don't do kids A car accident? Suicide would have been nicer. Car accident is just random. Marx posted:You're screwed I could understand this if you said they had piercings, but the way it's written now is just retarded. If the guy can get stuck in there when he's limp, he's not going to get it in there hard. Overall, great stories. I liked the first one best, the others had some glaring problems (handing the cop a biohazard bag to dispose of a dead baby  ), but it's all still fifty times better than the worthless poo poo that killing fields posts.Post some real ones! I'm sure there are some better ones that you've actually dealt with, without emo soap opera endings
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 02:59
|
|
|
quote:“They don’t really look alike to me – I don’t believe they’re related.” Beautiful sense of realization there on the medic's part, it's like he finally got the innuendo.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:02
|
|
|
loving Jesus, that's some heavy poo poo.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:03
|
|
|
roffle posted:A car accident? Suicide would have been nicer. Car accident is just random. I think you misread that conversation. Marx == "Matt", who doesn't like kids. Carl was Matt's partner, who WANTS kids, but died in a car accident.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:05
|
|
|
Me Everyone who works within the emergency spectrum is a little bit off kilter. I’m no different. I started within the world of EMS at a young age, I was a member of an organization known as CAP, the Civil Air Patrol. One of its core facets was ‘search and rescue’. I joined at 14, became an EMT at 16. Originally I had no intention of working EMS or even participating in the field, but events that occurred in high school changed that. In every school there are those annoying groups and sub-groups – I snuggled rather comfortably into the drug crowd. It was kind of funny in retrospect, I’d smoke pot – then go to a CAP meeting, where it’s all about military bearing, duty, honor, country, etc. I was the squadron first sergeant at the time, so I was the person responsible for PT, inspections, and discipline. When I was toasted, I would work those cadets into the ground, hilarious. Ah, but I digress. Like I mentioned, my early high school days were all about drugs and experimentation. It was all well and good for the longest. However, my social circle from those days is now a social triangle – and two-thirds of that triangle is now active duty military. What happened to the others? They liked their ricer cars, well, they all liked one persons ricer car. They drank – the driver as well – and they didn’t fare well. My social circle wasn’t huge, so a car full of people took it down a fair bit. I moved on for the most part - I didn't turn into a goth or anything similar, I gave up drugs and ended up being a clown. When I started I figured if I work in EMS, I could save people in similar situations – it feels almost like it’s a penance due to guilt for not being there for my friends. I fully comprehend it doesn’t make sense to feel guilty over not being there, I wouldn’t have changed anything, I probably would be just as dead as them… I grasp that mentally – but not emotionally. When I’m working, I can provide care and comfort to those who need it direly. And after you start doing this – hardly anything else provides the same sense of satisfaction. I tried moving out of EMS and into something less dramatic – but it always draws you back. “He who helps in the saving of others, helps himself” roffle posted:A car accident? Suicide would have been nicer. Car accident is just random. Car accident. Piercings not necessary, he was 18 and she was 13. If the muscles clamp down, they will - and they will prevent anything from leaving the vagina. If it happens to clamp down on a penis, the blood won't leave the penis - and it won't 'wilt'. Leaving him hard and hurting, and her cramped. If I have a priority patient - I'm not going to wait around to go fetus fishing. The cops are medically trained, they're trained for scene cleanup and evidence collection. Therefore, they're better than I at that particular task. Marx fucked around with this message at 03:20 on Feb 4, 2006 |
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:15
|
|
|
Edit: /\/\/\/\/\/\/\ How, exactly, are we supposed to know that he's 18 and she's 13? Also, you don't tell a cop to put a dead body in a plastic bag and throw it away. He'd at least have to call a coroner and perform some sort of autopsy, otherwise it's lawsuit city. "MY BABY WAS ALIVE," etc. On that note, you didn't specify if it was an actual baby or a little embryo. You talk about delivering babies and expect people to assume that this isn't an embryotic fetus. You need to clarify poo poo like this. Other than that, the stories are great. CrazyLittle posted:I think you misread that conversation. Marx == "Matt", who doesn't like kids. Carl was Matt's partner, who WANTS kids, but died in a car accident. Actually I misread it a different way--I thought Carl wanted Matt to get his wife pregnant and Matt refused  Then I looked at Marx's profile and saw a girl, and thought maybe Carl wanted to gently caress her cause his wife couldn't concieve Then I reread everything and saw that no, it was a guy, but "don't gently caress your partners" is pretty misleading so I just assumed there was something sexual involved. The saying has absolutely nothing to do with the story, and when it's combined with "we can deliver my kid" and, more importantly, "I'm not hiding in her cooch and waiting for you," it's easy to get the wrong idea. I've had a confusing evening with this thread
Pees With Boner fucked around with this message at 03:27 on Feb 4, 2006 |
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:22
|
|
|
This is an awesome way to start my friday night.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:24
|
|
|
roffle posted:I could understand this if you said they had piercings, but the way it's written now is just retarded. If the guy can get stuck in there when he's limp, he's not going to get it in there hard. It's a rare, but far from unknown, form of vaginismus. Google it. quote:Post some real ones! I'm sure there are some better ones that you've actually dealt with, without emo soap opera endings And while you're at it, shut the gently caress up with all the :sherlock: "I call shenanigans!" You're making GBS threads up a great thread.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:39
|
|
|
We’re having sex right now If you work for a commercial EMS service, you understand that doing non-emergency medical transports are a big part of the job. Because of this, everyone and their mother tries to get spots with municipal EMS spots, many also apply for paid fire departments. There are three types of transfers: dialysis transfers – where we bring a patient from a skilled nursing facility or home to a dialysis center… Yeehaw, renal roundup! Patient care transfers, where we’re moving a patient to an area where there’s a higher level of care, e.g. SNF to a hospital ER for evaluation. Then – last but certainly the best… There are the psych transfers. Psych transfers are god’s greatest gift to commercial EMS. If you get a magic loony, your day will absolutely blow by. I was working with a new EMT one day when I got to pick up Jeffrey. Jeffrey is a sizable black man, he prefers to be bare chested, and will fight anyone that tries to clothe him. One look at him will scare your average person – the first time I saw him I was terrified at the prospect at spending 45 minutes in the back of the bus with him. But he’s a gentle giant, sort of. Physically he poses no threat – but the things he tells you will bruise your psyche. “Matt, how are you my friend?” “Good Jeff, you?” “I am very fine now, we shall go – I’m having sex with you right now.” “Good time Jeff” “Very Matt, Very!” Since Jeff and I had already been acquainted, the new EMT was going to ride this one in. Throughout the ride, Jeff would explain in detail what type of sexual acts he was doing to this guy… Vivid detail, pornographic detail. Periodically he would attempt to masturbate – nothing new, normal behavior for Jeff and his erotic imaginings. “What the hell do I do” The new guy asked me, frantically. “Tell him that if he doesn’t stop, you’re not going to participate anymore.” “But I’m not participating!” “Just say it, trust me.” Jeff was convinced that these sexual imaginings were caused by ESP. “You send these thoughts to my head” he would always say. He liked these images, but if he was convinced you were going to stop – he would stop whatever he was doing to prevent the change in flow of these images and thoughts. The transport was uneventful for me, though the new guy was sweating bullets. When we got there, we transferred him into the facility – where he informed the APRN that he was having sex with her. “I know Jeff, welcome back.”
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:40
|
|
|
Oh man, finally an uplifting story. Most excellent. But all the stories are loving fantastic. Something about the horrors an EMT sees just draw people to the stories, for some strange reason.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:47
|
|
|
Jikes posted:It's a rare, but far from unknown, form of vaginismus. Google it. quote:And while you're at it, shut the gently caress up with all the :sherlock: "I call shenanigans!" You're making GBS threads up a great thread.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:50
|
|
|
|
| # ? Jun 6, 2024 13:13 |
|
|
Marx posted:
I will confirm that. Even in Germany, where people really like to stick to rules and procedures, all of the guys (and girls) in the emergency service are ever so lightly maladjusted. Also, the amount of stuff that will happen with total disregard to procedures, regulatinos and even laws sometimes is simply staggering when you first come in. This applies to the time you spend waiting for the next call (which is a way to let off stress, really) and especially to emergency situations, where everyone I know had only one guideline after a couple of months: do whatever will help your patient; everything else comes second.
|
|
#
?
Feb 4, 2006 03:55
|
|
