Station Life...Part One

For those of you who have always wondered, this blog's for you. Hopefully it's the closest you will ever come to riding with us. I wrote this between calls on April Fool's Day while working out of T-Station (a dedicated EMS station), which was a nice change of pace from my regular "home" base at the hospital. So welcome aboard, this is a glimpse at our life.


The deep sound of the alarm tones roll thru the stationhouse.
Red lights simultaneously flare on up in the wall sconces.

For the barest of moments all movement will cease in the station before everyone is up and moving. The monotone drone of the dispatcher comes over, she announces the units needed, the call type designation, the address and nearest cross street, and any particulars on the call. Then she repeats it all again, second time, same verse.

By this time Steve has turned off the stove, John ejects himself out of the LazyBoy he was parked in, his book and bottle of pop tumble to the floor where they will remain fogotten for a while, and Todd comes in on the run from down the hall where he has been lifting weights in the gym room. Nobody is speaking, but everybody is up and moving.

Coming into the big garage the main garage door is rolling quickly up it's track, having been sent on it's journey the moment the tones sounded. Someone has hit the secondary door's switch and it is following the first door's lead.

The movements are nearly identical. John is the first rig's driver and he heads around the side, yanking a power cord out as he goes, while Steve-O does the same with ours. Todd is riding shotgun with John and slams the rear doors shut, while I catch the rears for ours. The doors are heavy, the sound of them being slammed closed combined with the sound of two big diesel engines starting up bring the noise level to a deafening roar leaving no doubt about what's going on or the fact that a departure is imminent.

Climbing into the passenger side of our rig I pull the seatbelt across myself while reaching for one of the radios mounted on the ceiling of the cab. Just as our rig immerges from the garage I radio in our unit number, that we are enroute from the station, and give the address and cross street we are headed for. Dispatch confirms and repeats back what I have just said. Perhaps it sounds repetitive, but there can be no mistake about our destination, it assures us that we are all on the same page.

When we actually get out onto the avenue I glance at my watch. Fifty-three seconds have elapsed since the tones sounded. It would have been less then that had we not had to wait for the other rig to get clear. During the daytime hours departure response time is expected to be less than a minute. Less than two minutes if called out in the dead of night. They seem to prefer that we respond with clothes and shoes on. Details, details...

As Steve-O settles our rig behind John's we briefly discuss directions, then he cranks up the stereo so that the sound in the back is louder, while still enabling us to talk. Heavy metal rolls out of the speakers, which seems to be the norm for the three men I am working with today, quite different than what I am use to with Chris, the Dynamic Duo and the others. I don't mind, not at all, and when the station out of Denver starts playing George Thorogood's Bad to the Bone I can't help but smile and laugh.

Cutting cross town in the traffic we make good time weaving in and out of traffic on John's trail, and arrive three minutes later at an accident scene right in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in town, effectively bringing traffic to a standstill until things can get sorted out. Cars are backed up everywhere eliciting some grumbling from Steve.

By the time we actually get on-scene four minutes have elapsed since the tones sounded. Each of us climb out and grab med kits from the exterior compartments on the rigs then all four of us scatter to assess while the police try to get traffic moving again. From all appearances it looks like there were four cars competing to get into three traffic lanes and low and behold none of them made it. Kinda like a NASCAR scenario. One car doesn't make it and winds up wiping out the rest of the pack.This seems to happen fairly frequently. Everyone is always in such a hurry anymore life really does seem like one big race.

The vehicle I go to assess is a newer F-150 with a momma and her daughter. Mom is not hurt, bumped and bruised a bit, but says she is okay. The little one is not hurt either but she is screaming like a banshee, not because she has been injured, but because she is scared. Hell all things considered I would be too if I were six years old, just riding along with Mom and suddenly out of nowhere had an airbag explode in my face. Woulda scared the shit out of me too.

While I check out little "Nadine" and quietly talk to her, trying to calm her down, Steve-O comes up behind me. He had heard the shrieking and reached into one of the rigs and grabbed a Trauma Bear. Trauma Bears are little stuffed bears that we keep on board for times just like these. They are great, many times once we hand them out a child's attention is drawn away from what's going on around them and they begin to calm down. The reaction is amazing really. I know that on longer transports I have overheard Chris using the bears to tell stories with. He, Todd, and Heather are pretty good at cartoon voices, and I have heard them time and again doing little impromptu "Trauma Bear Shows" in the back.

Steve gains Nadine's attention by making the bear do a dance on my shoulder as I lean over her. This makes her laugh, which makes the bear's dance even more animated. When I turn and glance up at Steve he pretends that I've scared the bear and drops it out of sight behind my back. Nadine is really laughing now, and Mom looks relieved.

Steve nudges me with his knee and tilts his head over toward John. When I look over I can see and hear why...