You were dead, you know!

As the rain fell from the large, white, ominous clouds above, we weaved in and out of traffic. The oily streets created soapy puddles in the intersections as we crossed. The large wiper blades worked overtime, slapping the windshield from left to right. As I floored the accelerator peddle on the stained, carpeted floor, the turbo diesel engine pulled the large box forward. The large disc brakes reined it back into control.

It was a straight shot down the Avenue. Drivers, still confused by the sudden rainstorm, debated with themselves whether to pull over or not. Most, although in a large, congested, traffic jam, isolated themselves from every other driver on the road. Radios played loudly inside some of the sedans. Some drivers chatted on the cell phones propped precariously between their necks and ears, and some, with both hands clasped onto the leather steering wheels, focused straight ahead, hoping to maintain their course in this worsening storm.

The lights of the ambulance deflected off the falling raindrops. A prism of colors reflected off the newly dampened streets. And the siren echoed off the large, glass windows of the downtown buildings.

We approached the scene and I slid the ambulance to a stop in the number one lane of the one-way street. Already tending to the patient was a group of helmeted firemen, deflecting the drops of rain off their large brimmed plastic hats. Their bunker gear beading the raindrops on their lapels like a newly waxed car.

Outstretched on the pavement of the sidewalk, resting flat on her back under a public payphone, was an unconscious female. Like the Wicked Witch of the East, her black boots protruded from the round, reflective huddle of firemen. Her black leggings soaked the rain drops like a sponge, her knee high maroon skirt and velvet top looked straight from a Steely Dan street vendor. She had a hand woven bag interlaced between her arms and sterling silver rings matched her bracelet and necklace. If you were standing next to her in line at the grocery store, as I'm sure many people have before, you would have never thought she was high on heroin. She looked like an aging hippie from the seventies.

As we approached, I saw she was barely breathing. The plastic mask pressed against her face billowed oxygen into her lungs with each forceful squeeze. The bag providing the oxygen, manned by the fireman, whistled each time the large bulb reinflated.

Next to her, in the small stream of water creating its own eroding force down the sidewalk into the gutter, were some broken sunglasses, a saturated cigarette swollen twice its normal size, and some various papers.

We loaded her onto the bed and wheeled her into the back of the ambulance. Rain danced on the square rooftop with the rhythm of a Vaudeville tap dancer. The side door remained closed and at the open back doors firemen stood sopping up the rain from the slow-moving rainstorm.

I moved the handmade Santa-Fe jewelry up her forearm so I could palpate a radial pulse. Her wrist was wet and her hands cold. As I felt around her radius I noticed bruises on her wrists and arms. One, close to where I was searching for a pulse, was grape-purple in color and seemed very fresh.

We restrained her arms and began our work. Both, my partner and myself, began our duties as we talked with one another. I agreed, it had been a long time since I've run a decent call like this.

IV's were started, blood pressures acquired, heart rates counted and blood glucoses registered. As my partner worked his way down his "unconscious / altered mentation" protocol, I rummaged through one of her three handbags.

I unzipped the large, black, faux leather bag and carefully examined its contents. Like a child searching for the right colored M&M, I shuffled papers, compacts, and condoms around the inside. Then, tucked under a pair of worn, soiled, K-mart panties, I found a small black, zippered bag. Without looking inside I knew what I had found.

I pulled it out and sat it on the bench next to me. Like a NBC game show host on a Friday night, I dramatically announced that this could be the million-dollar case. My partner paused drawing blood from the hub of the IV in her neck and smiled.

As if booby-trapped, I unzipped the small black case. Inside was a businessman's card, folded haphazardly upon itself so it could carry her precious recent purchases. Black, chalky residue imbedded itself into the raised font of the unknown businessman's card. It was what was left of the heroin she had just bought from some shady, downtown corner, drug-dealer.

I poked around more. A couple of lighters, a small plastic bottle of clear liquid, the cotton from the filters of cigarettes. And then, hidden at the bottom of this small, black case of paraphernalia, was a loaded syringe of heroin. The small 1cc syringe was, thankfully, capped and tucked into a plastic wrapper. I pulled it out carefully examined it closely. The black heroin floated like the lava in a lava lamp in the clear, unknown liquid. It sat there, its toxins prepared to alter her consciousness, ready to be injected into her blood system.

As I made this discovery she was steadily awakening from her comatose state. The medicine in the peach-colored box had worked its magic and taken away her high. Her pupils dilated, her breathing increased, her color pinkened, and she slowly awoke from the cold clutches of impending death. Her stomach turned, and as she became nauseated, she instantly went into withdrawals.

I leaned in front of her and asked her to pay close attention.

"How much heroin did you do?" I asked.

She, like every other addict in the world, adamantly, and expectedly, denied that she had used any drugs at all.

Again, I asked her the same question. This time producing the capped syringe found in her bag.

"How much heroin did you use?"

"You were dead, you know!" reinforced my partner sitting at the head of the bed.

She fell silent. Shaking and shivering, as she vomited into the yellow basin, she repeatedly denied that she had used.

I opened the back doors and exited the ambulance. The rain had stopped. Sun broke through the dense clouds above and illuminated the wet streets. I closed the back doors, walked to the front of the ambulance, and drove us all to the hospital.

Comments

Anonymous said…
As a paramedic, there are three drugs I love. I'm just smitten with them:
Adenosine
Narcan
D50

How do you beat that? Maybe an effective defibrillation. But so seldom does that produce a tangible increase in LOC that I hesitate to put it in the same category.
I have to agree with the anonymous commentor, I never get tired of seeing these drugs work. Great post.

Regards,
BRM

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