My First

They say you never forget your first.

Mine was a few years older than I. Eight years, to be exact. She had an elegance you just don't see these days, and she had gorgeous curves. She taught me a lot.

It took a while to learn all of her quirks. She could be cold and moody in the morning, but once warmed up she would just purr wonderfully. If you pushed her too hard, she would refuse to play. But if you treated her right, she'd take great care of you. I wasn't her first, or even her only, but I didn't care. She was incredibly rewarding in a way I've never found since.

And she left when I was 22. I've never seen her again, and I don't even know where she is now.

She was a 1963 International/Howe fire engine. (Get your mind out of the gutter!)

Coffee

It's a beautiful, sunny fall morning as RP and I roll into the local franchise of Large National Coffee and Doughnut Emporium. The police may have their cliches about doughnut shops, but we all know that paramedics really run on caffeine. The first stop every morning is LNCDE, or sometimes Expensive Yuppie Coffe Place up the street.

We both take our caffeine cold: coffee for RP and tea for me. (And don't wreck it with sugar. But I digress. . .)

“Boy, am I glad to see you guys,” says the gentleman behind the counter. Wait, that's supposed to be my line!

“I've been having this pain in my chest all morning.” It looks like today is going to start early. I spin on my heel and head back to the rig for the equipment, as RP talks him out from behind the counter.

Our coffee man doesn't look extremely sick, but he tells the textbook story of a heart attack. He's been having crushing pain, radiating to one arm. He has risk factors; he's getting along in years, slightly overweight, a former smoker, and male. He even has the denial, saying his pain has been going on for about an hour.

And he only decided to ask for help when he saw us walk in.

Our cardiac monitor won't detect all heart attacks in the field, but today we have no question. Coffee Man meets all of our diagnostic criteria. This is what we are trained and equipped for: the rapid diagnosis, treatment, and transportation of cardiac problems. A quick ride to Local Suburban Hospital is in order, along with a radio pre-alert for the cardiac catheterization lab.

We stop only briefly in the ER. The doctor glances at our EKG, nods, and waves us on our way. Definitive treatment for our patient is upstairs in the cath lab, and time is of the essence.

Upstairs, the cardiology team begins work on Coffee Man before our wheels have stopped turning. RP gives a report to the doctor while the nurses and I transfer our patient to the procedure table. On the ride up the elevator, we've already warned him that the suite will be a whirlwind of activity and tried to explain what will happen and why.

Our empty stretcher is shoved back out into the hallway, and we are ushered into a corner of the control room. It's not meant to be rude. On an emergency scene when a life is on the line, we may be seen as brusque in dealing with bystanders. Here in the cath lab, our job is done, and now we are the bystanders.

From our small corner of the control room, we can see the TV monitors. The cardiology team finds the source of our patient's heart attack and fixes it, before we can finish writing our report.


And all before we've had our morning coffee.

Surreality

It's been raining all day. It's December, and we were supposed to have a snow storm, but the Eastern Front has gotten only rain and wind. Horizontal rain, but still rain. I hear it's been snowing out in West, but here at Medic 9 it's just cold and wet.

Just after dusk, the rain stops briefly and the temperature rises. We clear Local Suburban Hospital in shirt sleeves and return to our district through a light fog. Seemingly all at once the street lights awake. The wet pavement reflects their sodium orange light into vectors which point the way home.

RP finds an unmarked CD someone left in the console and pops it into the player. We are treated to the mellow sounds of Pink Floyd's Division Bell.

The night erupts in blue-white as lightning silhouettes the city, and we head east into surreality.

W6

The phone rang as we walked into the kitchen. “Isn't it awful what happenned to those poor Worcester firemen?” my wife's grandmother asked.

We had been away all weekend, and in the days before smartphones, Facebook, and Twitter, we hadn't heard. The TV was no use on a Sunday evening, so we were sent running to the internet connection. Firehouse.com and NECN were telling a story almost too horrific to believe.

At 18:13 hours on Friday, December 3, 1999, Worcester Fire Alarm struck box 1438 for the Worcester Cold Storage building at 266 Franklin Street. Before the night was over, six firefighters would perish inside the hulking, windowless six-story maze of a building. Two would lose their way while searching for possible occupants; four more would die attempting to rescue them. And a district chief would be forced to stand in a doorway, face his men, and tell them, “No more.”

There is a famous photo of that night, showing fire towering into the sky in the shape of a silhouetted firefighter.

Memories of the week come in snippets for me. We checked the internet regularly; news seemed to break minute by minute, all of it grim. It took eight days to recover all six bodies.

The memorial service was held six days after the fire. They say 30,000 of us attended. President Clinton and Senator Kennedy gave speeches. I don't remember a word of what the President said. Senator Kennedy gave a moving address featuring the poem, “Brother, when you weep for me. . .”

It seemed like the whole city turned out in mourning. People lined the entire route of the procession. We marched about a mile from the assembly point to the Worcester Centrum (now DCU Center) for the service. The city remained silent except for one lone church bell, tolling over and over as we walked.

Firemen don't march in lock-step like an army. Thousands of feet in patent-leather shoes walked independently, creating a rippling wave of sound as we crossed the city. Silence, church bells, and thousands of footfalls. Nothing else.

One visual image remains strong: the power company linemen. They had lined up their trucks in a vacant lot, booms extended. They stood at attention in front of them, holding their hardhats over their hearts as we passed.

Our group was among the last to enter the arena; we were literally in the furthest back row. Bagpipes played; a choir sang 'Amazing Grace.' I don't remember a lot of the details, only the raw emotions.

After the ceremony, many went down to visit the fire site. It was within walking distance of the arena, and recovery efforts were still ongoing. Our group stayed away, letting the recovery go on in peace.

District Chief McNamee has retired in the intervening years. The city has built a fire station on the site, and later today they will dedicate a memorial there. We all still carry the 'W6' decals on our helmets and the memories in our hearts.

So remember, as you wipe your tears,
The joy I knew throughout the years,
As I did the job I loved to do,
I pray that thought will see you through.

Rest in peace, gentlemen.

FF Paul Brotherton, Rescue 1
FF Jeremiah Lucey, Rescue 1
Lt Thomas Spencer, Ladder 2
Lt Timothy Jackson, Ladder 2
FF James Lyons, Engine 3
FF Joseph McGuirk, Engine 3

Post #100

Last night I was happy to notice that I'd achieved 99 posts here at Notes. I made big plans for #100; I'd have a success story; something happy; and given the date, something for which to be thankful.

Then my day took a left turn. Straight into the Jersey barriers.

Chang came to us in May of 2008 as a foster cat. She and her brother Smokey had lived together in one home for 12 years before being surrendered to the shelter. Their owner gave them up because she was afraid her elderly mother would trip over them.

I can't imagine owning an animal for 12 years then giving it up, but her loss was our gain.

Chang's prognosis was poor when she came to us. She was in renal failure and weighed less than 4 pounds. She was listed as a hospice case and was only expected to live a few weeks. We nursed her back to health with chicken fingers and yogurt, and she won our hearts.

Smokey didn't get along well with our cats. He went back to the shelter shortly and found a great placement with an elderly couple. Last we heard he was doing well.

Chang, meanwhile, continued to gain weight. She topped six pounds, and got along well with our other cats. Her kidney failure retreated. We decided to adopt and make an honest cat out of her.

I've written about the impact of our animals on our lives before. Chang became a cuddly lap cat, riding around the house on my shoulders whenever possible. We began to discover a lot of Shelby's traits in her. We'd never known how many of Shel's quirks were really Siamese traits.

In short, we discovered that we were Siamese people and that we'd met an exceptional Siamese.

There's no point in detailing everything; she became a beloved part of our colony.

Less than a month ago, the renal failure returned with a vengeance. She began to lose weight again, and the vet found her lab values off the charts. She spent a few days inpatient at the clinic, then came home again to share whatever time we had left.

The first night home was awful. She had two seizures, and we feared she might not survive until morning. But Siamese are stubborn.

Chang rallied, and our lives became a roller-coaster. We had ups and downs, good days and bad. We administered medications and fluids. We didn't know how long this could continue, but we were determined to keep on as long as she had a good quality of life. If she wasn't giving up, neither would we.

Five days ago she stopped eating, even her favorite people foods. She lost almost half of her weight, but she was still feisty with a wonderful spark in her eyes.

Until this morning.

She could barely lift her head, and the spark was visibly fading. It was time.

We held her and comforted her at the vet's office. She purred one last time for my wife, something she hadn't done in days. We stayed with her, petting and comforting, until the end.

Chang's soul broke its earthly bonds at 12:34 this afternoon, peacefully and painlessly. I know she's not suffering anymore, but she left a huge hole in our hearts.

It's not the post I'd planned, but I am thankful for the time we shared. Thanks for reading.

I'll live this life until this life won't let me live here anymore,

Then I will walk, yes I will walk with patience through that open door.

I have no fear, angels follow me wherever I may go.

I'll live this life until this life won't let me live here anymore.

Rest in peace, little Meezer.

The Car Wash, or three steps to fix the economy

Over the years I've developed three principles in dealing with vendors. Call them Mack505's Rules of Business, if you will.

1. Arrive/be open when you promise.

2. Do what you promise.

3. Get it right the first time.

It's that simple: WHEN, WHAT, RIGHT. Vendors who meet the requirements get repeat business and good reviews; vendors who don't seldom receive a second chance.

Tomorrow is the biggest travel day of the year. Along with hundreds of thousands of other Americans, I will be hitting the road. This afternoon, I decided it might be nice to do so in a clean car. The exterior doesn't matter much, but having the interior vacuumed and the windows washed would be nice.

It was too late for a full detail appointment, so I headed off to my local Simoniz Car Wash in Reading, MA. I had $30 in hand for a quick cleaning, and I'm a sucker for the upsell. I don't often walk out for less than $60, but my car looks and smells nice.

The lights were on, the big neon 'OPEN' sign was lit, and the tunnel wash was running. Large billboards offered over a dozen cleaning and detailing packages, but the attendant advised me, "Exterior only today. You could come back tomorrow."

Yes, I could. But I won't. You violated Rule #2.

I had a few other errands to run, so I decided to try the Simoniz in Malden. (BTW, there is a dearth of full-service car washes in my area. There are plenty of automatics, and plenty of detailing shops, but very few who can wash and clean on a moment's notice.)

I had a similar response in Malden, with the exception that they didn't even speak to me. I was waved away from the full-service lane by the attendant. Exterior only. Rule #2 again.

Folks, I'm making a long drive in the Northeast in November. The outside of my truck is and will remain dirty. It's the inside I care about.

Simoniz, let me repeat myself: I showed up today with cash in hand looking for a service which you advertise. You probably could've sold me a more expensive service. Instead you turned me away.

Twice.

I won't be back.

Ever.

After wasting two hours, I did what I should've done initially. I vacuumed it myself. I will also visit the Delta Sonic while I'm in Buffalo. Guys, there's a business opportunity in metro Boston.

------

I debated whether to name names in this post, but what good is a review, positive or negative, if you don't know who I'm reviewing? Simoniz, I hope you read this.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Notes.

Photo licensed under Creative Commons, and not associated with either of the mentioned businesses. But it sure is cool.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tonyjcase/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Um, yeah

The house sits on a corner along one of our main response routes, yet I've never noticed it before. The area is mostly commercial; a used car lot borders on one side, a street on the other. A brick warehouse, dark and sulking, sits across the way.

The call is for an unknown medical, so the cavalry is coming. We will be joined shortly by a police officer, a fire engine, and our shift commander. We've arrived first, and the house is dark and quiet; no one has seen fit to meet us or even turn on the porch light. RP and I gather our gear and begin to circle the building. We find three doors, all locked.

Back out front, a young man materializes from the warm night and approaches the firefighters. His eyes are heavy, his speech is slow, and a certain odor surrounds his clothes.

“I, uh, smoked a little tonight,” he says.

Uh-huh. We can see that. “Did you call 911?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answers heavily. I can see we're going to have to lead this particular horse to the water. We ask the inevitable question: “Why?”

“I, uh, smoked a little tonight.” Yes, we got that part. “And?”

“And now I feel funny.”

The world stops. A car drifts quietly past in the darkness. For a brief second, eight trained emergency professionals are speechless.

Shift Commander breaks the silence. “So your *f--king* high?!” he blurts.

“Uh, yeah, I guess, maybe, kinda. . .”

“I'm done,” SC says to us, shaking his head and chuckling to himself as he walks away. We continue on with our patient, “So what would you like us to do about it?”

A long pause. “Ummmmm, hospital??” He draws the word over three seconds, ending with a large audible question mark.

Sure, why not. The night shift triage nurse at Local Suburban Hospital will get a laugh out of this.