Faded Blue Line (eBook)

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When I was in the Air Force, I had completed assignments as a Medic and Intelligence Specialist. Upon my honorable discharge, I had honed my craft as a Medic through the military training academy. In the military branches, Medics have a wide range of skills that are allowable in the field. As opposed to the constraints of civilian hospitals and professional emergency service operations. The Medics always operate as if they are in wartime operations. If service personnel were injured during war time operations, or on a peace time training mission, there were no distinctions in the military Emergency Services Unit.

I had taken a job on a commercial ambulance as a technician upon my Honorable Discharge. That job proved to be somewhat of a bust. The big commercial ambulance services are companies that are ‘for profit’ businesses. They low bid city contracts for 9-11 coverage and obtain the emergency response component only to maintain communal relationships and ties to their sponsor hospitals. Their money is not made picking up the indigent and homeless with no health care insurance. 

The immigrant families and destitute population utilize the 911 system as their personal Uber. The sick calls made by the third-floor apartment dweller become the nemesis of the EMS world. The houses with no numbers, the dangers of the city, navigating the logistics of the cluttered back staircase, the disabled cars, language barriers etc., all of this results in EMS crews getting hurt and taking forever on scene. 

The dispatchers and company management utilize Global Positioning Systems (GPS) to track exact locations of crews and their on-scene times. They prod the crews like cattle. Management constantly shuffles the non-paying emergency patients out of their ambulances, so that they can make room for the Medicare transports in and out of facilities. Those government checks come down like rain in the amazon. 

Employees like me (Conner Phoenix) and my crew mates don’t seem to last long when we care too much. It’s a system. One that makes money. The exciting, rewarding, and challenging emergency calls are like a flat tire to the giant corporations and their CEO’s. Their motto when a flat occurs - stop and assess. Mind your safety. Change out the tire quick and get the vehicle moving again… NOW! 

I sat back and stretched out my arms and took a mental break while I typed my two-week notice. Reflecting on a recent call, I looked off into the distance like a combat veteran with a thousand-yard stare. 

It was 0230 hrs in November. It was cold. Myself and my EMS crew mate were trying to finish up an overnight shift. The smell of diesel fumes from the exhaust of the ambulance eminent. We had been at our post for some time now and the knock from the diesel engine groaned as the heat kicked in again. We had spent the day and evening running some of our seniors from one end of God’s creation to the other. A few minor medicals in between. It seemed we were on our way to an uneventful shift, for a change. 

My partner and I were leaning against the posts by our respective seat belt retractors. We both had folded arms in an effort to get one minute of comfort before the next call for service. I whispered over to my partner behind the wheel “hey bud, I’m gonna get ten minutes of rack time. I feel like shit.”

Thankfully this partner on the recent shift bid was more on the normal side of Emergency Services. “Ok Conner, I’ll watch road and the radio. I’m next. I will wake you up in a bit.” 

Just when I was about to fade out. The radio chirped and crackled with that annoying dispatcher voice not far behind. 

“Northwest Communication to City Ambulance 329, come in.” Dammit, always when you are sick and tired. “Unit 329 go-ahead Northwest.” My partner was on point. “Unit 329 take a 9-eleven in the city. Johnny’s Bar. Location: 2122 Main Street. Caller states he was involved in a fight at closing time and sustained a facial laceration and epistaxis. PD on scene and will assist. That’s 2122 Main Street.”

“Copy that Northwest 2122 Main Street for the fight”. My partner responds and then quips in anger “always the loser. Just once I would a winner of a fight to call 911, fucking nosebleed. Take your lumps and go home.” He slammed the shifter down in haste and the ambulance lurched. Several items in the back shelves were heard falling from their perch and the back tire squealed as we exited our nest.

I readjust. Buckle and mutter “I don’t think it works that way bud.” We sit in silence and focus as the red and white strobe lights bounce off of the darkness. The siren blares and echoes off the dark houses in sleepy suburbia. I am sure everyone that is in the path is cursing that dreaded siren that wakes them from a sound sleep. Like people in a war shelter hearing the whale of an air raid, or maybe something less dramatic.

We arrived at Johnny’s Bar and as my partner grabs the gear, I pick up the mic “Unit 329 out”. The night shift cops on scene were looking more pissed than usual. There was some shouting amongst a group of people being shuffled off to their vehicles. Lots of “F” bombs fading in and out of range. The scene was fairly chaotic. I was approached by a young-looking patrolman who was looking on point with his crisp uniform. He was like the rookie cop that I so desperately wanted to be.

The patrolman reported on the situation. “Hey, thanks for coming out so quickly,” he quipped. “These idiots in the bar decided to show off their 2 AM beer muscles right on time. The one we have in the back of the squad car was the loser. He is our complainant and we don’t take complaints from uncooperative drunks. He does, however, have a pretty bad nosebleed and a cut above his eye. Can you guys take a look?” It was as much as a statement as a question. 

The rookie police officer opened the rear passenger door of the cruiser and our patient immediately took it upon himself to explain how wronged he was by everyone this evening. Even the bartender wasn’t excluded. He seemed to be shouting something about how the bartender lied to the police about what had actually happened tonight in order to protect his friend. He was almost crying as he whined his recollection of the incident that led up to his fate. He was swearing and mostly inaudible. At times muttering nonsense. The cop raised both hands as he looked at my partner and I in a gesture of ‘see, he is drunk and uncooperative.’

I can usually connect with angry drunks. I myself have had a few days I would like to forget back in college.

“Hello sir. My Name is Conner Phoenix, I am with the ambulance. The police here asked us to take a look at you. I can see you have some blood coming out of your nose and it looks like you have a nice laceration above your eye. Is it okay if we treat your injuries in the ambulance?” 

I gestured towards the awaiting ambulance with the alley lights illuminating the company logo, almost like an advertisement. He immediately started squawking again. One thing was clear, he didn’t want to be in the back of a police car. My partner opened up the rear doors of the ambulance and despite regulations the drunken victim stepped up and crawled towards the bench. He sat and continued in stride. “They all beat the shit out of me and left! The cops didn’t even care about my statements. They didn’t even stop the guys that assaulted me, and they let them drive away. I told them they were leaving, and I pointed out who they guys were. They just let them go! The cops in this town are all crooked pieces of shit! They are friends with the guys that beat me up!” He looked at me and pleaded “I know you saw them. They were the guys being shoved in their cars and ferried off by the crooked cops!” He was pointing at the cops outside the ambulance rear doors and all over the parking lot.

As he was shouting and whining and carrying on, he was rotating his head as if it was detaching. My partner and I were cleaning up his wounds with a moistened gauze 4x4. We had already placed some butterfly stitches and taped a small dressing above his eye, which stopped the bleeding. My partner and I had a way of cutting band aids while they were still in their packaging resembling makeshift band aid staple. It was at this time my partner looked at me in absolute horror. “What?” I asked. 

He pointed towards his eyes and made a round circle with his pointer finger. He was motioning for me to look at my glasses. I exited the back of the ambulance and looked in the driver’s side mirror with a flashlight illuminating my face like some Stephen King character. I noticed it immediately. My entire face was covered in blood spittle. My glasses covered and face splattered. Lips peppered with blood spatter. 

I knew immediately, whatever I wiped would spread the blood all over. I knew I had to not lick or rub or touch anything. I walked in a circle like a zombie. Totally frozen and trying not to panic. At the same time realizing this was a pretty significant exposure incident. For whatever reason, I had an innate urge to lick my lips, wipe, or touch my face. Protocols need to be enacted and lots of bells need to be rung. First and foremost, what should I wipe my face with? I began to walk around the ambulance and mutter mostly swears. Get some alcohol. Get a Vionex wipe. Dip my head in bleach, Dear Lord. 

My partner knew enough to secure the drunk and have the cops watch him while he tended to his newest patient. He called out as he grabbed...