Rescue One Responding: Chapter 1 1707 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse

Rescue One Responding: Chapter 1 1707 Hours, a Book by Michael Morse

I always thought that a day in the life of a Providence Firefighter assigned to the EMS division would make a great book. One day I decided to take notes. I used one of those little yellow Post it note pads and scribbled away for four days. The books Rescuing Providence and Rescue 1 Responding are the result of those early nearly indecipherable thoughts.

I’m glad I took the time to document what happens during a typical tour on an advanced life support rig in Rhode Island’s capitol city. Looking back, I can hardly believe I lived it. But I did, and now you can too. Many thanks to GoLocalProv.com for publishing the chapters of my books on a weekly basis from now until they are through. I hope that people come away from the experience with a better understanding of what their first responders do, who they are and how we do our best to hold it all together,

Enjoy the ride, and stay safe!

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Captain Michael Morse (ret.)

Providence Fire Department

The book is available at local bookstores and can be found HERE.

Note from the author

It is unfortunate, but with diversity comes problems. I once thought that prejudice was reserved for white people. Working in a city with as diverse a population as Providence was a real eye-opener. I once had the luxury of thinking that the world was a fair place, people were judged on their merit and that centuries of repression and hatred were things of the past.

“Prejudice is alive and well in Providence, and they don’t need white people to keep it rolling.”

One thing I learned; when people from different backgrounds are placed in the same environment, eventually things sort themselves out. It’s the process that keeps us apart. By the time we realize we are more alike than different too many walls have been built, lines crossed and sentiments misunderstood.

I witnessed established black people discriminating against new black immigrants. I saw Dominicans lash out at Puerto Ricans, and vice-versa, for no reason other than they were different. Korean people shied away from Vietnamese who did not associate with the Chinese.

Some days I would wonder how we have come as far as we have. Other days I would simply accept the fact that people are people, and prejudice is simply a disease of the human spirit.

 

Chapter 1

1707 hrs. (5:07 p.m.)  

Friday Night.

 

 I take the portable from Tim and get ready for a long shift.  I know that I’ll be working overtime tomorrow, which means thirty-eight hours straight.  The radio comes alive.

 “Rescue 1, Respond to 1044 Broad Street, nature unknown.”

“Rescue 1, responding.”

“Do you think it’s Junior?”  Mike asks, as we wheel out of the station and into the South Providence neighborhood.

“Maybe. Might be Darryl.”

“Might be somebody having a heart attack."

 “You never know.”

Junior and Darryl are two of our regular customers who haunt the 1000 block of Broad Street.  A lot of homeless people linger in a field at 1035 Broad Street.  It is a convenient location; a liquor store is on one corner, a convenience store on the other and a pay phone across the street.  A typical day for these folks consists of panhandling money from the convenience store customers, buying a half pint of cheap vodka at the liquor store, drinking it, then stumbling across the street to the pay phone and calling 911 for a ride to the emergency room because they are intoxicated.  It drives me crazy that they get away with it, but it works for guys like Darryl and Junior.  These guys are survivors, whatever works.

The usual suspects are lined up on a bench next to the liquor store.  Five or six people have gathered there, Junior and Darryl among them.  Mike stops the rescue, I lower the window and ask, “who’s going?”

“We’re all set,” says somebody from the crowd.  

“Over there,” says Junior, pointing across the street.

A man in his forties stands outside a storefront clutching his chest, another man helping him stand.  We open the back doors of the rescue, grab the stretcher and cross the busy street, dodging cars along the way.

“What’s going on?” Mike asks the men.

“His chest hurts,” answers the one who is helping the patient stand.  We lay him on our stretcher and cross back to the rescue.  Junior stumbles to his feet and opens the rear door of the rescue for us.

“Thanks, Junior,” I say to him as we lift the stretcher.

“You’re my boy, right,” he says, extending his hand to shake. I take the offering then pat him on the back and step inside.

“I’m you’re boy, Junior,” I say and close the doors.

 Our patient is around my age, healthy looking and in obvious pain.  He clutches his chest and looks around the rescue, frantic, while we get to work.

 “What happened,” I ask him.  He doesn’t answer.

“He doesn’t speak English,” says his friend.

“Do you know what happened?” I ask the other guy.

 “We were working in the store,” he says, pointing across the street at an empty storefront.  “Ramon was sitting on the floor doing paperwork.  Suddenly he grabbed his chest and said he couldn’t breathe.”

“What was he doing right before this happened?”  I ask as Mike gets the leads ready.  I’m filling the reservoir of a non-rebreather, getting ready to put the mask over the patient's face.  Supplemental oxygen is basic protocol but incredibly helpful to a person having a heart attack.

 “We are getting ready to open a barber shop.  Just moving boxes and things.”

I spent months in EMT cardiac school learning how to analyze different rhythms and their underlying cause.  We practiced identifying and interpreting everything from a normal sinus rhythm, premature atrial contractions, paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia, atrial fibrillation, junctional rhythms, PVC’s, V-tack, asystole and many more.  Mike has finished connecting the leads, runs a strip and hands it to me.  I look it over, analyze the p-wave, QRS complex and elevated t-waves and give my diagnosis to Mike.

 “He’s fucked.”

I’ve narrowed all of the rhythms I learned in school down to two.  Fucked and Not Fucked.  This guy is fucked.  ST elevations mean a myocardial infarction, or death of the heart muscle.  Every second we spend on the street means loss of that heart muscle.  “Get an IV and go,” I say to Mike who has already started looking for a vein.  I give the patient four baby aspirin to chew or swallow, then a nitroglycerine tablet to place under his tongue. Oxygen, EKG, Aspirin, IV, Nitro and Go is the best course of action here; we finish our tasks and are moving in less than five minutes.

 Rhode Island Hospital is only two and a half miles away.  I pick up the phone and let them know we’re coming in.

 “Rhode Island ER,” answers Gary from the triage desk.

“Providence Rescue 1, forty year old male, possible heart, elevated ST’s, pulsox 88 on room air, 180/110, IV established, 10 liters 02 by mask, aspirin and nitro on board, ETA two minutes."

“See you in two.”

I get the patient's information from his friend and business partner during the short trip to the ER.  Both are recent immigrants who plan to open a barbershop on Broad Street.  My patient is holding on, the nitro and oxygen helping immediately.  Mike backs into the rescue bay and opens the rear doors and we wheel him in.

Gary waits at the door and leads us to one of the trauma rooms.  A medical team is in place, another IV started, a 12-lead EKG run and meds administered through our IV line.  Gary signs my report and we back out of the room, letting the best medical team anywhere take over his care.  Ramon’s friend waits outside the trauma room. He stops us, shakes our hands and gives us a very sincere thank you.

Before we leave the ER, Ramon is transported to the cath lab.  There, blood flow to his heart will be restored using the most advanced medical technology and procedures to be found anywhere in the world.  I stop and look around the ER, take note of the dozens of people seeking medical care and the people there to give it to them.  It looks like and sometimes is absolute chaos, but shining through all of that is the ingredient that makes me come back day after day, week after week and year after year. The people I work with make this the greatest job in the world.  The firefighters, EMT’s, housekeepers, nurses, technicians, secretaries, security and doctors all make me proud to be a part of this.  Even Junior has a part.

“Still want to go to Engine 15?”  I ask Mike as he puts the truck back together and I finish my report.  We’ve spent the last three years working together, Mike and I.  He’s ten years younger, full of wit and sarcasm and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy.  I see more of him than I do my family.  During our previous shift, Mike told me he plans on transferring from Rescue 1 to Engine 15.  Life on the rescue beats you down if you let it, Mike has had enough.  I have no idea how I manage - necessity, I guess.

“If all the calls were like this I might change my mind,” he says as he hangs an IV set-up in its place over the stretcher.  “That guy was having a heart attack!”

“He still is but it looks like he’ll be all right.”

We finish our tasks and get ready for more.  I take the mic out of its cradle, hold it in my hand for a moment, and then press the key.  

“Rescue 1 in Service.”

Michael Morse lives in Warwick, RI with his wife, Cheryl, two Maine Coon cats, Lunabelle and Victoria Mae and Mr. Wilson, their dog. Daughters Danielle and Brittany and their families live nearby. Michael spent twenty-three years working in Providence, (RI) as a firefighter/EMT before retiring in 2013 as Captain, Rescue Co. 5. His books, Rescuing Providence, Rescue 1 Responding, Mr. Wilson Makes it Home and his latest, City Life offer a poignant glimpse into one person’s journey through life, work and hope for the future. Morse was awarded the prestigious Macoll-Johnson Fellowship from The Rhode Island Foundation.