Stories From the Streets: Familiar Place
Two years ago, at midnight, I entered a house on a busy street in one of the roughest neighborhoods in Providence. Inside was a wonderful couple, him sick with congestive heart failure and other ailments, her taking care of him. He was a big man, nearing the end of his time. He was lying in a bed in a room at the rear of the 100-year-old place, confused, combative and soaked with sweat. Evidence of the life they shared was everywhere—pictures of family covering the walls, dishes drying in the sink, half a loaf of bread on the counter, a half-folded basket of laundry off to the side.
Combative ailing people don’t bother me much. There generally isn’t much venom behind their anger; most often it’s the result of an underlying medical cause. “Harvey” refused to let us take care of him, refused to leave his bed and had refused to eat or drink for a few days prior to his desperate wife calling us.
“He won’t even eat the bread,” she said, exasperated. Women, especially wives, usually have the power to make their mates bend to their wishes. This time she met a stiff wall of resistance. “He’s a longshoreman,” she explained. “Stubborn as a mule and dumb as a post.” She stood there looking at him, arms crossed, in the home they had shared for decades, where they’d raised a family and lived their lives together, the sparkle in her eye still alive. He looked back. A light went on in his fevered mind, and some clarity snuck in, and he simply said, “You win. I’ll go.”
My partner had the stair chair ready, but Harvey adamantly refused to be carried from his home. Somehow he found the strength to walk the 50 steps to his front door, then allowed us to help him down the steps, then up the steps into the rescue. I questioned my decision to let him walk—it went against everything I believed in. Having people who shouldn’t walk walk out of their homes to the rescue is simply bad form. Unless the sick person is Harvey, and he had a premonition, and nothing I said or did could stop him.
I think I made the right decision. We took the couple to the hospital, she chatting all the way, him holding her hand and smiling when she mentioned something good. We dropped them off at the ER. His condition warranted a critical care room, as we suspected. His temperature was 103ºF, blood pressure 210/124, oxygen saturation in the low 90s, and respirations shallow and rapid. Our IV, the nitro and the Lasix we passed through the line, along with the albuterol treatment administered en route, helped a little but not enough.
Other patients waited. We said our good-byes, handed care off to the emergency room team and went back into the city for more.
A few hours later I returned to the ER with somebody else but took the time to visit Harvey and his wife. He was lucid now; she smiled as I shook his hand and deflected the genuine thanks he offered, saying the usual “It’s my job” things. I don’t remember now what caused his confusion; I do remember them telling me his blood work was way out of whack, and the IV fluids from us and whatever else they gave him at the hospital worked wonders. He was funny and kind and appreciative. So was she. I was happy to have helped them. It was a “good” call.
I saw his picture on the obituary page two days later. He died that night. At least he walked under his own power out of the place where he raised his family and into whatever awaited.
“Rescue 5, respond to 898 Finnegan Street for a cancer patient with difficulty breathing.”
“Rescue 5, responding.”
Sometimes I think there isn’t a house in Providence I haven’t been to. Some I’ve been to more than once. We entered the familiar place and found our patient. We helped her into our stair chair and carried her out and into the rescue. Her daughter came with us.
“Was your dad a longshoreman?” I asked the 40-ish lady who now occupied the same bench seat her mother did two years ago. Now her mother lay in her father’s place on the stretcher, battling lung cancer, bald, skinny, feverish and sick from radiation.
“He was,” she replied, curious.
“I knew it was you as soon as you walked in,” said the little lady on the stretcher, smiling. “You are a good man.”
“So was your husband. He made me laugh. I’m sorry he died.”
“You came to his wake.”
“I did.”
The funeral home is in Rescue 5′s district. Something possessed me to pay my respects. A large crowd of people attended. One hundred black people and one big white guy. I went through the line, the woman now dying on my stretcher taking the time to introduce me to nearly everybody there, even the funeral director. They treated me like royalty. Must have been the uniform. I’m glad I went.
Brian started an IV, took her temperature and got some vital signs. “The IV fluids will help the rapid heart rate,” I explained to the daughter as her mom rested.
We rode peacefully through the tired neighborhood toward the hospital. This was the final call for Brian and me of a particularly brutal 38-hour shift. In a city full of characters reside people who possess more character than many could imagine, and live quiet, productive, satisfying lives in little houses in rough neighborhoods.
When we had been dispatched at 0612, the sun had just broken the horizon. Now I sat in the captain’s chair and felt the familiar roadway under our tires and closed my eyes. The sun shone through the dingy rear windows, and I rested, knowing that the woman and her daughter found comfort in my presence, and I in theirs.
Michael Morse, EMT-C, is captain of Rescue 5 in Providence, RI, and has served on the city’s busiest engine, ladder and rescue squads as a firefighter, rescue technician and lieutenant during his 21-year career. He is the author of the books Rescuing Providence and Responding.
