Stories from the Streets: Frustration
“Rescue and Engine 10, respond to 392 Whitmarsh Street for an emotional female out of control.”
“Rescue 1, responding.”
I replaced the mic to its clip on the dashboard and leaned back in my seat as Brian hit the lights and sirens and changed direction. The air conditioner struggled to keep the cab under eighty, and I fiddled with the vent as we sped toward the scene, windows up, keeping the sounds of the sirens and street noise out.
A few cops lingered outside the address, and the crew from Engine 10 waited by the front door. I walked past them, wondering why there are so few screen doors in the city, where flies are in abundance and come and go as they please.
Esther sat on a chair in a dingy kitchen, angry, sweating, her breathing rapid, arms crossed in front of her, and completely lost in her own thoughts. The adults in the house talked and yelled, and pointed fingers and completely ignored the little girl in the chair, while the police who were called looked on, stone-faced, and the social worker that was assigned to the case filled me in.
“She hasn’t been taking her meds, refuses to listen to her stepmother and locked herself in the bathroom.”
“That’s it?” I asked. He looked at me as if I had forgotten how the game is played and needed to be reminded.
“That’s it. She’s going to Hasbro Children’s Hospital for a psych eval.” He handed her file to me, and Esther was all mine.
She stormed ahead of me, past the row of police cruisers and into the rescue. I followed. Brian assessed her vital signs as we sat in the hot truck, all of us sweating, all of us miserable. We were in this together, it seemed, and might as well make the best of it.
"Nicely done, Esther,” I said, looking out of the window as six cop cars, a fire truck and the social worker cleared out of the busy street. “And it's not even seven o'clock.” I gave her a conspiratorial grin, nonchalantly tossed her file onto a stack of reports, leaned back in my chair and asked her what the heck was the matter with all those people in there.
She looked at me—through me, really—sizing me up the way only somebody who has learned that people are not all that great can do. Thirteen years old, brown eyes so deep they were nearly black, olive skin, dark curly hair and years of pent-up frustration stuffed into a 4-foot-11-inch bundle of nervous energy sat in front of me, and when she realized that I asked what was wrong with the people inside of the house, and not what was wrong with her, she let go of the act and softened, just a little. But she held on to her anger, and her eyes still blazed. Tears waited behind those defiant eyes; tears of anger, sadness and frustration.
"What's wrong?" I asked, gently.
"They don't want me."
We had been called here for an emotional, out of control female. The little girl in my truck was certainly emotional, but far from out of control.
"Why?"
"My mother won't let me come home. I'm staying with my father and stepmother but they have kids and they don't like me. They fight with me. They take my clothes. I hate it here. And I hate it there. I hate it everywhere."
I have felt that frustration. I think everybody who has lived past thirteen years of age has felt it. My life in suburbia was a breeze, yet still I rebelled. Esther lives on a street where crack addicts hustle all day, and the sound of gunfire and sirens has taken the place of bullfrogs and crickets at night.
The tears started. We sat in silence, a few feet apart, but thousands of miles away; two people from far different worlds and generations connected by frustration. She desperately needed to connect with somebody who cared and at least tried to understand, and I was just her ride, the person to bring her to the professionals who would do the psych eval, find out that she’s a 13-year-old girl with 13-year-old problems who happens to live in a horrible place, and then release her back into that place, where the problems will continue and get worse. And there was nothing I could do.
"You can't cry in the rescue, it's a rule."
"Then why are you crying?"
"No I'm not."
What can I say; I have two girls of my own and hate it when they cry. Kids need an adult or two around with half a brain to take care of them. We have been in their shoes, and have the advantage of living through the frustration and confusion that comes with growing up. Everything can’t be a battle; we have to allow them to be angry, and let it out once in a while in a safe, understanding environment. Calling the cops shows our kids that we cannot handle our own affairs, and if we can’t even do that, how in the world can we take care of them?
She shook her head a few times and wiped her face clean.
"I'm good."
"Me too."
I looked at Esther. She gave me a little smile. I gave her one back.
"They have to listen to my side of the story, don't they?" she asked, trusting me, I think.
"I'll make sure of it." I said as the truck backed into the rescue bay.
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.
