fisherman’s sweater. The room is clean and sparse, with a few framed photos of young children and an old-fashioned vanity set with a silver-backed brush and mirror on a table. The patient is lying next to the bed. She is pale and damp and obviously in extreme pain.
“Hello,” I stammer, “I am Jane with the Georgetown ambulance.”
I have already forgotten her name, although her son gave it to me at the door. I can’t remember if I am supposed to examine her first or fill out the information pad. I call her “Mrs.,” like a cleaning lady might do. “Mrs., tell me what happened,” I say. I already know what happened. Her son told me, she tripped on the bed leg and fell. I am wasting time because I am scared to touch her. She is able to speak and tells me what I already know.
“On a scale of one to ten,” I ask, “how bad is the pain?” We were taught to do this, so I am on the right track.
“Ten,” she answers.
I know that’s a bad sign, but now what do I do?
She is fully dressed. I attempt to see what she has done to herself. “I’m going to take a quick look,” I say, as if I have been doing this all my life. I try to find a place on the carpet that is not covered by the medical junk I have brought in and strewn about.
I do what I was taught not to do: I step over the patient. I step in such a way that my foot kicks her hip. She screams in pain. I am paralyzed with fear that I have now made her injury worse. Perhaps she will sue me, or maybe she will die because I did this. I am sweating like a pig. I throw my jacket to the floor.
“Let me take a look at your hip,” I say. I remember I am supposed to check for deformations, contusions, bones out of alignment. I give the gentlest tug on her polyester pants. “Mrs.,” I say, “I will try to be as gentle as I can be.” (Why would she believe me, as I have already kicked her?)
“My mother has osteoporosis,” the son says. This old lady is brittle end to end. “She has already broken her leg and her arm this year.”
I ease her pants down below her hips. She is wearing a full girdle, and something puffy pouches out at the bottom of it.
“My mother is incontinent,” the son says. I now see she is wearing an adult diaper.
I would have to cut the girdle off to see her hip. So I leave that alone, afraid to make things worse.
“Mrs., I am going to take your blood pressure,” I say. I reach into my jump kit and pull out the cuff and stethoscope. I try and gently pull her sleeve up.
“My mother has had a double mastectomy, both sides,” the son tells me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, remembering that you do not take a blood pressure reading on the side that has had the surgery. What about surgery on both sides?
I lean over her, jostling the bad hip again. I decide that I will have to take a reading somehow so I wrap the cuff around one of her arms and pump to inflate the thing. I look at the gauge and realize I do not have my glasses on and cannot see the numbers. I squint, trying to get a reading. I reach down to take her pulse and I am not wearing a watch. I hold her hand: she squeezes my hand hard. She is in a lot of pain but she is a trouper. I admire and like this lady; I want to apologize to her for having gotten me as an EMT.
I attempt to take a pulse. I find the beating heart echoed in her brittle wrist. I hear the beat but without my watch it is useless. “Never make anything up,” I hear the voice of Frank from the classroom in my head. I want to make up a pulse and a BP number as I hear the siren of the ambulance pulling into the driveway. I am grateful for their arrival and also aghast at what they will think of me. I have been on scene for ten minutes and have done nothing for this woman except kick her in her hip.
Bernice comes into the room. She has her game face on. She is calm and cool and asks in a soothing tone, “What’s the matter?” She starts doing a trauma workup on the patient smoothly as she crouches next
“Hello,” I stammer, “I am Jane with the Georgetown ambulance.”
I have already forgotten her name, although her son gave it to me at the door. I can’t remember if I am supposed to examine her first or fill out the information pad. I call her “Mrs.,” like a cleaning lady might do. “Mrs., tell me what happened,” I say. I already know what happened. Her son told me, she tripped on the bed leg and fell. I am wasting time because I am scared to touch her. She is able to speak and tells me what I already know.
“On a scale of one to ten,” I ask, “how bad is the pain?” We were taught to do this, so I am on the right track.
“Ten,” she answers.
I know that’s a bad sign, but now what do I do?
She is fully dressed. I attempt to see what she has done to herself. “I’m going to take a quick look,” I say, as if I have been doing this all my life. I try to find a place on the carpet that is not covered by the medical junk I have brought in and strewn about.
I do what I was taught not to do: I step over the patient. I step in such a way that my foot kicks her hip. She screams in pain. I am paralyzed with fear that I have now made her injury worse. Perhaps she will sue me, or maybe she will die because I did this. I am sweating like a pig. I throw my jacket to the floor.
“Let me take a look at your hip,” I say. I remember I am supposed to check for deformations, contusions, bones out of alignment. I give the gentlest tug on her polyester pants. “Mrs.,” I say, “I will try to be as gentle as I can be.” (Why would she believe me, as I have already kicked her?)
“My mother has osteoporosis,” the son says. This old lady is brittle end to end. “She has already broken her leg and her arm this year.”
I ease her pants down below her hips. She is wearing a full girdle, and something puffy pouches out at the bottom of it.
“My mother is incontinent,” the son says. I now see she is wearing an adult diaper.
I would have to cut the girdle off to see her hip. So I leave that alone, afraid to make things worse.
“Mrs., I am going to take your blood pressure,” I say. I reach into my jump kit and pull out the cuff and stethoscope. I try and gently pull her sleeve up.
“My mother has had a double mastectomy, both sides,” the son tells me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, remembering that you do not take a blood pressure reading on the side that has had the surgery. What about surgery on both sides?
I lean over her, jostling the bad hip again. I decide that I will have to take a reading somehow so I wrap the cuff around one of her arms and pump to inflate the thing. I look at the gauge and realize I do not have my glasses on and cannot see the numbers. I squint, trying to get a reading. I reach down to take her pulse and I am not wearing a watch. I hold her hand: she squeezes my hand hard. She is in a lot of pain but she is a trouper. I admire and like this lady; I want to apologize to her for having gotten me as an EMT.
I attempt to take a pulse. I find the beating heart echoed in her brittle wrist. I hear the beat but without my watch it is useless. “Never make anything up,” I hear the voice of Frank from the classroom in my head. I want to make up a pulse and a BP number as I hear the siren of the ambulance pulling into the driveway. I am grateful for their arrival and also aghast at what they will think of me. I have been on scene for ten minutes and have done nothing for this woman except kick her in her hip.
Bernice comes into the room. She has her game face on. She is calm and cool and asks in a soothing tone, “What’s the matter?” She starts doing a trauma workup on the patient smoothly as she crouches next
Similar Books
