Date:	2009-05-19 21:28
Subject:	Be careful what you wish for
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Kidney Thieves "Before I'm Dead"

So my friend and fellow paramedic Felicia and I are sitting through a 4-hour lecture on Death Investigations, Blunt and Penetrating Trauma Injuries, Forensic Anthropology and Car Crash Injuries. The lecture is given by four prominent doctors and pathologists, and in general is really interesting and impressive.

So anyhoo, the lecture is accompanied by a PowerPoint slideshow of disemboweled, decapitated, massacred or otherwise mutilated bodies, one after another. As I bite into my sandwich, a murder victim flashes onscreen. Her arms and legs have been cut off, her throat's been slit, and she has been set on fire. I glance over at Felicia and am greatly comforted to see that she's digging deep into a bag of chips, apparently as unfazed by the image as I. And, as I look around the room, I see an entire auditorium of EMTs and Paramedics who are also trying to grab a quick bite between topics.

I feel briefly normal, until a few minutes later a mutilated corpse appears on the overhead projector.

The doctor announces that this particular man had been caught up in a tragic accident which claimed a number of victims, and this one (in particular) had been an innocent bystander at the time.

Of course, when she adds that he was found with a suicide note in his pocket, I burst out laughing. Loud. And I can't stop.

No one else is laughing.

I still think it's kind of funny.

Yeeeeeeah.

I have problems.

Date:	2009-04-21 21:33
Subject:	Killer, Part II
Security:	Public
Mood:	accomplished
Music:	Lamb of God "Grace"

I just returned from my first boxing class, where my main inspiration was Captain McJerky's pudgy face. My instructor told me that I am a natural and called me "Killer" for the rest of the class, and this is the second time in my life that I have earned this nickname.

*KA-POW!* biotch!

Date:	2009-04-21 14:13
Subject:	What did the 5 fingers say to the face?
Security:	Public
Mood:	devious
Music:	Tool "Ticks and Leeches"

So a few months ago, my partner and I were driving lights and sirens to the hospital with a STEMI patient. STEMI is short for ST-segment Elevation Myocardial Infarction, better known as a heart attack, and not a little one either.

Anyhoo, while on the expressway, we came upon a car that apparently didn't hear our blaring sirens and horn, so I picked up the P.A. and told the car to move to the left. Again. And again. And AGAIN. AND AGAIN.

By now my partner is yelling up to the front, wanting to know who was in front of me: maybe just a little old man who was hard of hearing, or possibly some flashy car with a pimped-out sound system that effectively shut out any and all noise that wasn't the thumping drum-and-bass of whatever god-awful song was being pumped through zillion-dollar speakers.

No, I told him, just some regular guy who won't move. So we're laughing, baffled, because we can't imagine what kind of genius would deliberately try to slow down an ambulance that is obviously in a big fucking hurry.

And so, I begin a steady chant through the P.A.

Me: The left. Move to the left. Left left left left. Buddy, it's not hard. Just move to the left. Do you have a problem with the concept of the left lane? Please...move...to...the...left. The llllllleeeeffffffftttttt. Leftleftleft.

*pause*

Me: Left.

The car moves to the right.

I sigh. At least he's out of my way.

So we get to the hospital and drop off our patient, and I'm just about to go out to the bus and straighten up when a very plump, frizzy-haired captain approaches me, clearly pissed.

Captain: Were you driving (whatever vehicle number we were in, I forget what it was)?
Me: Yeah. What's up?
Captain: Come with me.

As she leads me outside, I'm wondering what the hell the problem could be. Is the bus dirty and some prankster wrote COCKSUCKER on it or something? Did I leave it running in the bay and the exhaust is killing everyone within a 100-foot radius? Did I leave the keys in the ignition and the window open? Or maybe...

And while I'm still trying to figure it out, this woman turns to me and launches into a screaming tirade, saying that she was in the car in front of me and how dare I call her a retard on the P.A., and what the hell was I doing in the right lane anyway? and I need to speak to your supervisor immediately.

Me: What? What are you talking about? I didn't call you a retard.
Captain: Yes you did, I heard you.
Me: I don't know what you heard, but I didn't call you a retard.

This launched yet another bout of screaming, and as I'm trying to get a word in edgewise, I'm thinking: holy shit, *you're* the idiot who DELIBERATELY impeded the progress of an emergency vehicle? An EMS Captain? Shouldn't you fucking know better?

I finally walk away from her as she starts to scream into a cell phone, probably to some chief she's tight with; to be honest it wouldn't surprise me if she were blowing him to boot. Whatever.

I call my station and let them know what happened, and my Lieutenant is laughing because she knows I'd never do anything like that. When I get back there, one of the far-too-many chiefs we have takes me into an office and yells at me, clearly not interested in the fact that both my partner and my patient can back up my version of the events and not Captain Cuntrag's. He tells me that I'm going to get a CD (Command Discipline) and finishes by stating that the P.A. system is not to be used by anyone, ever. And I'm laughing to myself, because that's the most bullshit story I've ever heard; there's no Operations Guide order stating that we can't use the P.A. if we need to. But he's a chief and I'm just a lowly paramedic, so this is an argument I am simply not going to win today.

Anyhoo, a CD is basically just a piece of paper saying that you did something bad. If you sign it, it either sits around at the station for a year, or if it's something serious they can take pay or vacation time away from you. If you refuse to sign it, the case gets turned over to BITs (Bureau of Investigation and Trials, basically our in-house legal system) and they figure out if the charges are valid and what to do about it if they are.

Now, those of you who know me have probably already figured out that there was NO WAY IN HELL I was going to admit to something that I didn't do, so of course I refused to sign it and this morning I found myself down at the BITs office in Brooklyn. A union representative is there to help me out, and he asks me to tell him what happened. He smiles when I finish, and then asks me the captain's name, as if he already knows.

Me: Captain [blank]

And he bursts out laughing.

Me: You know, I've been getting that exact same reaction every time someone asks me that.

He nods.

Union Rep: So, did you call her a retard?
Me: Of course not! Although at this point, I wish I had, because then at least I would be getting in trouble for something I actually did.
Union Rep: You know, I've known Captain [blank] for many years.

He pauses.

Union Rep: And she *is* a retard.

I laughed.

Me: Yeah, I heard that. I don't know anything about her personally, but apparently she's not very highly-regarded by her peers.

He gave me a "you-can-say-that-again" look and left to get the investigator as I laugh to myself about the whole situation.

I wasn't laughing for long though, because a minute later the investigator comes in and informs me that the captain and chief both recommend that my penalty be four days' pay. And I'm thinking, holy shit, does THAT suck. I mean, I don't make a lot of money, so it's not like I'd be losing thousands of dollars or anything, but still...bummer. Losing even one day's pay sucks.

However, in what I can best describe as a stunning upset, the good people at BITs decide that my case isn't as dire and tragic as the two bosses insist that it is, and let me off the hook with a Warned and Admonished, basically a slap on the wrist for me. And (I'd like to think) a slap in the face for them.

Yay! Let's hear it for the little guy!

*SLAP!*

Date:	2009-04-13 17:18
Subject:	Suffer the little children
Security:	Public
Mood:	depressed
Music:	Tool "Reflection"

In keeping with my last entry, here's another one that somehow never made it from notepad to online:

Original date: 11/15/08

So it's about 6:30 in the morning of what has been a ridiculously busy night, and my partner is finally able to take a bite out of the breakfast he bought two hours ago. All I'm praying for is that we don't get a late job, which pretty much guaranteed that at 6:35, we got a late job.

Fuck.

The text says: 10-YEAR-OLD MALE/ASTHMA/NO INTUBATION HISTORY. I give my partner the thumbs-up. You see, almost every pediatric asthma I've ever had has been a kid with a cold. The reason it comes in as asthma is because the second the kid sneezes or coughs, the parents shove an inhaler in his mouth, then wonder why he doesn't get better. It's hard to believe that people can be so ignorant about their own child's medical condition, but there it is.

So anyhoo, that's great, because there'll be nothing to do and we can just gather up everyone and go. Plus, we won't have to carry anyone. So maybe the late job won't be so late after all.

As we pull up on scene, we see a man holding a child over his shoulder and waving at us. Niiiiice. Now we don't even have to go inside. I turn to my partner.

Me: I got this. Eat your breakfast.

I get out as the father approaches, and he gives me a brief history while I open the patient compartment. As he climbs in, he casually says, "Yeah, he was having problems with his asthma since last night. I was giving him another treatment when he just sort of fell out."

I look quizzically at him. Kids that age generally don't just fall asleep like that.

I guess you can see where this is going.

So the father is still talking as he drops the kid in front of me, and I finally get a look at my patient. And for what seemed like an eternity, I froze.

Because he just dumped a dead fucking kid on my stretcher.

He was shirtless, and his entire chest had that weird, mottled look that kids get when they stop breathing. Adults turn blue, but kids get pale with dark-red splotches. Just like a goddamn Dalmatian.

I open the kid's eyes. Pupils: fixed, dilated. I put my fingers on his carotid and feel nothing. I put my hand gently on his chest, and the tip of my fingers felt a single beat, just below the center of his ribcage. Two seconds later, I felt another. And it was weaker.

The father has been calmly chatting away behind me, completely oblivious to the fact that his child is not only in respiratory arrest, but is less than a minute or two away from being completely dead. I have no idea what the fuck he is saying; his voice has become like the adults in a Peanuts cartoon: Wah wah wuh wah wah wah. Oh yeah, and he's about 30 miles away and in a tunnel.

All of this takes place in about eight seconds. Eight seconds that, in my mind, lasted about half an hour and cut my life expectancy by a good 15 years or so. I snap out of my daze and think: Don't panic the father. Be calm. Be calm.

In a squeaky, high-pitched voice I have never heard before, I call up to the front compartment where my partner is happily eating his breakfast, completely unaware of what's going on.

Me: Uh, Emilio? Could you come back here please?
Emilio (with a mouthful of food and slightly annoyed): What?

That's it. Calm time is over.

Me (shrieking): Emilio get back here NOW!!!

The tone of my voice got him moving but quick. Startled, he drops his food, jumps out and into the back. He looks at the kid on the stretcher and then back at me, clearly shocked.

Me: Bag him. Get me a BLS.

Duh. As if I needed to tell him that.

By the way, as all of this has been happening, Dad has been prattling on as if the boy is complaining of the sniffles and not (most decidedly) circling the drain. Now, you don't have to be a medical professional or a goddamn genius to know that when the ambulance people are squeezing the little bag over your kid's face, that's bad. Maybe even really bad. Any dimwit who has ever seen ER, Third Watch or any TLC 911 show can make the association between that bag and "Shit, meet fan." Except, it seems, for Captain Oblivious here.

Dad: So, is he having an asthma attack?

To myself, I say: Yeah, buddy. And maybe his last. So shut the fuck up so I can think.

Now, pediatric medications are weight-based. So when we administer them, first we have to estimate the kid's weight, then multiply that by the dosage. Oh, and we have to convert their weight to kilograms first, did I mention that? So as I'm tearing open the drug bag, I'm furiously calculating in my head:

Brain: Okay so the kid looks like he weighs about 70 pounds. 70 pounds divided by 2.2 is...31.8 kilograms. The dose is 0.01 mg/kg so...

And then from the back of my brain, a deafening scream:

Brain: HE'S DYING!! JUST GIVE HIM THE FULL FUCKING DOSAGE, ASSHOLE!!

I snap out of it to see that I've drawn up the correct amount, which happened to be the max we can give anyway. I jam the syringe into the kid's arm and push the plunger. And for one second, neither one of us was breathing.

You know that scene in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta plunges that big-ass needle into Uma Thurman's chest and she jumps up and scares the bejeezus out of everybody? Well, that kid popped up, chest-first, head lolled back, eyes open, and gasped hard enough for me to feel the air being sucked away from my face.

He flopped back down. The epinephrine had opened his airway, but he was too exhausted to breathe. Agonal.

My partner starts to bag him just as the BLS shows up, and we're in luck. It's a crew from my old station, and they're good. I don't need to tell them what's up; as soon as they get inside they can see it's scoop and run.

Me: What's the closest hospital?

The EMTs shoot looks at each other, and then at me. The closest hospital, without naming names, is not a hospital we want to take this kid to. Especially if we want him to, ya know, live.

Me: Can you get me to King's County in five minutes?
EMT: I can get you there in FOUR.
Me: Do it.

And so we send the father into the other ambulance and drive off like maniacs, bagging the kid the whole way. By the time we get to the hospital his color had returned to normal, and his heart rate was back up to where it should be. We roll in shouting his info to the ER staff, and they whisk him away into the critical care area.

As I begin the paperwork, the father walks in. Now mind you, you can look through the glass door of the critical care room and see the tube sticking out of his kid's mouth and the gigantic machine attached to the other end of it, not to mention the half-dozen doctors starting IVs and taking EKGs and whatever. And yet, Captain Oblivious is still giving the same story to the triage nurse, calmly, casually and without any indication WHATSOEVER that his child was mere MOMENTS away from death a few minutes ago.

Dad: So how's he doing? Is he having an asthma attack or what?

The triage nurse looks past him at me, eyes widening in disbelief. I shake my head at her in disgust. He was chatting idly with the receptionist when we left.


At the end of the day, I wanted to feel good about that job. Like, hey, I saved that kid's life or whatever. But in reality, I felt pretty shitty about it, and still do. I kept replaying the moment when I looked down at him on my stretcher and remembering how completely fucking BLANK my mind was. And then how my very next reaction *wasn't* I know just what to do! No, it was sheer, blind PANIC. I mean yeah, I ended up doing the right thing and it all worked out in the end, but that whole incident felt completely awful, and served as a brutally painful reminder that while I had indeed been an excellent EMT, I wasn't a very good medic.

I'd like to think that I will be someday, but I'd also like to win the Mega Millions someday.

And at the moment, neither thought seems terribly likely.

Date:	2009-04-10 22:32
Subject:	I see dead people
Security:	Public
Mood:	tired
Music:	Crisis "Nomad"

Now that I'm on LODI (Line Of Duty Injury, a.k.a., Light Duty) I've got an AWESOMELY normal schedule. Which means I can catch up on the 8 zillion things I've been meaning to do for the past year or two or five.

One of those 8 zillion things, boringly enough, is to update my livejournal. So I started going through a lot of old files that I'd written, but never typed up and posted. And this is the first one I came across:

Original date: 5/24/07

So as part of my rotations, I have to spend some time getting acquainted with the special guests of the Medical Examiner, in a place you may know as the Morgue. I was pretty psyched for this particular rotation, because I was fairly certain it would be the only one where the patients wouldn't complain that I was a student ("I don't want no damn STUDENT stickin' me wit needles!") and also wouldn't mind if I examined them a bit more thoroughly, say, by removing their tracheas and sticking my fingers into their valleculas to see how it works when we intubate them.

So anyhoo, I'm at the reception desk, and I'm waiting with some other students from my class. And after a few minutes a very nice young woman with very inappropriate morgue-touring open-toed footwear comes out and tells us that we're in luck; they're very busy today and as a result there will be plenty of autopsies to watch. As she guides us to the back office, giving us a little tour of the place, we come upon a row of computer desks. Two women are seated at them; one is staring intently at her computer screen and the other holds a phone to her ear, motionless, as she stares out of the window.

I lean over to the guy next to me.

"They seem so lifelike!" I whisper loudly.

He looks at me as if I have just touched him with poo.

Yeah. This is gonna be fun.

So we get dressed in isolation suits, which is kind of overkill in my opinion. I mean, I can peek into the next room and see some chick with her hands UP TO HER ELBOWS in an open stomach, and she's just wearing gloves and a little head cover thingy for protection. And I'm pretty damn sure that I will *not* be doing anything approaching that level of excavation today. So I think maybe I'm a little overdressed. But whatever.

Anyhoo, we go in the operating room, and I'm kind of surprised to find that it's almost uncomfortably warm. As if reading my thoughts, our tour guide says, "A common misconception is that it's very cold in the morgue. But as you can see, it's not." I wait for her to elaborate on exactly why you would want to keep dead, rotting meat in a warm room for a few hours, getting progressively stinkier while you slice it open and pull stuff out of it, but she doesn't. She just tells us to ask the doctors lots of questions and enjoy, and then she leaves us among The Dead.

The Dead are five bodies, all in a row on long, metal tables. I quickly name them Fat Lady, Skinny Chick, Ouchy, Go Grandma and Poor Baby. They're naked of course, and for the most part look like they're sleeping. The exception would be Fat Lady, who has already been sliced open and stitched back up. I learn that she had been an organ donor, and so her autopsy had been done before we got there.

So anyway, the way it works is that every table gets a doctor and an assistant. A photographer is moving between the tables, taking pictures of each body and whatever comes out of it. The assistants, I would learn, have no formal training in medicine whatsoever. They basically just applied for the job and then someone showed them how to do it. This is kind of weird to me, because in your everyday job situation, the "it" is usually filing paperwork, or flipping a burger, or using Microsoft Word or whatever. It is most decidedly NOT slicing off the top of someone's skull with a bone saw. The doctors are all young, and I mean like 25-at-most young. (Fer chrissakes, I have T-shirts older than these doctors!) The radio is on, and most of them are singing and dancing along in between splitting chests and dissecting livers.

I move over to Skinny Chick. The doctor has removed her ovaries and uterus, which he has laid out neatly on a nearby table. The photographer comes over, and spends a bit of time with it, apparently trying to get the best angles and shutter settings. She tells me that she is an artist and art photographer by trade, and this is just a gig to earn some extra cash. I secretly wonder what her original art looks like, and realize that it's probably really normal and boring. Only spooky little goth kids would have a job like that all day and then go home and paint pictures of it. And somehow I doubt the Medical Examiner would hire a girl who looks like she gets off on a stiffy, if you catch my drift.

Ouchy is at the next table. He looks party bionic, mainly because his legs have all kinds of external metal traction devices attached to them to try and stabilize the crushed bones underneath, hence the nickname. His report states that he had been hit by a car, but that he didn't die right away, and in fact they're not really sure what happened to make him die. I, however, am pretty sure they're going to find out though, as they're yanking shit out of his middle like it's candy from a piñata. They've got a ladle, and I mean, like, a plain old Bed Bath & Beyond soup ladle, and they're scooping blood out of the guy's belly like it's the punchbowl at Jeffrey Dahmer's birthday party. Yeeeeeah. I bet the folks at BB&B's marketing department never thought of peddling their wares to THAT particular crowd!

Go Grandma is next. I named her that because until her death, it appeared that she was not only still in the game, but probably scoring on top of that. Go Grandma was about 60, but had new boobs, a facelift, tummy tuck and a nice pedicure. So basically, she looked better than me, and I'd wager that she looked less dead to boot. You go, Grandma!

The last table is Poor Baby, and I secretly hope that I miss *that* particular autopsy altogether. I mean, just because I don't like kids doesn't automatically mean that I want to see one sliced open with her insides out. And it didn't help that she looked perfectly healthy and sleeping, either. I look over at the white body bag she had arrived in. In black marker, someone had drawn a little angel on it. For one brief moment, I thought I was going to cry. Luckily, the deafening buzz of a saw at a nearby table snaps me out of it.

I look over at Ouchy. The skin on his head has been sliced around the outside and pulled down over his face, just like you would pull off a sock. And I think, holy shit, when the fuck did THAT happen?! The assistant is standing at the head with the saw, and neatly takes off the whole top in about 10 seconds. So now we're looking at the brain, the seat of consciousness, of personality and emotion...of being, essentially. So naturally I would think that this is something to be handled gently, reverently even.

Nope. He scooped it up, cut whatever was connected to it and plopped it on the table like mashed potatoes on a Thanksgiving plate. Yum!

So after the brain comes out, the face gets pulled back up, the top of the head goes back on, and the whole thing gets stitched up. And as I'm watching Ouchy get his stitches, it occurs to me that he has what just might be the World's Best Haircut. I mean, the guy got hit by a car two or three days ago, with death occurring some time yesterday. He's been sitting in a freezer for about 14 hours, he just had his head sliced off, his face peeled down, and the whole thing put back together. And yet, every strand of his spiky, young-punky-Asian-guy, post-80's frosted-tips 'do is perfectly in place. I kind of wish I could take a picture of his hair and show it to his stylist, although I'm pretty sure that particular offering might be met with screaming and gagging rather than shock and awe.

All the tables are buzzing now, and heads are rolling, so to speak. Mercifully, Poor Baby is untouched, as she has to wait for the resident doctor to finish up Ouchy. (The newest doctor always gets the pediatric patient, simply because it doesn't happen very often and he or she needs the experience.) I make a mental note to mysteriously be gone when Ouchy is finished, no matter what time it is.

Skinny Chick is completely empty now, so I wander over to see what happens next, and it's basically the same deal as Ouchy's. First, the skull goes back on. The skin comes off the face and back on the head, and then gets stitched back up with thread thicker than my little finger. The assistant (not the doctor) does all the stitching, and suffice to say, precision is not a high priority. I mean, this is stitching that Dr. Frankenstein would be proud of. Everything that had been in the body is now out, and gets dumped into a red medical waste bag. The bag goes in the hollow abdominal cavity and then is sewed up with the bag inside. Another student who is also a funeral director tells me that this is pretty standard stuff; if the body comes from the morgue it's the funeral home’s job to toss the red bag out and make the body look like nothing ever happened. Note to self: never rummage through the trash at a funeral home.

So Skinny Chick is all done. Fat Lady had been done before I even showed up. Go Grandma had, while I was checking out Ouchy’s piñata-goo, somehow been cleaned out and stitched up. And Ouchy was getting the last of his stitches put in. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

It was Poor Baby time.

The assistants are all putting the bodies back in their bags. This basically involves dragging them from one table to another and pretty much dumping them like a sack of potatoes. Quickly and unceremoniously, they were zipped up and rolled out.

I turn back to Poor Baby and cringe. Somehow, I just don't want to see them throwing the kid around and dropping her on the table or whatever. Not. At. All.

I look up and notice a detective hovering nearby. He was there, I learned, because the infant’s death was considered at least somewhat suspicious, and the results of the autopsy were obviously going to be integral to his case. His jaw was set with hardened emotion as the doctor prepared her autopsy instruments, and I immediately recognized his expression as one I had worn many, many times myself. People often ask me how I deal with all the shit that I see on this job, and that look is pretty much the answer. I mean, you can’t just burst out crying every time you see a dead baby, even if you want to. So, you check yourself and do your fucking job. And then you go home and drink yourself into a coma. Oh wait, did I say you? I meant *me*.

So anyways, the doctor has finished all of her prep work, and is ready to start. I quickly glance around, panic-stricken, hoping my classmates have already left so that I can just excuse myself and disappear. But there's no such luck. They're chatting with one of the assistants, and seem in no hurry to leave. Great. Fucking great. Fucking PERFECT.

I look back to the doctor, who is approaching the table that Poor Baby is on. I hold my breath, waiting for the grab-drag-and-plop that had been the standard operating procedure for every other body. And to my amazement, it just doesn't happen. In what was one of the rarest things I have ever seen on this job, the doctor very gently scoops up the tiny body, cradling it to her chest. She holds it tenderly for a moment, then places her carefully on the table, adjusting her arms and legs into normal positions. She takes the scalpel in her hand, and then pauses. And pauses. And pauses.

She doesn't want to do it either.

I turn away, sick, and that's when I notice that everyone else is leaving. And I have never been so relieved in my life.

I didn't say goodbye, I didn't say thanks for the learning experience, I didn't say JACK SHIT. I just ran the fuck out of there like the damn building was on fire.

It's been a few hours since I got home, and I can't stop thinking about Poor Baby. I mean, how the hell did that doctor ever manage to slice her open? Scoop out her guts? Dissect her brain and then throw it in a red bag? It freaks me out and makes me nauseous at the same time.

Luckily, there's no problem that a good stiff drink can’t solve.

Except, of course, a drinking problem.

Bummer.

Date:	2009-03-20 11:32
Subject:	Jerks
Security:	Public
Mood:	irate

So I'm home on LODI (Line of Duty Injury) and because we're EMS and not Fire Suppression, we have to stay home between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. This is not a problem for me, as it hurts to walk around anyway, and besides anything I have to do in the outside world can generally be accomplished after 4. If we have to leave for some reason, say, a doctor's appointment or "child care issues" we call the LODI desk and check out.

Now, I'm bunny-sitting this week for my friend jackie. (For those of you who are long-time readers of my livejournal, that would be the bunny I rescued off the mean streets of Flatbush three years ago.) Anyhoo, Bernie the bunny is sick, and needs to go to the vet. So naturally I called the LODI desk to tell them that I was going to the vet, and needed to check out for child-care issues.

And they laughed at me and said that doesn't count.

I'm sorry, but my pets ARE my kids. And it kinda pisses me off that somone else gets to take their little rug-rat to the doctor for some stupid ear infection or whatever without a problem, whereby my rabbit has a LIFE-THREATENING CONDITION (GI Stasis, by the way) and they give me shit for it.

As if I really needed *another* reason to think the Fire Department is a bunch of assholes.

Date:	2009-03-10 13:40
Subject:	One more
Security:	Public
Mood:	chipper
Music:	Benny Goodman "One O'Clock Jump"

I'm also considering this one:

And WHAT?
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/158353.html

Many, many thanks to all who have been chiming in on their favorites. And Brian, I carry so many damn fat chicks down the stairs that I can't quite remember which one you mean. What was the rest of the story about? was it funny or sad? I'll try to look it up.

Date:	2009-03-10 00:43
Subject:	I need your help!
Security:	Public
Mood:	anxious
Music:	The Smiths "Bigmouth Strikes Again"

The good people at LJ have just informed me that my journal has been nominated to be published in their "LJ Turns 10" book, which is pretty cool. Problem is, they want me to suggest 5 entries, and I think I'm so desensitized to my own shit that it's hard for me to see which ones are interesting or funny or whatever.

I tried hard and came up with these seven:

Seventh Floor
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2004/01/21/

Don't Ask
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2004/04/09/

Note to Self
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2005/02/22/

Subject: Wisdom
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2005/09/15/

"Hey, it could be worse. You could have ended up in the refrigerator."
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2005/10/07/

Jamaican Me Crazy
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2006/04/18/

Sisterhood of the Missing Pants
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2008/04/27/

If you would be so kind, can anyone out there pick five from that list, or suggest better ones? I would really appreciate it!

Date:	2009-02-27 00:34
Subject:	Uncle Fukka
Security:	Public
Mood:	enraged
Music:	Lamb of God "In Your Words"

My grandmother is dying.

We had to put her in a nursing home. We tried the 24-hour home aide; but now, she needs more care than even that. My aunt and my mother visit her every day. They have taken care of every detail of my grandmother's life since she became incapable of doing it herself. They have been there, front and center.

I won't go into details about what's going on now, but I wrote this email to my mother's brother tonight. Keep in mind that this is the TONED DOWN version, because I didn't want to upset my Mom & Dad.

The original version was...to put it mildly...NASTIER.

Anyhoo...


Dear Charlie,

To the man who, as his then-patient's husband lay dying in a hospital, was fucking her...

To the man who, after his then-patient's husband died, had the FUCKING BALLS to move into her home and raise her kids to be hopeless, desperate for guidance and LOST before throwing them out...

To the man who, during Chief's last coherent moment on this earth, informed him of his imminent death and then flitted off to a tennis game...

To the man who, when he found his mother semi-conscious and lying in a puddle of her own urine, did NOT call 911...

To the man who, even now, is more concerned about his FUCKING ASSETS than his FUCKING MOTHER...

I would just like to say:

I am ashamed to be related to you.

I am more ashamed to be related to you than my cousin who is in prison for brutally murdering his girlfriend by stabbing her 40-something times.

And if you were diagnosed with cancer tomorrow, I would be as happy as if I had won the Lotto.

I hereby formally disown you as my uncle and godparent. DO NOT send me another birthday card or Christmas card EVER AGAIN. They will be returned, UNOPENED, so please, don't waste a stamp, a tree and my time.

You are hereby free of any familial obligation to me. By all means, live your pointless, useless fucking life. I hope it is long, painful, and overflowing with heartbreak and misery.

And know this:

When you are old, frail and debilitated...

Those two poor kids you TOTALLY FUCKED UP probably won't be there to quibble about putting you in a home. Or (heaven forbid) their motherfucking ASSETS.

THEY'LL PROBABLY JUST BE GLAD YOU'RE DYING.

Because I know I will be.

*Smooches!*


- DonnaMarie SanSevero

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Date:	2008-12-09 22:57
Subject:	Santa Pic 2008
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Lamb of God "Walk With Me In Hell"

It had to be done.

Date:	2008-11-07 16:28
Subject:	Enrique Pizarro
Security:	Public
Mood:	enraged
Music:	Strapping Young Lad "Shitstorm"

That would be the name of the PIECE OF SHIT who murdered Jason, and today, the sonofabitch had the FUCKING BALLS to plead "Not Guilty".

You know how they say "you can tell a lot about a person by the company he keeps"? Well, two of the little punk's friends showed up. And I have no problem with that; you stand by your friend and that's cool. What is absolutely NOT FUCKING COOL is to mouth off to the friends and family of the person YOUR FRIEND MURDERED, trying to goad them into a fight outside of the courtroom. I couldn't fucking believe it; I was actually SHAKING WITH RAGE, and I couldn't say or do a damn thing while I was in uniform (which in retrospect was surely for the best). But seriously, what kind of asshole has friends like that? And let's be real here, that sort of behavior doesn't exactly shed a warm, fuzzy light on Jason's ex-girlfriend either; after all, she had dated the little prick.

I hope that when that fucking DOUCHEBAG gets convicted, they spend the next 25 years ASS-RAPING HIM WITH BROKEN BOTTLES. But first, I hope they shove dirty, shit-and-cum-stained underwear in his mouth to muffle the screams. And then I hope someone videotapes it and posts it on YouTube, so I can upload it to my iPod and laugh my ass off as I watch it over and over and over.

AND OVER.

Date:	2008-11-05 11:00
Subject:	Last night
Security:	Public
Mood:	peaceful
Music:	The Alarm "Marching On"

All night long I drove through throngs of people cheering and shouting in the streets.

Every car was honking its joyousness to the crowd, and the crowd was giving it back. People were dancing in the streets. On top of cars, even.

I sounded the siren, timid at first, then louder and louder as the crowd responded.

People of all ethnic backgrounds pounded on the hood of my ambulance (as it creeped its way through the teeming masses) and cheered at my partner and I.

They photographed us as if *we* were celebrities. And then I realized why.

For one, we were the FDNY. We represented The City, The City that had supported CHANGE (in any form). Two, in uniform, we were Government; we were Official, and we were on *their* (the People's) side. And finally, we were everything the Obama win represented: my partner and I, black and white, working together side-by-side; smiling and joyous, ready to put all petty race issues aside and GET THE FUCK ON with fixing our badly-damaged country.

Just because I wanted Hillary to win doesn't mean that I am not bursting with pride to have voted for the 44th President of these United States.

Now he'd better do a good job or I'll be MAD AS FUCKING HELL.

Date:	2008-10-22 17:48
Subject:	Memories of Jason
Security:	Public
Mood:	depressed
Music:	the missing: "i am stretched on your grave" (cover)

I had spoken to the Chaplain privately earlier in the day. He was asking people to share their memories of Jason; since he didn't know him personally, he wanted to get an idea of the type of person Jason was.

Of course, I regaled him with a half-dozen hilarious and wildly inappropriate on-the-job stories, which you could tell made the poor man desperately wish he'd simply asked someone else.

Anyhoo, at the conclusion of the wake, the Chaplain asked the crowd if anyone would like to share personal stories about Jay. And as expected, very few people volunteered, not for lack of desire, but because most people have a fear of speaking in public.

Yours truly does NOT have this problem.

And (as best as I can remember) this is word-for-word the story I told:

"Jason always knew how to make me feel better. We didn't talk about our feelings or anything like that. We were more like two guys; we knew what was up and we were just sorta there for each other.

Anyway, a while back, I was going through a really rough patch, and I was pretty depressed. And I showed up to work that night hungover. Or still drunk, I forget."

The crowd laughs. My former Captain tries not to smile as he looks down, shakes his head and pretends I hadn't said that. At this point, I look up to see the Chaplain in one of those slow-motion movie moments, waving his arms and shaking his head: 'NnnnnnnooooooOOOOO!'

So of course I wink at him and keep going.

"So we're in the ambulance, and I say to Jason, 'Jay, dude...I think I have a drinking problem.' And he nods and says, 'All right, all right...come on,' and he gets in and drives around for a few minutes until we pull up next to one of our Regulars.

Now, all of you in EMS know your Frequent Fliers: the drunks, the EDPs, the whatever. Well, my man was passed out right in the gutter, with an empty bottle of whiskey next to him, a big pee stain on his pants and he had thrown up all over himself.

And Jason looks at him, looks at me and then quotes my own favorite line back at me:

'Nah, nigga. *You* don't have a drinking problem.

*That guy* has a drinking problem.'


Holy shit, I miss you, dude.

Date:	2008-10-11 10:32
Subject:	The last time we spoke
Security:	Public
Mood:	crushed
Music:	Bjork "Visur Vatnsenda-Rosu"

So last night we got a call to back up a unit in my old area. The text read "StatEp" (short for Status Epilepticus, which is the term for repeated seizures) but after less than 30 seconds on scene it became obvious that our drunken 20-year-old patient was completely and (might I add) quite poorly faking it.

The BLS crew was awesome; they knew the guy was full of shit but they were just covering their asses by calling us. I begged them not to apologize as our patient flopped around and screamed and basically did one of the WORST impressions of a seizure I have ever seen. And I've seen a LOT.

Me: Hon? It's okay, honey, you're not in trouble. We just need to take you to the hospital because you're not feeling well.

Patient: Misty? (Misty, apparently, was the girlfriend.) Is that you?

Me: She's right here, hon. Just relax, we need to take you to the hospital.

And then I gently touched his shoulder.

Well, that motherfucker swung around like MIKE FUCKING TYSON and almost clocked me dead in the face. My partner was on the radio IMMEDIATELY, calling for PD.

And after Our Friend tried that shit with them, he found himself facedown in handcuffs. BUT QUICK.

Fast-forward 10 minutes to the ambulance downstairs, and as the patient is being loaded into the bus, several officers from the 81 come over to me. We haven't seen each other since before I left for Medic School, back when I was working with Jason. They offer their condolences, and although my eyes well up I somehow find it in me to *not* burst out crying in front of them. I still must've looked like shit though, because immediately one of them apologized for bringing it up and asked if I was okay. I think I nodded. I don't remember.

What I do remember was saying, "It's okay. This is the kind of job that Jason and I loved. We would have been having so much fun right about now. It's okay."

And I missed him. Painfully, horribly.

Working with Jason made it *fun* to go to work. We loved the jobs everyone else hated: the drunks, the EDPs, the out-and-out weirdos. The last time I saw him, I was at Wyckoff Hospital, in the ambulance bay. I heard someone on the P.A. quoting George Lopez, the comedian, one of our 800 zillion inside jokes. I was so happy to see him, I jumped out of my bus and ran over to his. I scolded him for not being in Medic School yet. He told me he was taking the next exam. I told him he was a loser for not taking it sooner and to hurry the fuck up so we could work together again. He asked about my boyfriend (nickname: The Cuban DickTator). I quoted our favorite lines from the George Lopez special. He quoted some back. We both laughed. I said I'll see you later. Then he was gone.

That was the last time I ever saw him.

If I'd have known that was the last time he and I would ever speak, I would have thought of something better to say.

This job, without him, is not the same.

And I don't want to do it anymore.

i wrote you this email yesterday:

this is not right

i miss you so much

if i could have taken that knife for you, i would have, i swear

over and over again

and i would have smiled while i did it

knowing you were safe

at your funeral, i watched in amazement as a beautiful hawk appeared out of nowhere and circled overhead

and i wondered

was that you?

i am so sorry

i miss you

i love you

i love you

goodbye

i'm sorry i had to leave your party early

after spending three days at attention, saluting your coffin and showing absolutely ZERO emotion, i just couldn't stand around anymore, pretending that i was fine and that everything was fucking a-okay

because it WASN'T

this shit will NEVER be okay

i needed to go home, and drink, and cry, and break stuff

which i am doing

right now

did you expect any less?

i love you like a brother, dude.

no homo ;P

if i could trade places with you, i would in a minute.

i swear

i love you

i miss you

Date:	2008-09-17 02:19
Subject:	BTW
Security:	Public
Mood:	drunk

for those of you who have been reading my livejournal all these years, jason is the guy who has been my partner for 99.9% of those stories.

i'm too fucked up now to post the link. you'll have to find it.

i gotta go.

Date:	2008-09-17 00:11
Subject:	Jason Ruiz
Security:	Public
Mood:	drunk
Music:	Clint Mansell "The Fountain"

If you Google his name, you'll get lots of videos and stories. Here's one.

last night, my EMT partner of 3+ years was murdered. stabbed to death. he was 30 years old. i haven't been able to even think straight since.

i am stuck here in las vegas, fucked up and buying time on some retarded hotel computer for 800 dollars an hour, trying to book an early flight home.

Jason, i miss you. i am so sorry.

i don't know what else to say.