By Eugenia Klopsis
The New York Sun
Copyright 2007 The New York Sun, One SL, LLC
All Rights Reserved
Editor’s note: Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.
On the first really warm day of spring, we’re parked with the windows rolled down and our feet up on the dashboard when the call comes in to back up medics on a cardiac arrest in a house at Coney Island. Additional information on the computer screen indicates it’s a possible overdose.
“A 31-year-old male,” I read aloud, scrolling down the screen. “Oh, joy.”
On the way, we catch a few glimpses of the deserted boardwalk. Its boards are buffed to a gray sheen from the long winter. Only a few old ladies are sitting on benches by the aquarium. Although it’s warm, it looks cold.
The house, a flimsy wooden thing that looks as if the next big gust of wind could blow it down, is down a side street. Nearby, some of the flea market stalls that line Surf Avenue are open for business. The carousel looks about as wholesome as a drug deal. I sigh. “I can’t wait for Coney Island to be rebuilt,” I tell Bronson.
A heavy Russian man answers our knock and leads us to a small bathroom, where we find his son face up on the chipped tile. His eyes are half-closed, and his mouth is slack.
The man tells us he found his son like this five minutes ago and called 911. “He just got out of rehab a week ago,” he says.
“What for?” Bronson asks, checking the patient’s pulse.
“Heroin,” the father says.
His pulse is actually quite strong and fast. As I start to take his blood pressure, he springs up and in a profanity-laden tirade asks what we’re doing.
Bronson steps back and 10-20s the medics - radio talk for “slow down, we probably don’t need you.” As he clicks off, the police arrive, thank heavens. I recognize one as a seasoned veteran. His partner is much younger. I remember speaking with him as he was walking a post on Surf Avenue a few weeks ago. It was cold, and we watched the Polar Bear Club members swimming in the icy water.
While they attempt to calm the patient, I step back into the bathroom and find a used hypodermic syringe on the sink, along with an empty glassine envelope. I ask the patient what was in the glassine envelope, and he curses at me. The seasoned cop then yells at him to watch his mouth.
The patient denies using drugs, to which the officer shouts: “Then whose works is that in there? The cleaning lady’s? Do you think we were born yesterday?”
The father stands in the doorway, watching the scene. I feel sorry for him. He didn’t ask for any of this.
The addict, now intimidated, meekly acknowledges that he did some heroin. “But I don’t want to go back to the hospital,” he says.
“Either you go to the hospital,” the officer replies, “or we arrest you and you spend your time in jail.”
That convinces him. The father gives his son’s jacket to the rookie, who has been mostly silent. This obviously inexperienced officer is about to hand the jacket to the patient, when the veteran officer grabs it and yells at him that he should always check a jacket.
“I got two more years,” he says - meaning before retirement. “I ain’t getting hurt because of some dumb rookie.”
Under questioning, the addict says there is another needle in the jacket pocket. The officer carefully removes the syringe, as well as a half-pint of gin, while glaring at his young partner. Both the needle and the glass bottle could have been used as weapons.
I am thoroughly entertained by the drama, and I have to shake myself back to the dull reality of filling out my medical chart. I note the patient’s pulse rate and respiratory rate, and write that his pupils are constricted, consistent with heroin use.
As we pack up and escort the patient to the ambulance, I ask the father if he wants to come with us to Coney Island Hospital.
He looks unbearably sad as he declines, saying he would rather walk and get a little fresh air.