By Will Wyatt
If you have been in the EMS business as a first responder or on a transport unit you have no doubt run into the same individual more than once. In fact some people call so much you get to know them and their family.
I have heard them referred to by different names — frequent flyers, repeat offenders and constant callers. You get to know the address when it comes in.
I suppose you could view it as a natural progression of things. You might respond to an address for a lift assist a couple of times. Then a fall and bones are broken or possibly a major medical event.
Sometimes we are there when the end comes and sometimes we never hear from that person again. That usually means they passed away at a medical care facility or went to live with a relative.
This person who has been a productive citizen and a major family asset is now worn out, tired, scared and in bad health. The whole situation is a tremendous strain on all involved.
A tale of two ladies
Now these people are not to be confused with those who habitually abuse the emergency medical system. Over the years, two abusers stand out in my mind.
The first memorable character was a lady named Mary Jane. Mary Jane would call anytime, day or night sometimes four times a day. We would arrive for an unknown emergency and go through the same drill.
Mary Jane would meet us at the door in a bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, a carton of cigarettes in one hand and a cigarette in one corner of her mouth.
The cigarette fascinated me. It just hung there. I could never tell if her lips were holding it or not. It reminded me of the drummer for Cheap Trick. When she talked it never fell out. I guess there was some sort of cantilever principle at play.
She would walk constantly. You had to walk behind her to ask her questions. She would claim to be having a heart attack, stroke, aneurism or any other medical condition she had recently heard of.
Sometimes we would take her to the hospital, which never scored any points with the ER staff. We usually tried to show her that all her vital signs were normal and there was not a need to go to the hospital.
We even had the police talk to her about her “three call a day” 911 habit. Then for some reason her hypochondria would go into remission and we would get a break.
Memories of Myrtle
The other stellar caller was a lady named Myrtle. Myrtle, like Mary Jane, would call at any time of day — 4 a.m. to 4 p.m. — you just never new. Although Myrtle called 25 percent as much as Mary Jane did, our visits to her house were usually memorable.
The drill at Myrtle’s house was a little different. Myrtle’s son lived in the front yard in a Dodge van. Electricity was supplied from an orange extension cord run from the house.
The son would emerge from the van and make entry into the house with us. Myrtle was a small elderly lady with true blue hair. She was very stern and had no sense of humor. Myrtle claimed to have a heart condition and was under the care of a cardiologist.
Myrtle was always clutching a bottle of antacid. She would turn the bottle up and drink like the stuff was water from the fountain of youth given to her personally by Ponce De Leon.
At some point she would belch. Not some little puff you discreetly hide behind a napkin. This was a full-blown, five on the Richter scale, dish-rattler, window-vibrator belch that a sailor would envy. You would have time during the gastric eruption to look at your co-worker and shrug at each other before it was over.
Is there a doctor in the house?
My theory is that Myrtle had some sort of indigestion problem, which she felt was a heart attack. However, there was no convincing her of this. Her son even tried once.
The son would race to the kitchen and begin raiding the fridge. Myrtle would yell to the son and question him if he was in the refrigerator. He would always answer no with a mouth full of food.
Myrtle was always fully dressed and had a bag packed for her hospital stay no matter what time of day or night it was. When I have the big one I hope my dying words aren’t, “don’t forget to pack my extra socks.”
She also never appeared to be in any physical discomfort, breathing was fine, no sweating, arm pain, etc. The problem with Myrtle was she would never agree to anything until the cardiologist called. She would have already placed a call to the cardiologist prior to our arrival. In all fairness the cardiologist would always call back fairly quickly.
Now mind you I am not a doctor. I have never represented myself as a doctor. I don’t even play one on TV. I have not attended a medical school or anything greater than a basic EMT course.
That being said, I am going out on a limb with this thought. If I am a cardiologist and I have a patient who has a known heart condition who calls me and says she is having a heart attack, I am probably going to say go to the hospital.
Embracing the inner cardiologist
One enchanted evening we were awaiting the call from the heart guy when for some unknown reason I suggested to Myrtle that we go ahead and go to the hospital. “The cardiologist usually wants you to go doesn’t he?” I asked.
Myrtle sat back in her chair and cocked her head so she could look over her glasses at me. She gave me a stern look. She pointed her finger at me and asked me a question, which I would never be allowed to forget. “Young man! Are you a board-certified cardiologist?”
I could hear those behind me trying to suppress laughter. I chuckled and smiled in my answer that no in fact I was not. Myrtle retorted, “Well, perhaps we should wait for somebody who is!” Soon the real cardiologist called and off we went.
Dealing with the elderly is a challenge sometimes even aggravating. I do try to be patient and remember these people have lived a full life and are now coping with being able to see the end.
Mary Jane and Myrtle are long gone now. They are in the big waiting room in the sky but there are plenty still around.
Let me hear from you.
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