Editor’s note: We got so many great story submissions during our spring EMS week contest 2010, we’ve decided to run a few of our favorite entries. Here is one of our staff’s picks. View all entries here, and check out our grand-prize winner.
By Ted Bownas
Millbrook Fire Department (NY)
I worked per diem as an EMT for a paid ambulance service for a couple of years, in addition to volunteering in my own town. My partner and I were dispatched one evening for a “person fallen with unknown injuries” at a large apartment building.
Our patient was reported to have fallen in a fourth-floor apartment. We arrived at the front door, transferred our gear onto the cot for the trip through the lobby to the elevators, where, due to the size of the elevator car, we removed all the gear from the cot, folded the head up and the frame down, squeezed into the car, and ascended agonizingly slow to the fourth floor.
Waiting in the hallway (when the elevator finally groaned to a stop) was a pretty teenaged girl in a flowered Sunday dress. We followed her down the hall to an open apartment door, where she peeked in, then held the door for us, informing us shyly, “My Grandmama fell in the bathroom, and my Mama and aunt are with her.”
The apartment was crammed with furniture and knicknacks, but spotlessly clean. We threaded our way through to the bathroom door, where two well-dressed women of impressive stature, obviously sisters, awaited us in some distress. “She’s 66 years old, and has trouble walking,” one said. “And she fell a while ago — we found her when we came to take her to dinner, and we don’t know how long she’s been there!” the second chimed in.
We herded them gently out of the way, stepped into the bathroom, and my jaw dropped. Lying wedged between the vanity and tub was the largest woman I had ever seen. She must have weighed nearly four hundred pounds, and was also obviously dressed for Sunday dinner out. I couldn’t speak for a moment, and she looked up and chuckled.
“I know — it’s not a pretty sight, is it, honey?” she said. She lifted an arm and gestured helplessly at her walker, standing by the sink. Judging from the wear on the rubber feet, she put plenty of miles on it, despite her size and alleged mobility problem. I knelt carefully next to her.
“Did you hit your head or hurt yourself when you fell, Ma’am?” I asked. “And did you lose consciousness?”
“Lord, no, honey — I just lost my footing and slid right down on my backside,” she said with a wink. “And don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, either. My name’s Louisa Watson, but everyone in the building just calls me Auntie Lou.”
I laughed, and chatted with her as I checked her pulse, BP, and motor function in her arms and legs. She was cheerful and self-deprecating throughout, and, it was soon clear, not suffering from any medical ailments. I couldn’t help grinning, despite the prospect of immobilizing her and taking her down those eight flights of stairs. (A backboard didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell of fitting into that elevator.)
I finished the initial assessment and looked up at her. “You know, Miz Watson,” I declared, “you could absolutely make my night.” Her family and my partner looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Auntie Lou winked at me, then played along without missing a beat. “Honey, a good-looking man hasn’t said that to me in more than thirty-five years!” she chortled. “How can I make your night?”
Still kneeling beside her on the bathroom floor, I folded my hands as if in prayer and looked skyward. “Please, in the name of all that’s holy, tell me you don’t want to go to the hospital?” I begged her. That did it...Auntie Lou, her daughters, her granddaughter, and my partner all collapsed in hysterics.
No one could speak for a moment, but finally, wiping away helpless tears of mirth, Auntie Lou said, “Lord, no, honey — I don’t want to go to the hospital, I want to go to dinner with my girls!” She gestured down at herself. “Do I look like I’d settle for hospital food when I could have a nice dinner in a restaurant?” We all burst out laughing again. “No, just get me back on my wheels and I’ll be fine,” she insisted, pointing to her walker.
We retrieved a bedsheet from the cot, twisted it (a cotton sheet has darn near the tensile strength of a good rope), passed it under Auntie Lou’s arms, and with a tug from my partner on one end and me on the other, hoisted her up on her feet.
She promptly grabbed her walker, swatted our hands away, and stumped out of the bathroom at a remarkable pace. She weaved her way through the crowded apartment with the speed and agility of a running back, heading for the hallway. “Come on, girls — let’s go!” she ordered.
We cornered her long enough to sign the release on the back of our PCR, then she was out of the apartment and down the hall, her family trailing in her wake. Auntie Lou turned at the elevators, fixed us with a stern eye, and wagged her finger at us. “You boys make sure you lock my door, now, hear?” she demanded, and without waiting for a reply, disappeared into the elevator with her daughters and granddaughter.
The elevator door ground shut, and the mechanism screeched in protest as it crawled slowly down the shaft. We held our breath, but the car made it safely down to the lobby and we heaved a collective sigh of relief, and as ordered, locked up Auntie Lou’s apartment before heading off.