By Amy Martinez Starke
The Oregonian
T he lights flashing, the sirens screaming down the highway, the camaraderie of his co-workers — Harold Staigle loved all the craziness that went with his paramedic job. But most of all he loved caring for patients, pitting himself against death. He loved putting an IV in the spidery vein of a little old lady, in the back of an ambulance rolling down the road, nailing it every time.
Back in the 1980s when he had his own district with Buck Ambulance, he, along with his paramedic partner, were the unofficial “mayors” of Portland’s Old Town. He was on the street in Car 31 all night long. Harold witnessed a lot down there: heroin, alcohol, cocaine. He was greeted by a pistol in the face, or bullets flying. Between calls, the denizens of Old Town flagged him down to take a look at this symptom or that ailment. Harold Staigle knew everybody’s first names.
And he was in heaven. ...
Full Story: Sirens in the night called to paramedic