Puke sense

Posted by nycmedic059 on 19 July, 2007, 3:16 PM

On Monday, I hung around with Karen at the hospital until Jackson got back from his call, because I was damned if I didn't want to know what the hell was going on. Jackson's behaviour was the strangest of all. I had seen him all but foaming at the mouth on the day Peter didn't show up for his shift; now, he said with a matter-of-course attitude that Peter had been sick with mononucleosis, as if this was something we all should have known for weeks.

This isn't Jackson, I know it. My money is on brain-wash. Or maybe alien abduction.

On Wednesday morning, I enter the ambulance bay to the familiar sight of Peter Petrelli standing in the back of unit 059, checking our equipment. It strangely feels like a déja-vù. He greets me with a noncommittally friendly "How's it going?", as if the last time we met was just two days ago.

I reply with a cautious greeting and get a good look at Peter. He does look like he's been through the mill, but rather literally.

He catches me staring at the diagonal gashes on his cheek. There's another on his forehead. They look just a couple of days old. He seems startled, as if he'd already forgotten about them, and I can see he's groping for an explanation.

"Mononucleosis, huh?" I say. "Looks like you were in one of those hospitals that discharge you with a punch in the face. I've read about those. Nasty stuff."

He gives a laugh that, you have to hand it to him, hardly sounds nervous, puts away his pen and tells me we're all stocked up and ready to hit the streets.

I let it go for the time being. I have a feeling that he doesn't want to talk about whatever happened, and we have a job to do.

The second call of the day is a patient transfer for an elderly lady with a brain tumour from her nursing home to a hospital for surgery.

As with many nursing home patients, even the more critical ones, she is just on oxygen by a nasal cannula, so Peter bends over her to put an oxygen mask over her face in the rig while I get a line. She can't speak, and has been mildly sedated, but she is scared and agitated. He does his best to calm her. Peter's best to calm anyone is usually pretty good, but today, it doesn't do the trick. Maybe I wouldn't be too calm either if the guy taking me from my nursing home looked as if he'd recently played porcupine polo.

Now I ask you, what's the most valued skill of an EMT? Medical knowledge, you say. That's a start. Most EMTs come with it (though not enough of them) and it does help a lot. Peter comes with a lot of it, and is gathering more with each call.

Compassion? Definitely. It tends to use itself up to some degree after a few years, even months, in the city. Still, I don't see Peter running out of that anytime soon. He makes a pretty damn good paramedic all right. But there's one thing he has less of than you need. And that's puke sense.

You get vomited on in this job. Some medics last longer than others. Peter caught his first puke on his first day. I do suppose it has to do with not wanting to alienate a patient by scrambling away from them as they start to heave, but most of us don't have such qualms if we don't have the emesis basin handy.

At least in this case, I have to say in his defence I didn't see it coming either.

I'd never have expected such a little old lady to pack such a punch. This is almost deserving of the term "projectile vomiting".

Peter barely flinches as he's hit, then he hardly misses a beat, changes the patient's breath mask, suctions her airway clear, and tries to clean himself as well as her with a towel while he tells her, "It's OK, don't worry about it. I'm gonna give you something for the nausea, OK? It'll be better in a minute."

He waits for me to tape down the IV and then injects her with 3 mg of Zofran. Looking at him, and at the stretcher, I find it hard to believe that she would have had any puke left in her, but I guess you can never be too sure.

I bite back any remark I might have made – and oh, there are so many – and decide I'll leave him, and the patient, their dignity, get around the truck and put myself behind the wheel.

We drop our patient off at the Bellevue, and for his troubles, Peter is rewarded with a faint smile from her as he pats her hand and wishes her good luck. He looks a mess. No matter if we wear our blue polos or white shirts, puke stands out. I wonder if there are any EMS companies in this country that use ochre-coloured uniforms.

I go restock while he writes the run report at the nurses' station, enduring their remarks with his lopsided grin. I guess it says something about your good looks if you're still being chatted up by nurses while you're covered in vomit.

"Nice strategy," I say when we head back to our truck.

He gives me another wry grin and looks down at himself. "Wait before you clear us, OK?"

"I wasn't going to clear us." I call Mercy Heights and get permission to head in and do some laundry.

"Thanks, man," he says, grateful.

I get us both a coke at the cafeteria and, on my return, find Peter in the EMT room next to his empty locker, looking embarrassed. "Seems someone cleared out my stuff while I was away," he says. "Got a spare shirt I can borrow?"

I find a blue polo in my locker and hand it to him. He has gotten rid of his and is examining the tee he's wearing under it, giving a sigh as he decides it's not salvageable either.

He stuffs his things in the laundry, and before he pulls his new shirt over his head, I find myself staring at a recently healed gunshot wound an inch below his collarbone. It looks three weeks old at most. I've seen enough GSWs in this job to know what I'm looking at. It looks pretty ugly, too, as if it wasn't treated in a hospital. I've seen that kind on numerous occasions as well. Usually, on gangbangers who didn't go to a hospital because they know they'll report gunshot wounds to the police.

But this is Peter we're talking about. Peter who has me drive back six blocks because a street vendor gave him two quarters too many as change.

OK, so it was two blocks, and it was five dollars. But, you know, he would.

He catches my stare and turns, pretending to be checking the washing machine as he tucks the shirt in, subtly making it clear it's another thing he doesn't want to talk about.

Mononucleosis my foot. What the hell has he been up to?

He avoids any questions by managing to be very busy for the rest of the shift. We work extra hours, and our last call has us working past ten PM. It's a tough call, two elderly people caught in a burning house. Neither makes it out alive. I put off any questions concerning him as we sit in the EMT room with a coffee afterwards, blearily staring into space. He leaves before I do.

I run into Jerry DuPont and Hannah Davis when I'm about to punch out. They look around, and when they see Peter's not there, Hannah asks, "So, where the hell was he?"

Wouldn't she love the gossip. Gashes across his face, shot in the chest. It would keep Mercy Heights in its entirety talking until Christmas. And get Peter discharged in a heartbeat, unless the entire hospital board has been abducted by aliens.

I shrug. I just want my bed.

"Off sick," I say. "Mononucleosis."

I can see their sceptical looks as they watch me get my bike from the shed and head home.