X-ray Chapter 6, part 1

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Frank was off the next day, and Ian finally met his other partner. Marcus was a bigger man than Frank, more friendly, more mentor-like. "I'm Marcus," he said, "you must be Ian. Did Richter take you through the bus?"

Ian took the hand that Marcus offered him and shook it. "Kind of," he said, "more or less."

Marcus smiled and led the way to the ambulance's rear doors, which he opened. "Ian, basically, things are going to be where you expect them," he said. "The patient's head is up front, so that's where the airway things are. Drugs need to be all locked up, so they're in the locked cabinet. OB is down at the foot," he pointed, "trauma, linen. Long things that are inside the bus are under the bench. Outside, the flares, flashlights, and tools are in the cabinet behind the driver, since the driver will be using them. The long-boards are in the tall cabinet, the head blocks are in the small cabinet, the KED and traction splint are in the other cabinet and that's everything. So, let's check the bags, and how about some coffee after that?"

Ian agreed to the idea of coffee, but it was not to be. No sooner had they finished checking their equipment than the radio crackled with their name. He climbed down out of the back, and as they walked around to the front Ian realized that, although he had jumped the sound of the radio, he was getting better.

In the cab, Marcus punched the dispatch info up on the MDT, showing Ian how to do so at the same time. Ian had seen Frank do this several times over the last three days, and had stumbled through the procedure once or twice himself, but was glad to actually be shown how to do this. He had been taught briefly at the academy, but that had been a lifetime ago.

Marcus put the ambulance in gear and Ian considered the dispatch info: possible stroke. One part of his mind looked out the window for crossing traffic, "you're clear after this dark green van," but the bulk of it considered "strokes, CVAs, named because you were struck down. Or it could be a TIA. Not that it would matter for what he did. You're clear the right," he said aloud. Stroke or TIA, his treatment was the same: a good neuro exam, O2, IV, monitor, transport. "Looks like we’re here already."

Marcus showed Ian how to mark them as on scene on the computer (no more than pressing a button, but you had to know which button to push), they climbed out of the ambulance, and in a few minutes they were meeting the patient.

This was clearly a stroke. The patient had no use of the right side of his body, and his speech was garbled. He understood everything that Ian said, though, which made applying oxygen and starting an IV, and moving over to the stair chair much easier. The man's pulse was good, so Ian deferred his EKG until he and Marcus had lifted the man into the ambulance and buckled him into the stretcher.

"White to the right,” Ian intoned as he attached the white EKG cable to the patient’s right shoulder, “and smoke," he attached the black cable on the patient’s left shoulder, “over fire,” he attached the red lead ear patient’s left hip. Once the cables were connected and he had read and printed out leads II, III and I (in that order), he pulled out his cell phone to notify the hospital of their impending arrival. But which hospital? And what was his partner's name? "Uh, hey," he said, moving over to the airway seat and calling through the window to his partner, "what hospital are we going to?"

"Rockland," said his partner. "You'll find the phone number over by the switches."

Ian had previously discovered the list of phone numbers taped up below the action station's switch panel, but he thanked Marcus (whose name know came to him) and then contacted Rockland Cooperative's ER.

"Rockland," answered a voice at the other end of the phone line.

"Yeah, this is Ian with New Gotham Fire EMS unit Three-five X-Ray. We're coming in ALS with an 85 year-old diabetic stroke victim, strength one out of five for both right extremities, some speech impairment, no LOC, A and O times three, vitals 140 over 90, otherwise normal, PERRLA, normal sinus on EKG; we should be arriving -- hey, Marcus!? How far out are we?"

"Three or four minutes, Ian," Marcus said.

"... in three or four minutes," Ian finished.

"You're bringing us a stroke?" Rockland asked.

"Yeah."

"From where?"

Ian half-stood and crossed back to the bench for his half-finished VCR, almost losing his balance when the ambulance struck a bottle. "655 202nd St," he read off the patient's address.

"202nd St?"

"Yes. Can you take his patient?" Ian asked, started to wonder if Rockland might be full, but not understanding what the patient's address had to do with anything.

"Sure, we'd be happy to," said Rockland, in a tone that said they'd be anything but. "Elated."

"Is there something wrong with Rockland?" Ian asked Marcus after they had dropped off their patient in for pulling out of the ER bay.

Marcus laughed. "Ian, they are who they are," he said, "and that's all there is to it. They never likely bringing patients," he went on a moment later, because our patients aren't the people they like to see."

"What, sick?"

Marcus laughed again. "Yes, they are that, too, I suppose, but really I mean they aren't rich. Look at the neighborhood," he gestured.

He was right, Ian decided, because even though the community through which they drove wasn't one of large doorman buildings, it was nevertheless much better off than the generally run down, abused neighborhood in which they spent most of their time.

Marcus was still talking. "A lot of people don't have insurance, and a lot of people don't pay. Rockland doesn't like that," he said.

"Well, where are we supposed to take them?"

Marcus smiled. He smiled a lot, you noticed; he was a much happier man than Frank. "Yes," Marcus said "Ian, you're absolutely right." Anything further that he might have said was cut off by the beeping of the MDT and the crackle of their radios: chest pain.

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