OLD YELLER (EYE): DAY ONE AS A PARAMEDICS TRAINEE

My friend Anton Seidl* is blind as a bat without his glasses. That’s normally enough to get away without compulsory military service, but unfortunately Anton is a holder of drivers licenses for all different sizes of vehicles. That’s why our army didn’t want to discharge him–they’re really into people who can drive big things there. Since he’s in the midst of his apprenticeship right now, he decided to go for the civilian alternative and help out the German Red Cross. He’ll do a paramedics training over the course of six years, which at least means he won’t ever have to assemble guns, but it does involve tales of horror. Here’s the account of his first assignment.

I decided to do this paramedics thing because I thought it’d be cool. Saving lives, pumping the stomachs of wasted 14-year-old girls, fun stuff like that. I imagined myself hauling ass with the hooters on full blast, ignoring red lights and playing hero in an orange jacket.

My first assignment was scheduled for a Sunday morning. I was told to show up at HQ, dressed in uniform, where I’d just watch TV and stuff myself with Subway sandwiches, waiting for emergencies. Sounds pretty good, right? Unlike the real paramedics I was only supposed to TRANSPORT sick people from A to B, so I thought all I’d have to do would be driving some old fart with a broken ankle to the hospital every now and then.

About ten minutes into my shift the first call came in. We had to bring Mr. Maier* to hospital–the doctor was on his way too. My boss and I took off, and when we got there the doctor on call was already there, having a smoke outside of the retirement home. “It’s coming to an end with the guy upstairs. I gave him a big shot of Tramal, now we can wait for him to die. No chance he’ll make it.” That’s what he said instead of hello. Tramal is a strong opioid painkiller. I started feeling queasy. “He’s going to die?” I asked. “Yeah, Mr. Seidl, kind of bad luck on your first day, eh?” my boss said.

We took our stretcher upstairs. It was one of these gross antiseptic new developments. The smell inside the room made me cringe. It smelled of a sick person’s old urine. The whole family was there: the daughter with her husband, a grandson, a sister. I really wasn’t into sharing a family’s grief, but I didn’t have a choice. They seemed pretty relaxed though (I was about to find out why). The sick guy wasn’t in bed; he was lying on the brown couch in the corner of the room, tucked in under a blanket. We saw the crumbly, emaciated face, sinking deeply into a fluffy white pillow. His breathing was weak and he was bluntly staring at the ceiling. His eyes were yellow. Not yellow as in tarnished with a hint of yellow, they were Y-E-L-L-O-W. Everything that is normally white was beaming yellow like puss. A yellow that said: “Boy, you really had the wrong idea about this job.”

My boss asked the couple to step outside with him and that’s where he found out they had no idea what was going on. The damn doctor on call hadn’t told them but passed the buck to us, son of a bitch. So now it was up to us to tell everybody their beloved dad, grandpa, or brother was heading for the other side. One way. Everybody started crying. But I mean, didn’t they look at the guy on the couch? What were they thinking? That we’d shoot him up with something and he’d be dancing tango and giving young girls the yellow eye in no time?

“We have two options,” my boss said. “Either wait here and let Mr. Maier die in peace. Or we can bring him to hospital and get him emergency treatment. But to be honest with you, that’ll only postpone the inevitable. The transport will put him through unbearable pain.” That was the minute I just wanted to get out of there. “We have to try everything,” the young woman sobbed. “Please don’t!” I was begging her in my mind. In my thoughts I was begging her to let the old smelly man die in peace.

“Your father is dying,” my boss said. “Even the mere act of putting him on the stretcher will be torture already and we won’t be able to save him.”

“But we have to try everything!” she sobbed stubbornly. Her husband didn’t have the balls to convince her of the contrary, so he agreed.

My boss sighed, “Let’s do this, Mr. Seidl.” I broke a cold sweat. My boss waved the old lady and the little kid out of the room. Then we pulled away the blanket. The old, skinny man was totally cramped up in his nightgown. His skin was yellow and it looked really sweaty. It turned out this was urine that he transpired through his skin due to kidney failure. That explained the smell. Mr. Maier was such a goner, he was peeing through his skin! Where the hell was I? I pulled up next to the couch with the stretcher.

“OK, Mr. Maier,” my boss told the old man, even though it didn’t look as if he’d notice any of it. “Stay calm, we’ll put you up on the stretcher really quick. Don’t be afraid.” He grabbed him under his armpits and I took his skinny, wet feet by the ankles. The old guy started to whimper nervously. We counted three. He made the saddest sounds I have ever heard. I felt my heart throbbing in my throat. “It’ll be fine,” I kept reassuring myself. Considering the situation that was a pretty retarded thing to say, but what was I supposed to do? It was not even directed at the guy as much as it was directed at myself because it’s really not a good feeling to cause an old man the torture of his lifetime.

We strapped him on to the stretcher, but the horror wasn’t nearly over… Some idiot thought it’d be a smart thing to have elevators that are too short for regular stretchers in a retirement home. “Who’s the fucking architect who came up with this? Who is this fucking moron?” my boss screamed. Mr. Maier was whimpering on the stretcher. OMG, I thought, I can’t bear it any longer.

My boss told the old man, “Mr. Maier, unfortunately we have hold up the stretcher in the elevator.” I looked at my boss with begging eyes. “No…” I said. “Yeah, Mr. Seidl, really bad luck on your first day…”. We manhandled the stretcher into the elevator like two burly movers and the old guy accompanied every movement with a sound of pain. It was terrible. Finally we had him standing up in the elevator. It looked a little bit like Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs, when they push him in front of the senator. Just that Mr. Maier didn’t have the demonic aura of Anthony Hopkins, but resembled more of a powerless puppet hanging in the straps.

The elevator doors closed and we were going down. Do you know this awkward silence when you’re in the elevator with strangers? When you keep staring in front of you because you don’t want to look at anyone? OK, now imagine one of these strangers is a whimpering old man that’s grotesquely displayed next to you, sweating urine and slowly but surely going to die. It was the most miserable elevator ride of my life.

In ER the doctor on duty gave our patient a quick look and was like, “Why the hell do you bring one like that to ER?”

“I’m sorry,” my boss said, “the family requested it.”

“Great Job! Did you give him painkillers at least? Yes? Good, then push him into a corner where there’s a bit of space.” So we pushed Mr. Maier into a remote niche to let him die. Man, I wanted to save lives! Back in the ambulance we got out next emergency call. “Are you serious?” I screamed, “I fucking can’t bear another case. I’m really exchausted.”

“Yeah,” my boss said, “really bad luck on your first day, Mr. Seidl. That’s for sure.” I didn’t say anything any more. I started the engine with shaky fingers and off we went.

*all names changed

Monday, October 26, 2009 at 10:26 am by MALTE BORGMANN VICE DE
Tags: dying, Germany, Medical, pissing through skin, training

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