A PARAMEDIC'S DIARY_Life and Death on the Streets

by Stuart Gray

  After a few minutes, the older man answered a knock at the door. I thought a crew had arrived, but instead he let in a man who walked directly towards me.

  ‘Who is this?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s OK,’ the old man said. ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘I don’t care who he is, he’s not coming in here,’ I said. ‘He needs to go into the bedroom out of the way.’

  The situation was getting out of control and I didn’t want anyone else in there. I made it clear to both of them and I think they understood.

  The crew arrived within ten minutes and they were just as shocked by the scene as I had been. We quickly removed the patient to the safety of the ambulance and began his treatment in earnest. All the while, he denied any knowledge of what had taken place; he seemed deliberately evasive about our questions.

  I showed the police into the flat and the scene was sealed for forensics to go over it. I left with the crew and took our patient to the nearest hospital. He wasn’t dying, but he had suffered major injuries and we had no idea what kind of internal damage had been done.

  After handing the patient over to the hospital staff I was told that he had a history of violence against the police. He had allegedly thrown acid over an officer’s face, so he wasn’t innocent. I also learned that a bent carving knife had been found in the kitchen sink.

  Later that night, rattled as I was, I was sent to a call that seemed routine – a collapsed drunken male. I arrived on scene, where a crew were already dealing with him. His friends were standing around outside the ambulance with the police and I went inside to check if I was needed. I spent five minutes with the crew and left. Everyone had gone from outside and all was quiet.

  I jumped into my car and had driven maybe fifty yards up the road when I pulled over to fill in my paperwork for the call. I put my reading light on and was busily filling in the form when I heard a thump from behind me. I recognised the sound of my paramedic bag falling forward – it does that a lot when I’m driving. I glanced over my left shoulder and there, sitting in the darkness of the back seat, were two men. They were just looking at me. I almost jumped out of my skin.

  ‘Who the hell are you two?’ I shouted.

  They just stared. I thought one of them was going to reach for something; my mind told me it was a weapon.

  ‘What are you doing in this car?’ I said.

  Then one of them piped up.

  ‘The police officer said to sit in here and wait.’

  It turns out they were the drunken man’s friends. I threw them both out of the car and they walked off into the distance. I think I sat with my head in my hands for ten minutes after that. Funny thing, paranoia.

  * * * * *

  Other creepy calls are menacing because they set up atmospheres of potential threat even before you get on scene. Most of the time, the police are present or they have been called and we are advised to sit tight until they appear, but sometimes you walk straight into a situation without pre-warning and where the police are present but powerless to cover your back.

  A domestic assault call in east London took me and my crewmate out of area in the middle of the night to help a teenage mum who had allegedly been beaten up and threatened with a knife by her boyfriend. He had cut her across the face and given her more than a few bumps and bruises around the head as he laid into her with fists and feet - all because she wouldn’t let him go out with his mates. A nice guy, then.

  As if proof of that were needed, he had recently come out of prison, where he had served a sentence for grievous bodily harm. The police, who were on scene, suspected he was still lurking around outside but hadn’t the personnel to go searching for him.

  I had to leave the house to get equipment from the ambulance while my crewmate examined and treated the girl. It was dark and very quiet. The house looked onto the back of woodland, so there was no light to move by. I wished the cops hadn’t told me he was lurking around out here because now it felt like every tree was watching me. I almost expected him to pounce on me at any second. As far as I was aware, he wasn’t armed - the knife had been left at home when he ran off - but that was of little comfort to me as I rooted around inside the ambulance at three in the morning, knowing that I had to get back out and that, somewhere in the shadows, this guy might be following my every move. I doubted the security that the presence of a single police vehicle gave me, so I was very cautious when I jumped down from the vehicle. We had no torch on board, so all I had was my keen eyesight - next to useless in this pitch blackness. I got out, equipment in hand (none of which would be useful as a weapon), and peered around into the dark and then up towards the house itself. Nothing stirred. All I could hear was the sound of a few trees creaking in the cold breeze. The only light visible was the one coming from the patient’s kitchen window.

  I crept back towards that light with my eyes focusing on anything that looked remotely human in shape. Then... damn it. I realised I hadn’t locked the ambulance. I couldn’t risk this psychopath getting into the back of it and lying in wait for us when we brought his girlfriend out. There was no remote lock on the vehicle; it had to be done manually. I had to go back.

  I returned as cautiously as I had left and fumbled the key into the door lock as I looked around and listened. The lock engaged and I checked the door - it was secure.

  Then there was a sudden crashing noise behind me. I froze. I could hear scrabbling, as if someone was running from the woods, and a shape darted across my field of vision. I held my breath. Then I picked up the shape of the running thing. It was small and dark and fat.

  Bloody cat.

  THE FESTIVE SEASON

  DURING THE CHRISTMAS period, which can start as early as the first of October depending on how needy or juvenile you are, there is a measurable increase in the consumption of alcohol. It’s measurable and it’s different because the calls we receive include those from professionals, City types and ‘normal’ people - the kind of person we don’t see much of during the rest of the year. It seems as though, for some, the office Christmas party is a real good excuse to get off your face and tell your boss what you think of him. The trouble is, I am often mistaken for their boss and so I receive the venom.

  I went to a call at an underground station near Oxford Street for a woman who had fallen over and cut her head. When I went into the staff office I could see that she was drunk. She was also belligerent. I tried to be nice to her but no amount of Mr Nice Guy would shut her up. She insulted me, stared at me with drunken glassy eyes and tried to claw at me when I attempted to check her blood sugar.

  This woman was with her new boss, and he was drunk too. He wasn’t drunk enough to escape feeling embarrassed, though; he apologised again and again while trying to reason with this obnoxious woman. She wasn’t to be reasoned with, however; I got the feeling she was unreasonable by nature, and that drink just uncorked the personality she kept tightly bottled up most of the time.

  Eventually, with her clawing and scratching, she managed to cut my hand. I wasn’t happy with that. ‘I’m not treating you any more,’ I said, raising my voice and showing her the marks she had left.

  ‘Fine,’ she yelled. ‘I don’t want your f**king treatment anyway!’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘But you have a cut to the head and you’re drunk, so you need to be taken home.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’

  I think she was offended by my tone, but I was beyond caring. She represented the worst kind of drunk to me; there are honest drunks, who can happily get on with it and admit they need help, and then there are the others - dishonest drunks, with hidden problems. This kind of drunk spits and whines in the face of all those who are willing and able to offer a helping hand. This kind of drunk berates the ambulance service or the police service or whoever crosses their path in uniform. This kind of drunk uses alcohol to hide their daytime façade and too many glasses of wine exposes their true self.

  This kind of drunk wakes up in the mor
ning and thinks, My God, what did I do?

  Another rude drunk crossed swords with me at a wine bar near Holborn. She had fallen onto the slate floor and cracked her head open. She’d bled quite a bit, but now it was under control. However, her wound would have to be closed properly at hospital.

  ‘I’m going to have to get an ambulance here,’ I said.

  She flatly refused and instead gave me that silly, drunken stare that smashed people give sober ones - you know, the one that doesn’t quite focus and the head begins to drop, so that the eyes are forced up to keep track of their ‘victim’. I find it amusing and can’t help smiling when they do it. This, of course, gets me penalty points and a barrage of verbal abuse for being a ‘smarmy git’.

  Her friend, a tall, well-built and equally drunk man, took me aside.

  ‘Look, mate,’ he said. ‘Between you and me, don’t tell anyone, we’re both police officers. I mean, she’s a bit lary at the moment but she’s basically a good girl.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Plus we’re not really supposed to be out together. If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting,’ I said, ‘but it’s not really relevant to me. She needs to go to hospital and get that head fixed, or else it’s going to get infected and cause all sorts of bigger problems.’

  He nodded. She just became more and more abusive.

  ‘I’m not going to hospital,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve f**king told you once. Or twice? I dunno, but I’ve told you. So you can f**k off and take your little ambulance car with you.’

  She pointed out of the doorway to the FRU car. I felt slighted by this remark. Really, I did.

  She tore off the dressing and bandage that I had just carefully placed on her head and threw it to the floor. It was stained red with her blood.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I strongly advise you to go and get that wound treated. It will get infected or might re-open again later on.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere and that’s that. Why don’t you leave me alone?’

  The guy with her stepped between us and tried to persuade her to calm down, and she erupted in his face. I think there was more than a little tension between them.

  I stood back and watched the fireworks until a crew arrived. I explained the situation to them and they continued to try and get her to go to hospital. The police had also arrived by now, because the ruckus she was causing had forced the bar owner to call them in. Another whispered exchange took place between the tall man and the police officers, and somehow the screaming, uncooperative woman was persuaded to go to the ambulance and get checked out. At least then she could calm down and comply - or refuse and sign the appropriate form (if you refuse to go to hospital you will be asked to sign our PRF).

  I left the scene before she decided to get going on her second wind. So much for trying to help.

  PRF: Patient Report Form. A cumbersome three-part, carbon-backed form used to record absolutely every detail of a call. It can be used as a legal document in court.

  There are otherwise perfectly decent types who get drunk and then have no idea how to limit their excesses. This can lead to serious injury which could have a life-long effect, so I would think that once you’ve sobered up with your damaged brain and the threat of permanent episodes of epilepsy, you would consider your actions and how they have ruined you life. What I don’t know is how many of these people resolve never to drink so irresponsibly again, and how many end up in hospital every Christmas.

  A seasonal call to the City for a man who had fallen down the steps at an underground station. He had toppled head-long down ten or so concrete steps and landed, unconscious, at the bottom, much to the disgust of his fellow commuters, most of whom had looked, tutted and marched off home or wherever they usually marched off to.

  I arrived to find him slumped against the wall, where the Underground staff had propped him. Around about then, he regained consciousness and attempted to get up and walk. He had a severe head injury and was probably the most drunken person in a suit I have ever seen. He looked like a banker.

  This guy was over 6ft tall, wide-shouldered and looked more than capable of taking care of himself - except when he drank. Now he couldn’t even walk.

  He groaned and moaned about the state of his head, which had been bleeding badly but was now under control. He told passing commuters (some of whom were still tutting) to ‘p*ss off’ and he was generally unpleasant. Except to me. He was very nice to me and even thanked me for being there for him, which made a change.

  I explained that he had fallen down the steps and now needed to go to hospital, but he was insistent that he could get home.

  ‘I’m OK now, thanks,’ he said, his voice slow and slurred. ‘I’m happy to take a taxi home’.

  ‘I don’t think any taxi will be happy to take you, though,’ I said.

  ‘Am I drunk?’

  ‘Yes, you are. You are very drunk.’

  ‘Did I fall?’

  ‘Yes. Down those steps. I told you earlier.’

  ‘Did you? Why did I fall?’

  ‘Because you’re drunk.’

  ‘Am I drunk?’

  The conversation cycled like that for five or six minutes while I waited for an ambulance to rescue me from it. The man was clearly concussed and I briefly handed over to the London Underground guy, letting him answer the same questions for a couple of cycles. It was highly amusing to watch - he looked like he was teaching a teddy bear the times tables.

  ‘Yes... you... fell... and... hit... your... head.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because... you... drank... too... much.’

  ‘Oh… am I drunk?’

  Ad almost infinitum.

  Christmas is but the start of it all; however; the real fun begins at the end of the year.

  New Year’s Eve is unique in the ambulance service calendar. Virtually all of our resources are deployed, and we’re still pushed to the limit. The voluntary services are roped in to help en masse - many of them are based at our stations for the night - and there are first aid centres opened up all over the place. We aren’t the only emergency service out in force; the police and fire services are also at full capacity in terms of manpower and equipment. Overtime is offered to all those not normally rostered to work on that date, and there are officers all over the place, some of whom have rarely seen the light of day since last New Year.

  On December 31 we deal with more alcohol-related calls than any other day of the year. Habitual drunks love this time of year, because they can get absolutely smashed and for once they will actually blend in with the rest of society. Ordinary people down as much cider or beer or wine as their stomach can contain in a race to beat the bells, almost as if it’s some sort of crime not to be as drunk as a skunk before midnight comes.

  The only sober people around are the people doing the hard work, the public servants who are on duty, the bar and night club staff, the taxi, bus and tube drivers. Everyone else, including the kids in some cases, gets hammered from the moment they touch the gold-paved streets of central London.

  Last New Year’s Eve was much like any other. I was busy that night, of course, as was everyone else on duty. The calls were coming in thick and fast, even before the hour of midnight struck; after that, it went crazy, and it was relentless and extremely exhausting. I had been stuck in heavy traffic just after the bells, and thousands of people were filling the roads. I couldn’t move the car at all for about twenty minutes and call after call came in to me, only to be cancelled at my request because I just couldn’t take them.

  Then I got called (when finally free of the human soup) to a ‘non-responsive man in street’ and ended up being flagged down by the police in Whitehall where a guy had collapsed right next to Downing Street. I can tell you right now they get very nervous about that sort of thing. They don’t like it when you fall down so close to the seat of Government. The man could have been a terrorist. Or a Conservative.

  He wasn’t. He was just
another drunk - a tall, thin drunk with an equally tall, equally thin mate who continually apologised about the state of his friend, who was now vomiting all over the pavement as if he had an endless supply of the stuff in his stomach and secreted elsewhere around his body. I am often surprised by the volume of sick some people can emit; it seems to exceed the capacity of their insides, as though they have become some sort of vomitary human Tardis.

  So I waited with him, and I waited and waited. No ambulances were available. The crews were all running around London, saving lives and livers. I was waiting because I had no hope of getting a vehicle. The armed police guarding Downing Street were getting more interested in us than usual and a couple of officers sidled up to enquire as to how long we thought we’d be and what exactly was going on.

  I needed a plan. As I considered my options, a solution crossed my line of sight; a voluntary services bod with an empty trolley bed. Why he was wheeling it up Whitehall was beyond me, but it was the answer I needed. I commandeered him and his trolley bed (it turns out he was delivering it back on foot to the treatment centre up the road) and explained my situation.

  We loaded the drunk onto the bed and wheeled him up the middle of Whitehall to the sanctuary of what I hoped would be an accommodating treatment vehicle owned by the St John Ambulance. No such luck. They wouldn’t have him. They had two in there already. I was seriously considering lying him down on the back seat of the car and driving him to hospital myself when a Service Patient Transport vehicle arrived.

  ‘Can you take this bloke?’ I asked, my spirits rising.

  Unfortunately, the St J A had other ideas; they wanted this vehicle too. I thought I was going to be stuck with this vomiting man all morning when some ambulance officers showed up and changed the plan. Soon enough he was off my hands and on his way to infamy (when he got home).

  That call was followed by another drunk, this time at Victoria station - a young girl. Her friends said she was 23 but she and they looked more like 13 to me and the cops who were there. Again, no ambulance available, so it looked like I was stuck with her for the foreseeable future. She wasn’t in serious danger; the worst that was going to happen to her was that she would sober up and have a hangover, and maybe learn a lesson. But I couldn’t just leave her because I believed that she was a minor. Drunk minors have to go somewhere, to a place of safety, and if I was right with my guesstimate and I walked away from her then I would be in real trouble.