"Apologies"
I imagined more frequent updates to the Paramedichron, but time and motivation have both been lacking for the last couple of months. Which is too bad, because there has transpired much that warrants explanation and elaboration.
Thanksgiving came and went in a flash. We were spared the day from riding the rigs, which, in hindsight, was no great gift. Riding the rigs, and making Paramedical decisions, are the cornerstones from which this program has been, like an enormous house of plywood cards, structured. The academics are primarily a vehicle by which disorganization and chaos can be levelled upon us eighteen. The tests sneak up upon us, and cover material that are typically only hinted at through vague insinuation and long lists of diverse topics on the whiteboard. There is a small amount of winking and nodding on the specifics of certain test questions that might not have been fully explored in our classes, and, for the most part, everyone does OK on the tests.
The uniform for Paramedic Training is white, poly-blend "Smock" that is slightly similar to a lab coat or the longer mantles worn by residents and other doctors in training. Every so often, I am assigned to spend a shift - perhaps an entire long night - in the ER, and in the course of those fourteen hours, I am constantly, maybe desperately, called "Doctor" by patients who want to get the hell out of the ER, have their restraints loosened, or otherwise have answers to question that I cannot possibly provide.
The Smock is a source of certain pride, in that being at Harborview, to receive this world-renowned Paramedic Training, is an honor and privilege. The Smock opens doors, lends a credibility to well-intentioned efforts on our collective parts, and identifies us as participants in a medical tradition of ignorance, faith, and patience. This Smock of white, coupled with a cardkey badge that opens almost any door, ushers the motivated paramedic student into educational and medical opportunities that are the envy of other, lesser paramedic schools.
There are three previously-trained paramedics in our class - people with established careers in paramedicine - who recognized the quality of the education to be received at Seattle Medic One and Harborview, tested for the opportunity to go through this training (sometimes repeatedly), and are (re)learning beside the rest of us, sharing their wisdom when possible. These three intrepid men inspire me, and their commitment to being a better paramedic humbles me. Our bleached and pressed Smocks are our admission of submission to the (sometimes inscrutable) process that generates Copass paramedics.
The Smock, however, is also the shackle by which we eighteen are chained to our Faustian education. The Smock is exposed to pathogens, bodily fluids, odoriferous bacteria that thrive on the drench of fearful, cold perspiration, and must be regularly washed and ironed smooth. They are a robust garment, possessed of five capacious pockets, typically stuffed with the cheat sheets, IV catheters, gloves, masks, pens, nametags, and any other reference materials that will fit, all of which serve to allay the insecurity that accompanies the dispatch to the address of someone in need.
Every ten days or so, I get a couple of days off the rig, with no classroom obligation, and I make a beeline for the
Rancho Ballardo, six or seven miles distant from the apartment (known as the
Valle de Cula - ONE block from Harborview) where I spend most of my time. That the most-recent two days should coincide with Christmas is another example of the inexplicable luck that I have enjoyed my entire life. I was able to spend Christmas Eve with Lisa's family and Grandmother (it may very well be her last Christmas).
The Valle de Cula has an over-priced washer and dryer in the basement, but, so far, I have been able to lug my laundry home to Ballard every week or two. Remembering the copious amount of crap stuffed into the sundry pockets of the Smock, picture the ritual of removing the contents of those pockets and preparing for the next Smock-donning. I usually build a small pile from the items removed from the my
Smockets, to be reassembled in and on a freshly-laundered Smock. Envision also the hurry and frenzy of gathering a load of laundry prior to the paramedic student equivalent of shore leave, and you might appreciate how an errant ballpoint pen might slip through the cracks. This oversight was only discovered after washing and DRYING a load of whites, including the twenty socks worn over the last week and half, and TWO smocks.
Fuck.
Paramedic Training provides three smocks for the acolyte, but I was lucky enough (again!) to inherit one more appropriately-sized Smock from an EFD brother who attended last year. That leaves me two Smocks if I can't eradicate the ballpoint ink from the polyester-blend fabric from which the cursed garments are constructed. At this point, I have soused the ink spots on the cleaner Smock with a 91% solution of rubbing alcohol (which is very handy at dissolving ink) and washed once. It came out cleaner, but with a few trouble spots. I doused it again, and it is back in the wash. Time will tell.
Let's add a small layer of complexity to this situation. Perhaps I am scheduled to be at the University of Washington Hospital Labor and Delivery tomorrow. Perhaps at 0600 hours. I have a spare Smock, but it is in the Valle de Cula, and I am hunkered down, resting my brain for the next 24-hour shift. Remember Johnny Mac, the driver? He's on duty tonight, but he has left the Valle de Cula unlocked so that Lisa might swing by and grab a clean smock for me. Does this sound like a complicated Black Forest Cuckoo Clock, with many moving parts? Time will tell, but I wager some measure of currency on my persistent good luck.
It all works out.
I have an unoccupied house for rent in Shoreline. Good luck will carry me. I know it. It all works out.
