My Mountaintop Blog

A lot of us in EMS have a twisted sense of humor, myself included. Some of the things we joke about would most likely be construed as repulsive to an outsider. It is difficult to explain to people that are not associated with EMS the stuff that goes on behind closed doors. Most of the time I don’t even try. So, I use humor as a means to manage the surge of emotions associated with some of the tragic things I see. The way I look at it..if I am too busy laughing then I don’t have time to be sad. So, it should come as no surprise that we even have our own little games we like to play.

 

Too Drunk For Detox

“….units en route to the man down…patient is a thirty year old male, highly intoxicated. PD requesting an ambulance…”

Another person that is ‘too drunk for detox.’ I figure this will be the name of a country and western song someday. Even though we are en route for what will probably be a relatively easy, garden variety ‘too drunk for detox’ dispatch, it is the repeated exposure to calls like this that have a way of wearing on my soul. Seeing yet another person – or maybe someone we have picked up many times before – whose life has deteriorated to such an extent that they drink until their liver is the size of a football, can be depressing.

“What’s the wager today?” my partner asked.

“Lunch,” I answered. “I’m hungry.”

“Can we go some place good this time?” he asked. He was obviously unimpressed with my choice of eatery the last time I had to pay off a debt.

“How many Big Macs can you eat?” I asked. “Besides, Chinese gives you gas and I am NOT living through that hell again.”

“Fine,” he said grudgingly, knowing he had no plausible defense.

“I’ll even let you pick first,” I offered generously.

“I am going with point three four.”

“I will say point three nine.”

“Same rules?” he asked.

I nodded agreement. Whoever guessed closest to what the patient’s blood alcohol level was without going over won the bet. If you guessed it right on the number then your partner had to send a company-wide email extolling the virtues of their partner. Depending on the partner, sometimes those emails were rather short.

It turned out the patient was, indeed, a run-of-the-mill drunk at 11:30 AM on a weekday.  His blood alcohol level was .41…way too drunk for detox. We transported him to the nearest hospital. The bet was a push. We ate at McDonald’s anyway.

***

Guess That Language

“…units en route to the medical emergency…a strong language barrier exists. We are trying to gather more information. P.D. is en route, also. Continue emergent for now..”

As is human nature, birds of a feather flock together. (Yes, I know. I said human nature and then used an animal cliché. So what.) With so many emigrants coming into the United States from dozens of different countries, the number of languages we were being confronted with totaled into the hundreds. However, because birds of a feather DO flock together, and depending on the address of the dispatch, I could guess with a reasonable amount of certainty as to what language we were going to encounter.

“I’ll betcha a dollar the patient speaks Shona,” I said as a matter of fact. I had an advantage because I knew the town better than my partner, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try and get a dollar off of him.

My partner gave me a puzzled look. “What makes you think that?”

“Call it a hunch.” It was quiet for a few moments. I needed to set the hook. “There are, like, a billion different languages in the world and I am picking just one. Do we have a bet?”

“Why do I feel like I am about to get screwed?”

“Well?”

“Fine,” he said.

Then dispatch said, “Units en route to the medical emergency…patient speaks Shawna…”

Without keying the microphone, I yelled at the radio, “Shoooona. Not Shawna. Jeez, everyone knows that.” Then I keyed the microphone and said in a calm voice, “Copy update.” Then to my partner, “You owe me a dollar.”

“How did you know the language?”

“Look at the address,” I said. “It’s in the middle of the block on the west side of the street. If you are from Zimbabwe, chances are you live in that apartment building. Most people from Zimbabwe speak Shona.”

The birds-of-a-feather theory is not racist. It is common sense. If I moved to a different county, you better believe that the first thing I would do is find people that spoke my language…and then I would find a cheeseburger.

“Impressive.”

“I’ve been to this apartment building a hundred times. It was a sucker bet.”

“I see that now. Do you speak any Shona?”

“Hell no. I still struggle with English.”

“I don’t trust you anymore,” my partner said and shook his head.

“You’re young. You’ll learn. But you do owe me a dollar.”

***

When and Where

“Units en route to the cardiac arrest….downgrade due to obvious death…”

These types of updates caused me a lot of consternation. Someone called someone else in dead…so dead, in fact, that we were turning off our lights and sirens and driving like normal people. So now it was just a matter of how dead they were. I hate dead bodies with a passion.

“I got a buck that says at least a week,” my partner offered.

I considered his wager that the patient will have been dead for a week or longer. We were going to a poor part of town. The patient was a male in his seventies. It was a good possibility that he lived alone and someone called it in due to the smell. (Gross, yes, but this is reality) My partner knew this, of course, and was hoping he could sucker me into a bet. I wouldn’t take the gamble without hedging the bet.

“I’ll cover your dollar. But, let’s add a twist. No matter how long he has been dead, if he died in the bathroom then you owe me a dollar.”

My partner thought for a few seconds. “Now we have to pick the room, too?”

“It will keep things interesting. I will even sweeten the pot. If he has been dead more than a week AND he is anyplace other than the bathroom, I owe you two bucks. If he is in the bathroom, no matter how long he has been there, you only owe me a dollar”

“How am I supposed to remember all this?” my partner asked.

As we pulled up to the address, I opened the door and got out quickly. “I will let you know if you won. You need to trust me. Now, let’s get this over with.”

An hour later when we were leaving the morgue, I extended my hand. “One dollar, please.”

***

Who and What

“…Ambulance A, truck twelve…emergent response….two four six eight Main Street for chest pain…”

I pushed myself out of the lounger, yawned, and then said to my partner, “I’m getting an image.” I placed both hands on my head and acted like I had a headache and started humming.

“What the hell are you doing?’ he asked.

I closed my eyes. “Male. Twenty-five to thirty years old. And!” I continued, popping open my eyes. “He will have a previous cardiac history.”

My partner looked truly perplexed. “Are you losing it?”

Dispatch replied the update, “…units en route to the chest pain…patient is a twenty-eight year old male…conscious and alert. Difficulty speaking between breaths. Patient has a previous cardiac history…”

“Bingo!” I said as we got in the truck and sped off.

“You need to buy lottery tickets,” My partner said. He was truly in awe, which was even more satisfying than taking money off of him.

“It isn’t that difficult to figure out. It is Monday. We are going to the largest employer in the city. Someone doesn’t want to be at work today,” I said, giving away my secrets.

“And the previous cardiac history?” my partner asked.

“I bet this guy had really bad heartburn once and now thinks he has a cardiac history. That, or his mother told him that he had a heart murmur when he was a baby.”

And I was right. On the way to the hospital the patient told me he was really hung over and that he had a heart murmur when he was born. I should have bet the farm on this one.

***

 The games we play keep me from going insane some days. Joking around seems to be the only thing that saves me from having a nervous breakdown on occasion. The games and jokes are tasteless, I know, and probably appear to be boorish. But, these things are my coping mechanisms, so I can come back and do it again tomorrow.

Now I lay me down to sleep,                              

                  “…You are en route for a motor vehicle roll over…”

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,                      

                 “…One patient ejected at highway speeds…”

If I should die before I wake,                              

                  “…Patient is a 16 year old male. Unconscious, not breathing…”

I pray the Lord my soul to take.                        

                 “…CPR instructions being given…”

If I should live for other days,                            

                 “…All units en route to the rollover…”

Emergency Medical Services would be nothing without a well-equipped communications center, and the capabilities of the extraordinarily talented emergency medical dispatchers (EMD’s). The dispatch center that governs my area looks like something that I would expect to see at NASA. The staff is professional, polished, calm, and very well-trained. I do not envy their jobs, however, because I wouldn’t last even one day as an EMD. I know this because I inquired once about a job at the dispatch center (for the day when I am too old to work the streets) and was told they do not like to hire former paramedics because ‘we know too much.’ They were not referring to our knowledge about emergency medical services. They were referring to our knowledge of what is really on the other end of the phone, and thus an inability to take certain people seriously. I couldn’t agree more. I can only imagine how the conversations would go:

Me:       Nine, one, one. What is your emergency?

Caller:   Um, yeah, I need an ambulance.

Me:       <Big, audible sigh because I recognize the voice> Any particular reason…Bob? (Not a real name)

Caller:   Man, I’m really sick.

Me:        That’s what you said yesterday when you called and I didn’t send an ambulance then, either. Perhaps you should come up with something new

Caller:   My, um, back…I think it’s broken.

Me:        I thought you said you were sick.

Caller:   I think I am sick because my back is broken.

Me:        Unless you come up with something better than that, I am hanging up now.

Caller:    Okay, well, I think there’s a gas leak or something

Me:        <An almost audible eye roll> You mean carbon monoxide?

Caller:   Yeah, man, that’s it. I think the furnace is acting up

Me:        It’s the middle of July

Caller:   Um, well, I think my back is broken

Me:        Now we are back to that? Come on, Bob, I know better.

Caller:   It really hurts, man. I think I need some medicine.

Me:        What kind of medicine?

Caller:   Um, you know, something to make the pain stop

Me:        You mean like Morphine?

Caller:   Yeah, man.

Me:        The ambulance service is out of Morphine.

Caller:   No way! Maybe a doctor can help me out. I still need a ride to the hospital

Me:        Do you own a car?

Caller:   Yea man, but I been drinkin’ beer… <snorts and giggles>

Me:        It’s nine in the morning.

Caller:   We never stopped from last night

Me:        Color me surprised.

Caller:   Hey man, I need an ambulance.

Me:        <another sigh> Don’t you ever give up, Bob?

Caller:   I, um, I’m having a seizure.

Me:        You are having a seizure right this second?

Caller:   Um, yeah, you better send an ambulance. I’m having a seizure and I need some medicine to stop it.

Me:        Do you have a sharp object nearby?

Caller:   Um, yeah, I got a knife. Why?

Me:        Okay, I want you to take that knife and stab yourself in the eye.

Caller:   What?!!

Me:        If you can stab yourself in the eye and not say ouch, then I will believe you are having a seizure and I will send an ambulance.

Caller:   Um, yeah, I think my seizure stopped, man

Me:        No kidding…

<Long, uncomfortable pause>

Caller:   Um, are you going to send an ambulance?

Me:        I have to send the police first.

Caller:   Why you gotta send the cops, man?

<The sound of footsteps as there is a mass exodus when hearing the police might be en route>

Me:        Because you said you have been drinking and the police will need to make sure the scene is safe for the ambulance crew

Caller:   I don’t want no cops here. I just want an ambulance.

Me:        Have you been doing drugs today?

Caller:   I don’t do drugs, man.

Me:        I used to work the streets….man. Last time I was there you were so stoned that Mount Everest would be jealous

Caller:   That was you?!

Me:        Yes, and by the way, thanks for puking on my new boots.

Caller:   Sorry, man.

Me:        Do you really want me to send an ambulance?

Caller:   Uh, no thanks. I think I am okay now

Me:        Glad I could help you out

The pink slip would be waiting as soon as I hung up.

One of the unfortunate aspects of dispatching is that the EMDs can only go by what they are being told. It’s kind of like the ‘garbage in, garbage out’ theory. If the caller says something like, “OH MY GOD! THERE ARE BODIES EVERYWHERE!” then the dispatcher has no choice but to send police, fire, EMS, the National Guard, the Mayor…even though the caller might be snickering while they are talking.

One of the other unfortunate aspects of dispatching is that they have to follow a script. I have seen the scripts that the EMDs use and, like most bureaucratic endeavors, they are written without a shred of common sense. I would venture to say that whoever crafted these masterful ‘talking points’ probably never answered a single 9-1-1 call or worked out of the back of an ambulance.

This is the system we have, however, and this is the system that we live by. I appreciate our EMDs and the incredible challenges they face, and I also appreciate some of the laughs they give us, whether they mean to or not. Here are some examples of dispatches and updates from dispatch:

“The patient is unconscious but breathing.” Isn’t butt breathing urban slang for passing gas?

“The patient is a three month old female having difficulty speaking between breaths.” This is one seriously gifted three month old to already be speaking.

“Patient is conscious, alert, and breathing normally, but actively seizing.” Actively seizing? Is it possible to inactively seize?

“Patient has been in the bar for eight hours and fell off the bar stool. They are unconscious, breathing…….possibly intoxicated.” I never would have guessed.

“Patient is a white male, six foot tall, two hundred pounds, blond hair, green eyes, white pullover shirt with dark trousers, brown belt, dark socks, black loafers…had an argument with his girlfriend…patient is crying and walking north on Elm Street.” The patient sounds like a good looking, well dressed, sensitive guy, but does he have a medical complaint?

“Patient was chased on foot for six blocks by a K-9 unit. Upgrade to code three for a breathing problem.” I have a breathing problem if I run to the refrigerator.

“Patient is unconscious but snoring,” Again, more urban slang.

“Patient is conscious, alert, breathing, no bleeding. Just wants to be checked out.” They sound very lonely and desperate.

“The accident occurred on the west shoulder of the northbound lane just east of the west onramp to the interstate.” I’m not even sure if this is logistically possible. We ended up just looking for the big red fire truck and all the commotion.

An ambulance service is blind without a good dispatch system. Thank goodness I work in a city that has a good one. Thank goodness there is a calm, steady, sometimes inadvertently humorous voice on the other side of the radio when my world is going straight to hell.

In addition to responding to 9-1-1 calls, one of the necessary duties we perform in EMS is long distance transports. We pick up patients at skilled care facilities, hospitals, or even at their homes, and drive them to specialty care facilities for surgeries, procedures, rehabilitation, and sometimes just so they can be closer to their families. These trips can be just a few miles or a few hundred miles. There are times that I welcome a long distance transport so I can get off the streets for a few hours. That is, unless we get sent at the end of our shift and dinner will have to wait indefinitely. Or, the weather is bad and it will be a nerve-fraying experience. Hazardous duty pay should not just be for the military.

One such long distance transport occurred last winter. We were sent on a four hour journey to pick up a patient at their home and bring them back to a skilled care facility. The weather was iffy because of frozen fog (isn’t an ice cube frozen fog?). We were sent two hours before the end of our shift which meant I would get home just in time to go to bed and get up and go to work again. I drove on the way to get the patient, and sat in back of the ambulance on the way home. It should have taken four hours to get there, but because of the icy conditions, it took five. By the time we pulled up in front of the patient’s house, I had worked myself into a dither and was pretty cranky.

I backed into the driveway so we wouldn’t have as far to go to get the patient from the house to the truck. It would be my luck, I had decided, that this would be a 300+ pound patient that barely fit on the cot, and wheeling them down a driveway on a thin layer of ice posed all kinds of risks, not only for the patient, but for my partner and I, too. As we got the cot out of truck, I was fully anticipating that the patient would be some cantankerous person that would complain loudly for the next five hours about how uncomfortable they were, how bumpy the ride was, how hot or cold they were, and ask repeatedly if I had anything to drink in the back of the truck. If I should happen to mention with a little too much sarcasm that this particular “flight” does not offer a beverage service, I was sure this patient would write a complaint letter to the company and I would have to come up with an answer as to why I was treating grandpa with such disrespect. Bah-humbug.

The house was a quaint ranch-style home with a nice-sized two-stall garage. The house was probably built sometime in the late forties or early fifties. There was a FOR-SALE sign in the yard. As we maneuvered the cot up the porch and in the front door, I noticed that several neighbors were coming outside and gawking. Lookiloo’s, I figured, morbidly wanting to see if there was a ‘train wreck.’ As we walked into the house, I noticed several boxes stacked in neat piles. No pictures hung on the walls. The carpet was shag, straight out of the 1970’s. The walls were varying shades of greens and oranges – straight out of the 1970’s. A woman approached and introduced herself as the daughter of the patient. She had tears in her eyes.

This scene was not unfamiliar and it was never pleasant: Someone had reached the stage in life where they could no longer care for themselves and it was time to give up their independence. My heart already started aching, made worse by the tantrum I had thrown on the way there. My crabbiness was melting into melancholy.

The woman tearfully explained that her eighty-some year old father had really bad arthritis in his back and knees and was having a difficult time moving around. He had been sleeping in a recliner for the last several months because it was too difficult to get in and out of bed. He couldn’t shower or bathe himself any longer. He had fallen several times over the last few weeks trying to get in and out of the house. It was decided that it was time for him to move into a nursing home. They needed an ambulance to transport him because sitting in a car for that length of time would be excruciatingly painful. The daughter would follow us back. She handed me a check for over three thousand dollars because she already knew that insurance and Medicare were not going to cover this transport. I felt guilty taking her money.

The patient was in a bedroom sitting on the edge of the bed. I went back to introduce myself and my partner and see what we could do to help him get to the cot. He produced a quick, warm smile but the sadness in his eyes betrayed him. He politely extended his arthritic hand for a handshake. We chatted briefly and then I asked what I could do to help. With humility, the patient asked if I would allow him to walk to the ambulance.

I walked beside him as we slowly made our way into the living room, ready to intervene should he lose his balance. I told the daughter and my partner that Bill (not his real name) wished to walk to the ambulance instead of being carried out on the cot. I gave each a pointed look and they understood. My partner wrestled the cot out the door and went to the ambulance to wait. Bill stopped in the living room and gave the house one last loving look. His breathing became ragged as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. The daughter put an arm around her father’s shoulder and they both started crying.

How many memories must this house have? How incredibly difficult would it be to leave your home for the last time? How does a person come to terms with knowing they are no longer capable of caring for their own basic needs? I watched Bill and his daughter as they cried in utter agony as this new reality gripped them. I started sucking in several deep breaths and paced around the room to keep from crying myself. At that particular moment, I hated life and I hated myself.

One of the worst things about having a conscience is the price a person has to pay when they do or think something stupid and their conscience rears up and starts kicking the crap out of them. The last two hours of driving to get to this patient were spent cussing, and whining, and otherwise angry that I was risking my life to transport someone that probably could have been driven in a private vehicle. I had railed on to my partner about wasting EMS resources, abuse of the Medicare system, and how weak society had become in thinking an ambulance was needed for every little illness and discomfort. I felt ashamed and really, really stupid for being so judgmental.

After several despondent moments, Bill straightened up as best as he could, wiped his eyes, and with his voice shaking, said he was ready to go. His daughter helped him into a coat and stocking cap. As we walked out onto the front porch, at least a dozen neighbors had gathered in the front yard. The neighbors ranged in age from their early twenties to a few that appeared to be Bill’s age. A couple of the men approached and I got out of the way so they could help Bill down the porch steps. I noticed that several of the neighbors had tears in their eyes. The walk down the driveway was slow and the group of neighbors grew larger as more people came to offer words of encouragement and to say good-bye. This man was obviously well-liked.

Bill wasn’t the obese man that I had ashamedly assumed he would be, and with support from my partner and me, we were able to help him up the two steps and into the ambulance. As he gently lowered himself onto the cot, I noticed that he winched in pain. We got him as comfortable as was possible on an ambulance cot, and then I told my partner we were ready to go.

As we drove away, the throng of well-wishers waved and Bill gave a tearful wave back. My heart was up in my throat. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the emotional pain that he must be suffering at that moment.

I told Bill that this would be a bumpy ride and I offered to give him pain medications. He politely declined, which didn’t surprise me at all. Bill’s generation was proud, and willing to tough out their problems. I adjusted the heat in the patient compartment, dimmed the lights so he didn’t have to squint, and then settled in for the long drive home.

The ride was bumpy and with each dip in the road, I saw Bill grimace. But not once did he complain. I offered pain medications again, and he reluctantly agreed. I started an IV, pushed enough Morphine to dull the pain, and then settled back.

When Bill seemed to relax a little from the Morphine, he appeared to be eager to talk, so I asked him about his life: Where he was from originally, what kind of work he had done, how many kids, et cetera.

Bill was a World War II veteran and had even fought at the Battle of the Bulge. He married his high school sweetheart when he returned from the war and they had a son and a daughter. The son lived in the south and was on his way to visit. His daughter was a school teacher. He had worked as a laborer in his home town for 50 years and when he retired he had worked part time at a local hardware store until his arthritic knees had forced him to quit. He and his wife had built their own house 55 years ago. His wife had passed away 20 years ago after a long battle with cancer. He had done woodworking as a hobby and had taken great delight in making dozens of things for his five grandkids, but had been unable to pursue his hobby for the last five or six years. Bill proudly said that he had never had to borrow a dime in his entire life…that he had built a house and put two kids through college without setting foot in a bank. Again, I was not surprised. This was typical for his generation: Proud, hardworking, and responsible.

I had become so engaged in talking with Bill that the first three hours of the trip home breezed by. He was one of the most humble, charming, and charismatic patients that I had ever met, and once again my conscience was thumping me for being so audacious in assuming this was going to be a miserable long distance transport. I noticed that Bill’s eyes were getting heavy so I turned the lights off and stopped asking him questions. He drifted off to sleep.

When we arrived at the assisted living center, I gently woke Bill up and told him we were there. I could tell he was putting on a brave front when he asked if he could walk from the ambulance. Normally, I wouldn’t allow a patient that had been given Morphine to walk but I was not going to allow this man that had served his country and lived such a rich and full life to be robbed of his self-respect. We helped him out of the ambulance and assisted him inside. His daughter was already there and after taking care of some paperwork, I turned over care to the nursing staff. I shook Bill’s hand and wished him the best. He winked at me and thanked me for the pleasant conversation. But once again I noticed that he had tears in his eyes.

After getting home, I started thinking about what it would be like when I was Bill’s age. Would I handle losing my independence with the same grace and dignity that Bill had? Would I have a throng of well-wishers to see me off? What had I really done with my life that would warrant such respect? I had a lot yet to learn, I knew, and I was feeling very grateful that I had had the honor of meeting and taking care of Bill.

I mentioned previously that the single most important question we ask in EMS is, “Do you speak English?” The second most important question is, “Are you going to throw up?”

The medical term for vomiting is ‘emesis.’ Excessive vomiting is known as ‘hyperemesis.’ No matter what it is called, it is probably the second most disturbing thing a medic can see in the back of an ambulance.

I go to great lengths to prevent a patient from un-eating on me. I would like to believe I do this because of my compassion for these patients, and because other than bulimics, I really don’t think anyone WANTS to fill my boots. The reality is, though, I try to preempt the inevitable yak-o-rama because I don’t want there to be two of us tossing our cookies. It is very bad form to hurl in front of a patient.

Our first line of defense against a barf-fest is an anti-emetic drug called Zofran, or Ondansetron, for anyone that really cares (say that three times really fast while your patient is turning green). I readily admit that I give this medication willingly, freely, and without reservation to anyone that shows even the slightest hint that they might readjust their fluid levels in the back of the truck. As medications go, Zofran is benign, but very effective. Imagine my surprise one afternoon when we were restocking the ambulance and the medicine cabinet was void of Zofran. A quick call the main shop and I was told that we were out all over the city. When we got back to the station, I read an email from our corporate office that indicated there was a nationwide shortage of Zofran. I think my hands might have started shaking.

Woofing isn’t exactly a seasonal problem, so I had to scratch my head and wonder how the pharmaceutical company that manufactures Zofran,  GlaxoSmithKline, could suddenly be unable to keep up with demand. The conspiracy theorist in me thought it is a matter of greed, sort of like how the price of gasoline can inexplicably go up even though oil production and demand stay the same. Our supply of Zofran was down to what we had left in the trucks, which wasn’t much. We were in crisis mode.

An emergency plea went out to the local pharmacies and we tried to secure a secondary supplier of  Zofran. Unfortunately, even the local pharmacies were out. I swear, though, I saw a pharmacist in the shadows behind their building dealing Zofran to a competitor like it was crystal meth. This could have been the conspiracy theorist in me making me believe that is what I saw. Visions of dozens of patients tossing their lunch could have been driving my imagination, too.

When we were down to a single dose of Zofran, we were told to be judicious as to who we gave it to. I was toying with the idea of shooting myself up with the last dose, somehow rationalizing that a puke-free medic would be a more effective medic. As I was tying a tourniquet on my arm and getting ready to mainline the last dose, my partner reminded me that self-medication was against company policy. What a killjoy. Our very next call was for a sick person; the dreaded trilogy of nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. The patient was barely situated on the cot and I was already pushing our last dose of Zofran. I am weak. So what. The patient looked like someone that would eat a pizza and then call 9-1-1.

The next time we were at the hospital, I anxiously searched the medication cabinet for Zofran in desperate hopes that maybe a vial or two might have been overlooked or placed in the wrong slot. No such luck. It was time to accept reality: Our first line of defense against an impromptu bio-hazard bath was gone. So, we decided to stock up on our second line of defense: Emesis bags, also known as goody bags or lunch holders.  Much to my dismay, we were out of those, too. It seemed we had achieved the perfect gack storm.

On our way back to the station I was taking wagers as to whether GlaxoSmithKline also manufactured the emesis bags. It made perfect sense to me. They were launching a total coup on the spew business. They could charge whatever they wanted for Zofran AND emesis bags. Major shareholders were going to be retiring multimillionaires before this crisis was over. A quick call to the main office and my theory was shot down. We got our emesis bags from someone else and our local supply person had forgotten to order them.

When we arrived at the station, I sent an email to management suggesting that our supply person be taken outside and shot as an example to the rest of the world. I was told to suck it up and quit being such a re-lunch hater.