Another clip of a plane doing things that planes should’nt!
Will be back soon…need to chill abit…!
Another clip of a plane doing things that planes should’nt!
Will be back soon…need to chill abit…!
Another busy night shift…as usual. Still having to ping off on ‘Blues & Twos’ on every job due to ‘Call Connect’ until the call taker gets more info. Its playing havoc with our ‘carbon footprint’! All of the jobs we had been sent to were not ‘life threatening’ or even serious. But we had been called and the onus of responsibility had been passed to us. Take the history, examine the patient, arrive at a possible diagnosis and then treat, transport or refer.
The occasional serious life threatening job does pop up on the radar from time to time and its then when you need to switch from ‘laid back, seen it all before’ mode into ‘switched on, do the right thing’ mode. That’s the danger with nights (and to some extent days). You get bombarded with so much that could (and should) be dealt with by either the patients themselves or their GP. Its when you are tired that you can make mistakes and things tend to bite you in the arse!
Only two hours left of this night shift and I was flagging! Another call out! I subconsciously dragged my weary boots across the garage floor towards the truck. I could hear the incessant high pitch chirping of the MDT detailing our next job. Climbing into the passenger seat I automatically shut the door, seat belt on, flick through the MDT screen and press mobile. The address was given and nothing else…standard practice!
Heading off with blues turning, the MDT gave the update seconds later. ‘Query Miscarriage’ I pressed acknowledged on the screen. ‘Oh great! A real cheerful job to end the shift!’ I was not looking forward to this one. You need empathy in this job but at ‘dark o clock’ in the morning you need to work hard on your social skills so as not to come across as heartless or too matter of fact.
Arriving at the address we park the truck and I take in the resus bag as the minimum kit needed. A knock on the door is answered very quickly by a young man who is very panicky and implores us to do something before we even see our patient! Something tells me that this job is not going to be as described on the MDT. He shows us into the kitchen where we see his wife sat on the floor, naked and with the baby half hanging out!
Quickly getting to work and switching on, we deliver the baby…it is a dark red, purple, blue…and very, very, small. Whilst we are attaching the clamps and getting ready to cut the cord I ask mum how far on she was in the pregnancy. ’24 weeks’ comes the reply. Its a premature baby and there are no signs of life. This is going to turn out to be a downer of a job! ‘I know its dead!’ Mum is quite calm but visibly upset.
Just when we are convinced that there are no signs of life my mate spots something. ‘Did you see that?’ I’m cradling the baby in a dry sheet after trying to stimulate it to breath. It is so tiny, not much bigger than my outstretched hand. And then I see it. A tiny flicker in the upper arm. A tiny brachial pulse in the babies tiny arm. Using the ‘baby bag & mask’ I start to ventilate the tiny one. The smallest paediatric mask we have is covering the babies entire face.
After not more than a minute or so of ‘bagging’ the colour is improving and there is definite movement. The little one is making good respiratory efforts. We decide to make a run for it and alert the maternity via our control that we need a neonatal resus team standing by. Mum is still convinced that the baby is dead! Still bagging the baby we hurry out to the truck. My mate opens the side door and allows me to get in and position my self in the most appropriate position to carry on bagging the baby.
We have called a back up vehicle for mum and we leave for the journey across the city to maternity. Even though its early morning, dark and little traffic about we need to make progress. My left leg is jammed against the stretcher and as I cradle the tiny bundle in my left arm I am frantically trying to effectively bag the baby. Every little bump, every slight turn is magnified so it makes it even more difficult to maintain a good seal and ventilate at the same time. Jamming my leg further and squeezing my elbows in I keep up a steady rate of good, fast ventilation’s.
I’m talking to the baby, and to myself. ‘Come on baby, keep fighting’ The adrenaline is coursing through my tired veins like fire. And then….the baby cries…! Not the kind of cry you normally associate with a new born baby but a kind of mewling noise. A good sign, but the baby is still fighting for its very survival. My leg is aching, my eyes are fixed on the tiny one, ears straining to hear every cry or whimper. ‘Come on little one, dont give up!’
At last we arrive at the maternity hospital. My crew mate runs off to find the team waiting for us. As I step out of the truck still bagging the tiny one the Doctor wanders over not expecting to see how well the baby is doing. ‘Oh! Right! Erm…’ He immediately switches on. ‘Over here please, place the baby on the pad…’ I place the tiny one on the neonatal resuscitation trolley. The team get to work and carry on bagging. ‘Well done on the bagging. Must have been difficult in the back of a moving truck?’ The Doctor is very appreciative.
We complete the paperwork and take a last look at the tiny one. The baby is a fighter, I hope it pulls through. The consultant tells us there is a 40% chance of survival. Most babies that do survive a premature birth suffer some form of disability in one form or another. But some go on to have a normal, healthy life. We,ve done our bit. We leave it up to the intensive care bods to do their stuff…and to the tiny one to keep on fighting. Walking back to the truck my left leg is still shaking…!
‘CRASH’…The back door burst inwards, the frame splintering apart showering glass onto the kitchen floor. Three dark figures rushed into the dark room, glass crunching under their black high leg boots. Covered from head to toe in black and with raised fire arms in the shoulder, the three intruders quickly made their way into the inner confines of the dwelling.
No lights were on, no one seemed to be down stairs, all was quiet apart from the dull thud of boots on living room carpet. All three made their way to the bottom of the stairs and without a second glance ran up two steps at a time. The first crouched at the top whilst number two went left into the first bedroom and number three went right into the second bedroom.
From entering the building to getting upstairs exactly 15 seconds had passed.
The silence was broken by shouts of protest from the second bedroom. “What the f**k! Who are you?” accompanied by the noise of someone hurriedly trying to get out of bed. “Piss off from me, I’ll have you you f****r!” The other two figures in black joined their colleague in the second bedroom. A light switch was flicked and a single bare light bulb illuminated all within the room.
On the edge of the bed trying to pull on his dark blue ‘Adidas’ trackie bottoms with one hand and fumble for a knife with the other was ‘Bezza’ . His eyes screwed up against the sudden bright light, his lips curled back against nicotine stained teeth and his scrawny drug riddled, benefit assisted frame started to rise from the bed. Looking down at him were three figures dressed in black, all armed and all totally focused on Bezza.
“Stand still or I will punch your f*****g teeth so far down your throat you’ll have to shove a toothbrush up your arse to clean them!” The first black figure in the room lowered his weapon and curled his black gloved fist in front of ‘Bezza’. The other two black clad figures quickly searched the room for any signs of weapons or incriminating evidence.
Bezza did not heed the warning from in front of him and attempted to push past his uninvited guests. ‘CRUMP’ went Bezzas nose as gloved fist connected with facial protuberance. Blood and snot flew lazily through the air and landed on the beer stained wall next to the bed. Bezza staggered backwards and slumped against the wall. Both hands came up to his face in a desperate attempt to realign his broken nose.
“F****rs!!!” screamed Bezza as he tried to launch himself at the nearest man in black. Next came the sound of the wardrobe has it exploded into pieces as Bezza was sent flying into it. As he scrabbled to get up out of one of MFI’s discounted range of bedroom furniture, the first man in black stepped up and using both gloved hands slapped him hard on the ears at the same time. A slight cupping of the hands gave out a kind of muffled “CLOP” noise as Bezzas eardrums burst. Bezza was not having a good night!
Howling with pain and eventually gaining his feet Bezza finally began to focus on who was in the room with him. “Who are you f****rs, what do you want?” He warily looked at the three men in black facing him. The only tell tale sign of who they were was a small camouflaged patch on their right shoulders…it said ‘SWAB’. ” “Are you Police you b*****ds?” Bezza began to regain his composure “Because I can have you done…for assault…ah know my rights! I’ll get you all sacked and I’ll get loads of compo you f*****g b*****ds!”
“SWAB” Special Wounds And Bandages. And we hear you’ve been a naughty little boy Bez!” The leader of the three spoke through his respirator as he stepped towards him. “What have ah done…I aint done nowt! Prove it you w****r!” Bezzas night was about to get a whole lot worse. But he didn’t know that…yet! Shaking his head to try and stop the ringing and to try and gather his thoughts he quickly darted for the bedroom door. Before he had reached the door a black clad arm came out and ‘necked’ him.
Bezza lay there on the floor gasping for breath with pain coursing through his throat, through his ears and through his nose. “You…You little piece of shit…have been taking the piss with your ‘rights’ so we have been asked to have a chat with you to see if you will mend the error of your ways?” Bezza kept grabbing at his neck and trying to speak but found it difficult. Rolling onto his side he started to pull himself up onto the bed.
“What ave ah dun then?” Bezza croaked between gasps. “What have you done…? Well let us see…assaults on men, women and children, theft of cars, aggravated burglaries, robbing a pensioner in the street of her handbag, criminal damage, vandalism, benefit fraud, drug possession with intent to supply, possession of offensive weapons… and…crimes against fashion! In fact looking at your record you have over 70 offences racked up!”
“Dunt madder doh does it? Cos ah can do what the f**k ah want can ah? An youse lot cant touch me cos I’ve got rights! You lot are so dead when I find out who you are!” The leader of the three man SWAB team moved ever so closer to Bezza and stared long and hard into his eyes as if eyeing up his prey before the kill. Every now and then the leader would tilt his head to one side and then to the other as if he was inspecting a new type of insect.
“Anyway what the f***k is SWAB? Its nowt cos my rights come first dunt they youse b*****ds?” The leader removed his respirator and looked at Bezza through the eye slit of his nomex balaclava. “Well we have different hats in SWAB. We have our Police hat for law and order issues…and we have an Ambulance hat for trauma emergencies and the like!” Calmly the SWAB team skipper moved back a couple of feet from Bezza as he rose from the bed.
“F***k me! So you lot are sent to try and scare me…I aint scared of nowt!…I’m brick I am!” And with that Bezza tried to once again make good his escape. “SNAP” Bezzas knee cap shattered with the blow from the butt of a Colt Commando assault rifle. “I thought you might not be persuaded to mend the error of your ways…so let me introduce you to our other hat… meet Justice Hat!” The third SWAB team member moved effortlessly round to face Bezza.. and brought his weapon upto bear. Muzzle resting against Bezzas head the third member said “Nothing personal pond scum!” And with that he pulled the trigger…..!!!!!!!
I awake and look around to find the alarm clock going off! Just another couple of minutes in bed. And with a nice warm fuzzy feeling I drift off back to sleep….zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
(Foot note: this is as a result of a conversation with a Police officer on what should happen to some of these scrotes. I think he should be made Chief Constable…but somehow I dont think he will get the job…mores the pity!)