The diminutive Latino man was held to the backboard with five pair of heavy duty nylon straps. His arms were secured under the straps. His neck was immobilized with a neck collar, his head encased by two big foam rubber head blocks and his forehead and chin taped to the backboard with lengths of two inch wide tape. This whole package was secured to the cot in the back of the ambulance by three pair of seat belts.
And yet, with all that, the paramedic and I were still losing the fist fight with this Hispanic Houdini.
Here's how it went down.
Around 12:30 in the morning or so we get a call for a two vehicle accident. We zoom out to the scene and arrive to quite a sight. The full sized pick up truck had rammed full speed into the back of the small empty car parked on the shoulder of the road. The back of the car was so crushed that it now looked like an oddly deformed motorcycle. The pick up truck crashed to a stop in the median strip, landing on its roof. The fire engine had beaten us to the scene (rats) and a firefighter/EMT (a good guy) was already in the upside down cab with the lone occupant, a Latino man. The patient did NOT want to come out of the truck and continued to profess, in Spanish, that he was fine and we could all just go away now. Our Captain, of proud Cuban decent, helped the patient to understand in his native tongue that he really needed to come out and join the rest of us, which he reluctantly does.
Once removed from the cab of the truck the patient now denies ever having been in the truck in the first place, but you can't fool us. We know he was in there. Alcohol is now suspected (him, not us). The patient is given the choice of going to the hospital with either the police or us. After some debate he picks door number two and we load him up in the ambulance, packaged as described earlier.
In the back of the bus is the paramedic and myself, along with our patient. The driver starts heading towards the hospital.
It's all good. I start the trauma assessment, head to foot.
I don't get past the head.
For some reason the chemistry between the paramedic and the patient goes south. He suddenly remembers some English and begins to accuse the paramedic of having a romantic involvement with his own mother. The patient becomes combative and wrenches his hands free. The paramedic tries to reason with the patient, decibel levels increase and all of a sudden the patient is auditioning for Smack Down.
The paramedic grabs one arm and I grab the other. At this time it becomes evident that the patient works with this hands, and arms, and upper torso. I, on the other hand, am the proverbial chubby computer dweeb. The medic is not so chubby, but he too is a computer dweeb. I'm gamely hanging onto the one arm like a bull terrier while depending upon the paramedic to take care of the other arm all the while hoping that the five pair of nylon straps and the three pair of seat belts continue to hold.
The driver notices the Smack Down audition taking place three feet behind him and steps on the gas, bless his heart. The medic picks up the radio and tells the hospital we have a combative patient and to have security meet us at the door. The radio message was pretty dramatic as it was made as the medic was wrestling with the patient and I'm sure all that came across the broadcast. The hospital puts out the word "Code Strong at the ER!!", as we come rolling up to the door. The driver jumps out of the cab and into the back of the ambulance. As I and the medic hold the patient's arms down the driver re-secures a seat belt a little higher and a little more secure over the arms. NOW the patient is secure and not a threat to us. And it only took three big guys to do it. Hear us roar!
It must have been a slow night at the hospital because there were about a dozen people to greet us as we finally swing the ambulance doors open. The first person we see is the kindly, gray haired pediatrician. I don't think he was part of the security team. The audience of twelve takes one look at the diminutive Latino Mighty Mouse ("HERE I come to ruin your DAAAAY!") and all the straps and seat belts. Twelve pairs of accusatory eyes turn to look at us like we're wimps. We try to defend our manhood by saying that we just finally secured the patient's arms and it was a heck of a fight and you should have been there. We started to sound pitiful so we shut up. A collective look of disappointment is evident with the crowd as they sadly turn away from what could have been an interesting show. I'm pretty certain that the kindly pediatrician called me a pussy, but I was looking away at the time so I can't say for sure it was him.
Anyway, it was quite a fight.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
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