People fall. Some makes excuses for why and how they fall...even blame others. We call this "The Gravity Monster"...he is ruthless and unforgiving. He strikes at all times and to anyone and everyone he chooses. So- Beware...you're time will come. It always does...even happens to the best of us :-/
Truth of the matter is- no one ever just laughs it off and moves on. I do...I find it hilarious. I trip on my own feet all the time!! It's funny. Big deal. *SHRUG* However, usually...if you fall IN FRONT of others, what do they do?? They call 9-1-1...unless of course, you happen to tuck and roll up into a sprint fast enough that they haven't even entered their screen lock on their phone. There are also those who refuse help...the "I'm fine!"-er's...these folks are the ones that usually need help. But, their ego is bruised enough so that the "fight or flight" kicks in and they'd rather take you on in an Octagon Cage Fight, than get the hole in their head patched...besides, who doesn't need another hole in the head, right?!
Well... that's where I met Mr. Ex-Military. Let me take a second to express that I love my Veteran's, and am extremely grateful and appreciative of their service for securing the freedom we have today...So, don't tag me as disrespectful. This gentleman just so happened to be ex-military...hence his name. I won't share which branch though to keep from any hard feelings.
Dear Mr. Ex-Military-
I agree that I too despise hospitals...however, with that being said- When you're a broken mess and can't summon the inner Go-Go Gadget bone healer...please don't try to fight me when I try to help. It's my job, just as yours was when you were active duty.
Sincerely-
The EMT you tried to punch in the face.
I do understand many return after service over sea's with PTSD. Some- without. I am not going to judge you any way you look at it. I haven't experienced what you have gone through. But, when you try to fight me like Chuck Liddell on the street corner, please don't be upset when- due to your level of alcohol in your bloodstream, I OWN YOU while introducing you to your new friend "The Gravity Monster" aka- The pavement...as Police take control. I will do what I have to to keep you from making a connection again between your fist and my jaw. Same as I would to anyone else. I only have one face to work with here, so please don't take that away from me.
So- our story begins here. "Baby Face" behind the wheel. Taller, Blond partner who's face show's constant sincerity with every smile. On the my "Top 5 Favorite Partner's" list. Mid 20's; family man with great, I mean GREAT skin!! Like what you would imagine seeing after either laser resurfacing -OR- on a new born baby...if only MY skin looked so good :-/ *SIGH*
A Saturday night...the weekend of Cinco de Mayo. The city is packed and covered in beads. We are in the heart of the "all things bad" part of downtown. Not exactly the place that screams "come here for a good time". More like, "Come play if you wanna get robbed". A passerby calls 9-1-1 to notify Police of a fight on the street corner...both appearing heavily intoxicated. (Gee, go figure...it is the middle of a weekend of drunken shenanigans) When we get called in, it is by Police. Mr. Ex-Military is described as "appearing to be cooperative". As we pull up on scene...it is far from that. Police are holding one guy down on the hood of their squad car... Baby Face looks at me and says, "Bet that's ours...*sigh* Here we go!". Of course, it is my turn in the back of the truck.
We get out. Ready for the tussle that looks like is about to take place. We lower our stretcher and get it ready for restraints. Police shout for us on the other side of the street...on the curb by the alley...in the center of a crowd of people...even better.
We cross the street. I'm getting ready to talk to Police...the kid across the street is screaming now...4 cops holding him down. Something about his "Dad". Huh... Mr. Ex Military is sitting on the curb. Police looks less than interested. "This guy got in a fight with THAT guy *pointing across the street*. THAT guy whooped this guy's A**...as you can see. But, he won't talk to us- AT...ALL." says, Officer Uninterested. (looking at Mr. Ex Military sitting on the curb-he is bleeding from the face and his ankle looks, well...odd.) I shift my glance at Mr. Ex-Military. (Man! His face is wrecked! Wonder what he must have said for this beating)
As said by Police, Mr. Ex-Military has been easily agitated but otherwise compliant. (Famous last words...) Baby Face and I head over to him. "F*ck you guys! Leave me the f*ck alone! I don't need your help! I'm FINE!! I'm a *Fill in branch of Military here* Don't f*cking touch me!"- Says a "compliant" Mr. Ex-Military. (Way to go PD.) Police immediately hop in. A tussle begins. The kid across the street is hollering more than before now. (Hmm, interesting) Officer Uninterested (now interested- gripping his taser int he ready position), Baby Face and I get Mr. Ex- Military under control. "Let my son GO! Let him go! I'm fine!! Leave me here. My son will take me!" (Son?? What?! Where??) I look at the kid across the street- hysterical and in tears trying to fight off the 4 officers holding him down and the cuffs off his wrists...Me- "So...who is the kid across the street? Is THAT his son??" Police- "Not sure. Maybe? I'll go see." *Leaving us with a "complaint patient" and crossing the street*
Let me remind you- there is a large crowd of people around us...myself and Baby Face and Mr. Ex-Military now laying back on the curb. Like a bad car accident- they watch. I'm talking to Mr. Ex-Military... "Sir, is that your son over there? *pointing across the street*". "YES!! Let him go!!". Me- "Sir, I am NOT with the police. I am here to take you to *Insert Local ER here* to get you checked out. Will you let me take a look at your ankle? It looks pretty bad. What happened?". He stares at me. I've seen this look before...on every patient that tries to fight us, right before they swing. Baby Face sees it too. We're ready. Again, he screams that he is "Fine!" and doesn't need any help. And "I'm not sayin' Sh*t until you let my son go!". (Sometimes I REEEEAAALLLY wish people understood the difference between us and the Police...*SIGH* )
Mini Mr. Ex- Military just so happens to be- exactly that. He just flew in from his last tour in Afghanistan. This was his second. Same branch as his pops...guess there was some bad blood left un-handled at the time of his last deployment. Father/Son were less than pleased with each other. So, I talk to Mr. Ex-Military after Police fill us in on these key details. Police won't press charges unless he wants that done. Wow...Dad just got his tail whooped and is a broken and bloody mess in downtown and pride is going to keep from necessary action taking place...of course Dad won't file against him. He's a *Inset branch of Military here*
At this point, he finally lets me take a look at his ankle...or so he says. With Police and my Baby Face within feet, he swings. I'm looking at his ankle- just about to roll up his pant leg. They don't catch it fast enough. Mr. Ex-Militarys' fist connects with my face. A gorgeous right hook...thank god I don't have a glass jaw. I get knocked over. Makes it even better than EVERYONE around us saw too. Mr. Ex-Military is now pinned to the ground. Thank god for Baby Face- now dodging swings after getting in between me and Mr.Ex-Military. I to this day, still have NO IDEA what the delay was with Police...maybe a pretty girl in the crowd?
I shake of my daze. (Did that just really happen?!) Well, my jaw still seems to work. Bonus. Have a feeling it definitely left a mark...("Now I'll never be a teen model!!" lol) I get up. Mr. Ex-Military seems to have grasped the fact he didn't just hit a Cop...and I have long hair...not a man hair cut. He looks confused. (That makes two of us...my ears are still ringing) The crowd is quiet...so is Mini Ex- Military across the street...The group of Police look stunned. I'm being asked if I want to press charges. All I want is to check out this guys foot! Mr. Ex-Military still swears it's "Fine." He's restrained. I roll back his pants...(Holy Sh*t!!!)
Everyone played with Lego's at one point in their childhood, right? Well, the best way that I can describe what I see is: Think of two Lego's- 1 of the medium rectangle ones (foot) and 1- of the long ones (leg)...Know think of them being in sausage casing and connected (like an "L") Ok?? Ok. EXCEPT!!!...the little rectangle piece is NOT connected to the large on BY ANY MEANS! It is sitting along side the large piece! And almost protruding through the sausage casing holding the "bones" together. Mr. Ex-Military thinks it's "Fine"...(Alright, I got it already...it's "Fine"...If you were only sober, you might get it)
So, I take hold of his once attached bones- hand behind ankle, supporting. And other under the foot. He yells at me to not touch him (again) cuz he's...What?? Yes..."Fine". I slide my hand up his calf a little...then? Drop my hand from under his foot....His eyes light up just about the same time his voice does..."HOLY SH*T!!! OH MY GOD *Screaming* Ok!...OKAY!!! It HURTS!!!. I'm SORRY! Oh my GOD, please?! Help me!"... Ok. NOW, we are getting somewhere.
We load him. Splint him. Restrain him. He's crying. No one is judging. He's messed up, bad. His son, is balling like a 4 year old who just pulled out his first tooth...bleeding from the mouth a little too even. He wants to come with us...My jaw starts to sting just thinking about it.
Story goes like this-
Mr.Ex-Military picks up Mini Mr. Ex-Military...they have pent up anger towards each other but both attempt to play it off. They decide to go drink...heavy. Que Anger. Que Fight. Que Mr. Ex-Military and Son in streets in an all out Death Match of the drunk kind. Mr. Ex-Military trips off curb after final blow to mouth...Ankle snaps. He goes down. Son proceeds to kink him in the face (Stellar child you got there). Bystanders call 9-1-1. Police arrives. Police jumps Son. Que cuffs and squad car pin down. Call for us. Fist to face combo= knee to neck retaliation via 235lb partner and possible tasing by trigger happy officer. Followed by sudden come to "Jeebus" moment that you ARE a broken mess when your ankle separates from your leg, while still inside your skin. All this = Father/Son buddy transport for Epic ER fun with needles experience.
Moral of the story-
I am an EMT...not a street fighter. Nor a Police officer. In fact, my badges even state that. Not the best idea to drink heavily when you're peeved at your recently reunited son to commence drunken death match...otherwise you (and your son) will end up restrained and in custody with officers by your bed side while you get pins placed in your foot. I don't care WHO YOU ARE...The Gravity Monster ALWAYS WINS!!
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