Five shifts in two weeks as a paramedic in the books, and I haven't gone crazy, fallen on my face, or killed anyone yet. Small miracles.
My first two weeks as a medic could be described as an extended version of "Training Day", without all the violence; I'm paired with another paramedic as a means of making sure I know our protocols and can competently run calls as the lead provider; herein lies the biggest jump from EMT to paramedic, and the biggest sticking point with new medics (or so I hear). I had the good fortune to be paired with a very experienced medic who, so far, has been more than willing to step back and let me take the lead, without putting any sort of pressure on me. I had hoped that my first few calls would let me ease into things without too much stress...the EMS gods had other ideas.
"Medic 31 respond, XXXX Street, 15 year-old patient, active seizure." Straight into the fire, then.
It wasn't that I hadn't been prepared. I knew how to handle a seizing patient, how to treat reversible causes, which drugs would sedate our patient in case of recurring or prolonged seizures; what freaked me out was the knowledge that I was about to experience The Moment. That moment every new paramedic experiences at some point, where an ambulance-ful of medical personnel look at you and ask "What should we do?" My Moment came after our patient had seized on us for the second time, after we had strapped her to our stretcher as well as is possible with a violently shaking person, after I'd made sure that she was, in fact, still breathing and circulating properly, and after I'd been informed of her adverse reactions to the aforementioned sedatives. Four sets of eyes on me, and all that came to mind was "let's go".
Before I even had time to think, we were racing down the interstate towards Nashville, lights and sirens going, occasionally breathing for my patient, thanking the higher-ups that I had a firefighter with me taking vitals and doing everything I didn't have enough hands for. A totally sane person might, at this point be thinking "what the hell have I gotten myself into?" I'll admit to moments of anxiety, of indecision: should I sedate her? Do I need to intubate her? Do I trust that she's breathing well enough on her own? Am I OK with what my ears, eyes, hands, and monitor are telling me? More than all of that though, I felt oddly serene. Like I was truly supposed to be in the back of a speeding, wailing ambulance, and that I was finally able to do everything I'd worked towards for the last two years.
Our patient made it. As did the others in those five shifts, the major and minor traumas, the relatively mundane medical conditions, the people who just needed help and didn't know how else to get it, and the truly emergent patient showing all the textbook symptoms of a stroke, none of which have done anything to convince me that I should be doing anything else. Next stop, the busiest station in the county, full freedom as a medic, and all the perks and pitfalls that come with it. Serenity prevails.
It wasn't that I hadn't been prepared. I knew how to handle a seizing patient, how to treat reversible causes, which drugs would sedate our patient in case of recurring or prolonged seizures; what freaked me out was the knowledge that I was about to experience The Moment. That moment every new paramedic experiences at some point, where an ambulance-ful of medical personnel look at you and ask "What should we do?" My Moment came after our patient had seized on us for the second time, after we had strapped her to our stretcher as well as is possible with a violently shaking person, after I'd made sure that she was, in fact, still breathing and circulating properly, and after I'd been informed of her adverse reactions to the aforementioned sedatives. Four sets of eyes on me, and all that came to mind was "let's go".
Before I even had time to think, we were racing down the interstate towards Nashville, lights and sirens going, occasionally breathing for my patient, thanking the higher-ups that I had a firefighter with me taking vitals and doing everything I didn't have enough hands for. A totally sane person might, at this point be thinking "what the hell have I gotten myself into?" I'll admit to moments of anxiety, of indecision: should I sedate her? Do I need to intubate her? Do I trust that she's breathing well enough on her own? Am I OK with what my ears, eyes, hands, and monitor are telling me? More than all of that though, I felt oddly serene. Like I was truly supposed to be in the back of a speeding, wailing ambulance, and that I was finally able to do everything I'd worked towards for the last two years.
Our patient made it. As did the others in those five shifts, the major and minor traumas, the relatively mundane medical conditions, the people who just needed help and didn't know how else to get it, and the truly emergent patient showing all the textbook symptoms of a stroke, none of which have done anything to convince me that I should be doing anything else. Next stop, the busiest station in the county, full freedom as a medic, and all the perks and pitfalls that come with it. Serenity prevails.
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