Firefighters gather on the steps of the American History Museum in DC, to organize their presence at Chief Ellerbe's "State of the Department" address.

Lt. Alvarado rallies the troops before the press conference.

Firefighters traveled from all areas (including outside the DMV)—via many different means of transportation—for the purpose of this demonstration.

Members proudly wore garments with the "DCFD" logo, which have been outlawed by Department order. Uniform regulations have changed five times within the last calendar year.

(I wouldn't want to face this crowd, either.)

Chief of Department Kenneth Ellerbe assumed his stance on the podium with a cool demeanor.

Multiple local news sources were present at the address; Fox5 presented the day's story on the 5 p.m. evening news.

Attempting to make several jokes during his presentation, Chief Ellerbe proffered a casual, carefree demeanor during his presentation.

Several firefighters had their children present in the room; all expressed the silent statement that Ellerbe's policy changes affected not only the firefighters, but their spouses and children as well.

Just prior to the 'question and answer' section, a pre-arranged cue brougt all firefighting members of the Department to attention.

Again on cue, all members performed a crisp about-face, turning their backs on Chief Ellerbe. Members were dismissed via vocal cues immediately thereafter.

Chief Ellerbe had no reaction, instead staring at his notes on the podium until the exodus was completed.

Completing the press conference, Chief Ellerbe presented the remainder of his Q&A to a mostly empty room.

Outside, firefighters gathered to show homemade signs and share their thoughts on the day's events.

District firefighters still staunchly oppose several recent pieces of Department order, including uniform policy regulations and rumors of changes to the shift schedule.

Lt. Alvarado speaks to members of the Washington Times, relating the day's events and the reasoning behind the firefighters' actions.

Firefighters gather to watch the 5 p.m. broadcast of their actions, featured by local news station Fox5.

Sure, we have an ongoing struggle regarding our shift schedule. Our repair shop is "understaffed and overworked," threatening our citizens with the possibility that there may not be enough serviceable apparatus to adequately cover the city's ever-growing number of emergencies. Oh, and morale is circling the bowl, one flush away from joining the cesspool.

But the most important thing we need know is: how were the pancakes?

So here's the obverse and reverse of the card. Upon first inspection, I already have qualms about this piece of self-righteous cardstock (remember, even in bulk quantity: add the cost of the stamp to the cost of printing and cutting thousands of these). Seriously, could we have picked a more efFEMinate stamp? Purple, swirly Foxglove flowers on a cream/off-white background. Interestingly enough, the Latin name for the Foxglove species, digitalis purpurea, is named because of the plant's intensely colored flowers that are able to fit snugly over a finger-shaped object (one of your "digits," as it were)… not unlike a condom.

Additionally, there is a class of medication extracted from the Foxglove plant whose purest form is called digitalis, which is a cardiac drug used to treat various abnormal heart rhythms. I find it just so poetic that the medication (also called digitoxin) can be lethal if the patient is given too much. Toxicity can result in headaches, vomiting, jaundice, blurred vision, delirium, convulsions, and wild hallucinations. Certain species of this very plant are actually so toxic that they've earned the name "Dead Mens' Bells."

Another note: these cards are addressed to the chief himself—as if he'll be reading a Santa-Clause-worthy bag of mail, stuffed to the brim with these cards. Technically, they should be returned to the "Public Information and Community Affairs Office," a branch of FEMS tasked with "disseminating information to the public on Departmental programs and services, conducting community outreach and fire safety education programs and ensuring high quality customer service."

But, given what happened to our Public Information Officer, I guess they're a little short-staffed at the moment. Thanks for stepping up and helping out, Chief! (Table 38's Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity® is ready for pickup, by the way.)

In an effort to do my part, I would like to suggest a new comment card. Sure, we can keep the old one, since it's geared primarily towards medical calls. However, we are still a functioning fire department with a rich and storied history; I think it only fair in this most progressive day and age that we offer a comment card for our fire suppression services.

Fair citizens, I entreat you to please take a moment and assist us in bettering our Department (click to enlarge it, if you'd like).

Like I said back in March, I'm still a firm believer in "the best camera is the one that's with you." What good is $3,000 worth of camera gear if it's in your closet? It's been a good year, and I've definitely captured some moments. I present to you now my favorite images and photos of 2011 (don't forget about the most recent photo collection I posted just a short while ago!)

Here's to one hell of a 2012.

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I started off the year with some cool research (my welcome-to-2011 post from last year). It was pretty cool to find old maps of what DC looked like back when Engine 15 was founded, and seeing that some street names stuck around from 1898. The full post is available here, if you want more maps.

There were a couple of fires this year, too. This one was right around the corner… gotta love a first-due house fire to kick the year off. (As it turns out, I'm at work as I write this, and one of my good friends found himself up to his ass in this Northeast rowhouse just a few hours ago. Lucky bastard.)

It was a damn shame I was on an ambulance when this one came out around 3am one night. At least I was able to show up, help flake some hose, and snap a few pictures. The guys from Squad 3 told me that they had a good time on this one. Sheesh.

I helped out a few of the guys at the firehouse fix their bikes…

One of the darker moments of last year came when several guys from my house got burned up in one of the bigger fires of the year. Thankfully, they've all recovered wonderfully, and the firefighter who got it the worst is back to full duty.

The Andy Fredericks Training Days in Virginia was truly an eye-opener, and there were some stellar instructors who were gracious enough to pass on their (combined) 100+ years of knowledge about the fire service. So, who's signing up for this year? Registration opens January 8th.

One of the coolest things about working in a firehouse that has some serious history behind it is digging up that history. This commendation was in the back of the storage closet, stacked with a whole host of other similar items. Come to think of it, would our chief even give these out anymore?

One shift was spent at Reagan National Airport with what felt like damn near every company from Virginia and a whole bunch of us from DC. Huge inter-agency Mass-Casualty drill sponsored by the airport? Yup, it was as cool as it sounds. Very neat to see the simulated plane crash and our resulting "response."

"The Marina's on fire! The Marina's on fire!" We lost a lot of good boats that day. I mean, when you fill a vessel up with water, and it's already in the water… hey, can't save 'em all. The fireboat damn near sprayed me right off the deck, too.

I took some time off and went to England. It was a much-needed vacation, so I unfortunately didn't do any exploration of the British fire service (unlike my 2010 trip to Europe, when I spent a good bit of time in an Irish firehouse).

Did I mention that I adopted a dog?

I survived the great earthquake of 2011, too. It locked up the city for damn near a day, too—much to the fire department's chagrin, since communications was overrun with calls and the guys working that day were ridiculously busy resetting fire alarms and investigating possible collapsed structures.

Every so often we have to take a little trip down to the Training Academy while we're on shift. It's good to see that the old wagon we tagged is still alive and kicking… and our class numbers are undisturbed.

I know it's an old photo, but the previous shot made me feel a little nostalgic. The blog officially turned three this year… and it all started with the Academy. (God, remember when I still called it "Recruit Class 994?" Haha, anonymity is overrated.)

My Battalion Chief celebrated his thirtieth (yes, thirtieth) year on the job. Also monumental this year, our wagon driver hit twenty years—and every one of them was at 15 Engine. Here's a bit more about him, and someone else's photos.

I've been experiencing more and more firehouses this year, what with being detailed to EMS units all over the city. Also, trading with people at different houses is interesting, to see a different side of the city than my usual "Southeast experience." Working uptown or over in Georgetown isn't half bad, every once in a while… it's a very welcome respite, in terms of call volume. I even got to work with the Naked Chef on one trade! (Thankfully, there were no repeats of his, *ahem*, transgressions.)

On a more personal note, I got married! Right here in the city, to boot. 2011 was a great year if for no other reason

(We honeymooned in Barcelona. It was awesome.)

Back stateside, Engine 15 responded to assist Santa (and Toys for Tots) with distribution of presents on Christmas Eve.

Unfortunately, a sadder ongoing of 2011 that will certainly continue into 2012 is what I've witnessed first-hand amongst the members. Dissention in the ranks, reduction in morale, and new rumors every day can make work a bit… edgy. Ultimately, however, our dedication to the job and the pride that we hold for our profession cannot be quashed. We may falter, we may stumble—but we will stay strong. Our union (IAFF Local 36) president penned a very poignant opinion piece for the Washington Post two days ago; do us a favor and have a read.

Despite the problems, the arguments, the scare tactics, or the generally uncoordinated efforts of the administration, one thing remains the same—my crew is an amazing group of guys who have my back, just like I have theirs. It's a great feeling, whether we're getting the knock on a fire, running a medical call, or just plain bullshitting around the firehouse. It's one of the main reasons I still love coming to the same job for the past three years, and I hope to feel that way for years to come. We put out some fires, and we saved some lives—here's to a great 2011, and thanks for everything you guys have taught me thusfar.

…oh yeah, and one more thing: SuperSafety Rocco says: "stay safe out there!"

—————

Thanks to my friends and family, everyone at FireEMSBlogs.com along with all of my fellow bloggers, and most importantly: my readers. You've made it the best year yet for RaisingLadders, and it looks like it's only getting better!

/RL

That's right, boys and girls! It's time for a segment (that I've just made up) called "Text Me From Work," where we can all vent our ridiculous/frustrating/absolutely mind-boggling encounters with all whom we meet in the course of our job.

Nursing home giving you the run-around?

Text me from work, man!

Yet another million dollars of apparatus running up and down the street because Joe Moron turned on his dirty furnace for the winter and smelled a little bit of gas?

Ugh, I feel ya… text me from work.

Crazy, hammer-weilding PCP patient had you backed into a corner?

Cool story, bro—text me from work.

I suppose I was inspired in two parts by my love of "textsfromlastnight," a user-submitted content aggregation of funny (sometimes NSFW) stories told via 160 characters or less, and an absolutely ridiculous, ass-kicking day I spent on a medic unit two tours ago. The last few times I was detailed to this particular EMS unit, I had a relatively easy day. However, it appears that the gods were against me as I was repeatedly hammered with call after call. Them's the breaks, I guess.

Either way, I found myself notifying other like-minded souls who, while they couldn't stop the onslaught of inane situations, would completely understand my "FML" moment (UrbanDictionary, for the uninitiated—and no, it's not "fix my lighthouse").

I present to you the following verbatim texts that I sent while on a twenty-four hour medic unit detail. I hope you enjoy, and perhaps find a kindred spirit in the insane version of me.

—————

Dear [nursing home]: a photocopied piece of paper with "DNR*" written on it in Sharpie does not count as an actual legal document. Just FYI, thought you should know.

*stands for "Do Not Resuscitate," a legal directive stating that the patient is not to be treated with certain resuscitative efforts, and is instead allowed to die without invasive measures.

—————

Given recent events, maybe [Howard University Hospital] shouldn't have this displayed quite so prominently.

Plus, there's that whole Rosenbaum thing:

—————

Holy shit, you hear all this VA Tech shooting stuff?

—————

It might be one of those "grass is always greener" scenarios, but at least I know over here that all the grass is fucking dead.

—————

Jesus, that's our second weird call of the day. Dude works for [government agency]. Says he went to visit the Czech Repub. two years ago, banged out some chick and ahd shows up on his doorstep two days ago, in full crazy mode off her meds. Now she's faking seizures and stuff in his current/real gf's apartment for attention. Seriously, I can't make this up.

—————

(at 4:30pm:) I chugged coffee, drove home super quick when I was relieved, and woke up ten minutes ago. Yeah, it was one of *those* nights.

—————

What do you think? Should I register "textmefromwork.com" so we can all share our most ridiculous venting moments with each other? I'd love to hear some of the SMS messages you guys have sent, I'm sure there's some comedy gold out there. Gotta love the profession…

The second will be an end-of-the-year collection, in which I will select my favorites from all photos I've taken this year. Enjoy these below, and look forward to the big collection!

—————

One of our more recent calls involved an occupied vehicle in an enclosed parking structure. The front was tensioned with a come-along, and Res-Q-Jacks stabilized the rear to allow patient extrication.

Talk about old-school! Found hanging from an unknown locker above one of the older firehouses in the city.

Speaking of coats, they finally fixed mine (after three years!)

Building walkthroughs—very important. Lots of new residential structures are springing up in Southeast, and we're trying to stay on top of it.

"A truss is a truss is a truss, and it has no redundancy."

I was paging through a book about September 11th memorials when lo and behold, who did I come across? Yep, that's Andy Fredericks, whose legacy lives on not only in photos and trinkets but in the annual Andy Fredericks Training Days.

"Instead of anything resembling a proper eyewash station, let's just stick a bottle of tap water on the wall. Yeah, that should do it." Thanks, hospital administrators.

This is some top-dollar stuff right here. Need to input patient information for that last medical call? So, we're fresh out of that. How about a Blue Screen of Death instead?rry

Apparently, our computers aren't the only things that crash (damn Metro buses). If you look closely, you'll see that cloth medical tape really *can* fix everything! Nicely done, guys.

Yes, that's a car door embedded in the front of the wagon.

Work crews came into all the firehouses and mounted pictures of the mayor and the firechief (one of the more intelligent things they've done was choose to have it mounted behind impact-resistant plastic).

And lastly, here's some good ol' firehouse ingenuity for ya (it's probably stronger than a wooden truss, haha).

The paramedics from the city brought her in to the large urban Emergency Department where I was employed at the time. (For two and a half years, I scurried around a hospital frequented by some of the most acute trauma and medical cases seen on this side of the state. Despite the pay and hours being pretty crappy, I fortunately gained three years of icky, bloody, heart-wrenching experience during a time when my fellow collegians were just learning where their own asshole was—and how to differentiate it from the red Solo cup full of warm, flat keg beer in their other hand.)

Little did we know that she would be the first of the biggest wave of heroin overdoses seen within the past ten years.

Jillian came in, limp as an old sock, and looked about the same—dirty, smudgy, hairs sticking out at all angles. The medics said it was the third overdose they've picked up since 7am that morning, and their faces said it was only going to get worse. Their breathless report was, of course, given while breathing for her, and they were desperately hoping her heart would decide to go above 40 beats per minute.

"There's some sick junk going around… the narco boys still can't figure out where it's from."

The weak voice came from behind us. The paramedic supervisor, usually all bluster and brass, stood in the doorway while we searched her stickish arms for an unused vein. He was as beat as I've ever seen him; no doubt he'd spent the day and night rushing around helping his overworked medics with more of these limp figurines dotting the city.

What made Jillian unusual was her lack of response to the medications the paramedics gave. I mean, they found her not breathing, with a needle in her arm, and an empty glassine bag on the table next to her. Any self-respecting street provider goes right to Narcan, a trade name for an opiate antagonist that reverses the effects of a narcotic overdose. Well, they gave the drug, usually a one-shot fix—but nothing happened. After a repeated dose failed to rectify the situation, the only remaining move was to ventilate her and get to the hospital.

We ended up getting her stabilized, after giving Jillian five times (unheard of!) the normal amount of Narcan to finally reverse her opium-derived coma. She slept for roughly another four hours, breathing on her own.

Meanwhile, more cases just like her kept coming into our department. We could barely keep up with the stretchers, the medics, the stories, the vomit, the screaming… oh, sorry. I forgot to mention: Narcan, when it wakes you up, rips away your high in a matter of seconds and sends you into a vicious, painful withdrawal state. Patients usually hate you for a while after you give it.

Hey, at least you're alive, you thankless prick. The patients kept coming in waves, two or three at a time, like limp soldiers dragged from some ghetto battlefield.

Over the course of a 16-hour shift in the ED, we lost count of the number of patients who all came in with the same issues. I personally lost track after about twenty; they all just started to blur together. About a week later, the narcotics officers figured out that there was a poorly-cut batch of heroin coming out of a city roughly thirty miles from us. The stuff was apparently way more potent than addicts would expect, so the high you would get from four bags can be accomplished with one. The problem was, nobody knew this at first; people would take "the usual" and then wind up dead. The patients we managed to revive found themselves faced with a choice: tell these nice burly men with badges where you got your stuff, or they will take you to jail. The dealer and his operation were shut down by the police in roughly another week.

Sir, please stop trying to bite me. As much as you may not like us right now, the prison staff is nowhere near as nice as we are.

Jillian, as I said, woke up about four hours after we first saw her. She was scared, shaking, and exhausted; but she was able to talk to us now. It was the one-sided conversation of a person looking for any audience who'd have her, and I happened to be changing her IV bag at the time.

"When did I get here?"

"About eight hours ago." I gave her a brief and shined-up version of where the medics found her, and what we did to help her.

"Oh. Thanks, I guess. This has never happened to me before, even though…"

I know I said I try not to, but this time I couldn't help but prod: "…even though what?"

"I have a big habit. Like, a really big habit. I think yesterday I was up to sixteen bags a day."

Holy shit. Sixteen miniature, pocketable, one-dose-of-melted-butter-happiness bags per day?! I have no idea how she's alive. I didn't even bother to ask how she would take them; I preferred my mental image of them just passing into her body by osmosis to any story she would have about infected arms, bleeding noses, or coughing and hacking through a pipe.

She sighed. So did I.

I had to try.

"You know, I could give you some information that we have. It's not much, just a few phone numbers and the names of some groups around here. I just… I figured if you wanted to talk to someone, about anything, they'd be the people to help you."

Her sunken eyes swung towards me with the look of a soaking wet, miserable kitten. I could see it in her face; she didn't have much else besides doing inordinate amounts of heroin each day. It was where her money went, it was what her friends did; it was who she was. But her eyes registered, probably for the first time in months, the idea of leaving it all behind. She started pouring out her story, each turn more interesting than the last. She had always wanted to go to college after high school; as she was getting her applications together, she started dating a guy from a rough crowd. He was into heroin, and she followed shortly thereafter. From there, she spent a year doing unspeakable things for heroin and heroin money as her habit grew beyond any sense of control. It was, to say the least, painful to hear (and I watch a lot of Law & Order: SVU).

I eventually brought her the pamphlets and phone numbers, even allowing myself a little smile as I handed them over and she thumbed through them like they were hundred-dollar bills. She seemed so excited.

"Oh my God, thank you. I've never woken up in a hospital before… I want to get this shit out of my life. Thank you so much."

She was discharged less than an hour later. As she was walking out, I had rotated to the last four hours of my shift and was at the Triage desk up front. She stood about ten feet away by the pay phones and frantically waved me over.

"Listen… I lied earlier. I've woken up in plenty of hospitals and ambulances before, and I just kept going back to heroin because nobody ever said anything different. They just thought I was some fuck-up kid who would never fix her life. You're the first person in a long time to do anything besides kicking me back out to the street when I was alive again."

"Uh… well. Thanks for telling me—I just hope it helps." (I wasn't totally sure what to say.)

"Listen, I know this is probably against the rules or something, but can I have your phone number? I'm not being creepy or anything, I just wanted to call you in a month or three months or something and tell you I'm clean. Just to let you know. And to thank you."

I gave her a strange little look… but then right there, in full jeopardy of losing my job and breaking all sorts of hospital rules, I gave her my phone number. Call it against the odds, call it a dream, call it whatever you want. I prayed for her to call me in a few months. I wanted to believe that I had made some kind of change, that I had given her a fighting chance.



This was seven years ago. I never heard from Jillian again.

The man's ribs cracked methodically, rhythmically, and with a slowly waning sense of purpose and urgency. The worst part was that I could feel his son's eyes on the back of my head.

(Sorry… I'll back up.)

At 21, I was barely a year out of paramedic school, freshly (read: naively) empowered with a bachelor's degree in Emergency Medicine, and working in a depressed part of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Our station was within a town/borough/poorly-defined shitty space in which many of the real-estate benefits include crack houses, prostitutes, gangs, and extremely low education rates.

I arrived at college with a fairly whitewashed view of the world, despite having been an EMT since I was sixteen. Yes, we ran calls, but it was always to the local fitness club for a sprained ankle after too many rounds of squash. Much of that changed in my third year, as I was assigned to mentor with a City of Pittsburgh ambulance in a notoriously bad part of town. I mean, I knew this stuff happened, but I had never treated gun shot wounds, stabbings, heroin overdoses, or bags of bricks hurled at people's heads from two stories above (yes, that actually happened).

The learning curve was nice and steep, thankfully leaving me educated without making me disgruntled and/or "burned out," as they say. Fast forward to a year later, when I'm all certified, registered, etc. to be an honest-to-God lifesaver.

—————

It was two-fifteen in the morning, and we're awakened by the piercing sound of our company's tones coming over an impossibly loud speaker in the bunk room. Shuffling shoes into boots, radios into holsters, and ourselves into the ambulance, we barely caught the dispatch information: "approximately 40-year-old male, son called 911, reports he's not breathing."

Shit. We drove faster.

Our lights reflected off buildings and cars to light our haggard faces as we swerved through the traffic that wasn't there.

The police had already showed up, one of whom breathlessly came pounding through the door and stammered something incoherent. His eyes and the sweat soaking through his uniform told us everything we needed.

"Easy… just grab that bag and follow us up."

Our particular interest in the apartment was lying facedown on the second floor, in nothing but his boxers. A bottle of pills was near his right hand, their contents spilled outwards in a spray of futile effort. We rolled him over and went to work.

I passed the tube into his trachea easily. My partner has the monitor wires stuck to the patient's chest, and the monitor glows with the most simple and recognizable of heart rhythms: none at all.

I turn my head to ask the police officer how long the patient's been lying here, and I catch site of the little boy hiding behind the burly man in blue. My head wants to scream at the cop, bellow and point him out the door, chastising him for not taking the kid outside sooner; he shouldn't have to see this! It kills me that I don't really have time to do any of that… and that now I know the child is present in the room watching everything.

An interesting fact I've found about kids in emergencies: they are undoubtedly the calmest people in a room when something awful is happening to someone else. This particular child heard a thump outside his room that woke him up. Ever curious, he padded out to the hallway and saw Dad facedown. Shaking his shoulder didn't work, so the resourceful little guy went to the phone and stated very clearly that his dad was lying on the ground. When the dispatcher asked if dad was breathing, the child managed to squeak out an "I don't think so. He won't wake up, either."

Quick sidenote: he's eight! My God… I've met fully grown, successful, (supposedly) intelligent adults who can't pull themselves together nearly as much much when their wife/husband/daughter/baby-daddy gets into a fender-bender at seven miles an hour in an Escalade.

Anyways, we continued to work. We inserted an IV, and gave several rounds of various medications designed to flog the heart chemically in the hopes it will start again. It didn't work.

It usually doesn't.

It took a few more minutes to get the stuff up to us that we needed to carry him downstairs. The medication was in, we had a breathing tube attached to a bag that my partner was squeezing, and the only thing left to do was continue CPR—which brings me back to the first line of this story. I switched roles with my partner, buying us a few more minutes of good CPR before we were both winded.

The man's ribs cracked methodically, rhythmically, and with a slowly waning sense of purpose and urgency. I was dreading the next part. The part that I knew was coming.

The question would be directed first at the police officer; he, in turn, would glance desperately over to the EMS crew for an answer. My partner would probably look up first, but instantly recognize what the question was. And I'm the one who always has to answer it. It's one of the shit jobs you get as a paramedic.

"Is my Dad going to be okay? What's wrong with him?"

And in a single instant, I have to come up with an answer.

And in a single instant, I whip out the same ingrained bullshit answer I give everyone.

"We're going to do everything we can to help him." It always feels like so much awful, trite, reusable garbage spilling out of my mouth—but it's the only thing we can say. We don't promise, we don't give false hope, and we certainly don't make guarantees.

Ugh, I hate myself sometimes.

The man's son looked back at me and said the simplest, most child-like thing anybody ever could:

"Okay. Thanks for helping my dad." The police officer (finally!) moved the kid past us and down the stairs to take him to the hospital and try and get ahold of his mother.

In that moment before I picked up the stretcher, before I began to move his father's motionless, breathless, heartbeat-less body, I felt a gratitude that hadn't washed over me in a while. We don't often get thank-yous in this job, and most of them are flippant and full of spite at our perceived incompetence, or inability to fix every problem in the world. But coming from a child, especially one as wide-eyed and calm as he was, this one was one of the few heartfelt thanks I can clearly remember.

We found out later after we delivered the patient to the hospital, after the doctor took a cursory look at the patient and called his time of death as 2:57 a.m., that the dad was a heroin addict. We saw old scars on his arms as we worked him, and even gave him a medication designed to reverse the debilitating effects of narcotics—but he had an existing cardiac condition and his heart just gave out that night. He must have snorted it, smoked it, or injected it somewhere we couldn't easily see, like in between his toes.

I still wonder about that call, almost a year later. I wonder if the boy really knew what was happening to his father that night. I wonder if he'll still remember it when he grows up, or if he ever really knew the truth about his dad's self-destructive ways. Mom was supposed to pick him up the day before (as they shared joint custody of the boy), but she never showed up. I often imagined how the son was probably happy to get one more day with his father before he went back to mom that week.

As a paramedic, I do much of my work with my hands. Lifting, intubating, medicating, comforting, even (sometimes) defending myself. Most of the physical skills we need require coordination and an experienced sense of touch. But what if touch isn't just a physical thing? We say sometimes that we're "touched" by a story, and I hope a few of you might feel the same way about this—but what does it actually mean? Some of the people I work with are so jaded, calloused, and indifferent towards calls that they don't seem touched by anything. Co-workers had warned me when I was younger about getting too personal, too involved with calls; but isn't that what makes us human, after all?

I fear the day that I lose that particular sense of touch.

We'll miss you, Pete.

/RL

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Late yesterday, it was revealed that longtime DC Fire & EMS public information officer Pete Piringer, the name behind the amazing @dcfireems, had been shuffled around in a personnel move. Piringer will be moving away from the @dcfireems handle, recently embroiled in a bit of controversy, which saw the account taking a break, and a lot of concerns and accusations flying about the role of the twitter account.

For me, the account’s purpose is simple and obvious: provide realtime information about serious fires and other emergencies in the DC area, as well as contact information for the media to get updates. Piringer has done the job with incredible aplomb for the last few years, keeping the media and public, alike, abreast of the situations

This afternoon, Mark Segraves from WTOP broke the news that the mayor’s office may have been involved in Piringer’s ouster: “Piringer was prolific in his tweeting of breaking news and information, but sources inside the mayor’s office say there was blowback from other agencies that Piringer’s tweets were making them look slow and unresponsive.”

While everyone involved is saying the right things, this move stinks to high heaven of transferring a popular and effective member of the staff to an exile they don’t deserve under the guise of a promotion or temporary assignment. Piringer will move from the DC Fire & EMS department to the rough and tumble excitement of the Office of the Secretary.

If you, like me, had no idea what the Office of the Secretary is, well, read this delightful description of their mission: “The Office of the Secretary provides protocol, authentication and public records management services to the Mayor and District government agencies.  In addition to managing the District of Columbia’s Archives, commissioning all District of Columbia Notaries Public, and publishing the District of Columbia Register and the District of Columbia Municipal Regulations (DCMR), the Office of the Secretary is responsible for maintaining official records of mayoral actions, receiving legal process for actions against the Mayor, and preparing executive orders, proclamations, directives, and administrative issuances.“

Sounds riveting.

No question they need a top-notch PIO, who can respond at a moment’s notice about…the latest proclamation from the Mayor honoring someone.

Right.

This is another move by the Gray Administration that has to leave me scratching my head. While I’m sure any city agency could use the likes of Piringer (with the exception of perhaps DDOT, who has John Lisle, and DCRA, who has Helder Gil, both of whom are as good as Piringer has been at DC Fire & EMS), it seems odd to move him to the obscurity of the Office of the Secretary. Though, with him there, I expect to see a high profile for the newest notary publics and mayoral proclamations that are likely to come down the pike.

Otherwise, the picture is a whole lot less rosy, making it appear that the Mayor and his cabinet love lazy cronyism more than we had already thought.

So far, the new @dcfireems leaves a lot to be desired.

While Piringer would often toss in reminders to change your smoke alarm batteries, there was about 90% meat and 10% fluff in that account, while now it seems to be photo ops and cloying preparation tweets.

So, with everyone saying the right things, but doing the wrong ones, I suppose all we can do is say, “if this is really a matter of making this other place great, let’s see it be great, and if you think you can do it without making @dcfireems suck, prove it. So far Gruff the crime dog is not convincing us.”

Don’t fuck up a good thing, Mr. Mayor. You’ve done enough of that already.

————

I'm not sure what's more sad: the news revealed within the above article, or the forlorn and disgruntled comments. It's a shame to think that any of the brothers could think "it's not that I shouldn't have been a firefighter… but that I shouldn't have become one here."

I believe that there was, at one time, a Merriam-Webster Task Force assigned day and night (on forced overtime) to suss out and nail down that one word that defined the administration.

And I believe that Julian Assange hijacked the @dcfireems Twitter account… and has just leaked everything to me. Today, I share it with you.

I am actually so terrified to share this information that I will be fleeing the country for ten days soon after this post. I assure you that it has nothing to do with my upcoming wedding; I maintain that this is a quest for asylum.

Perhaps I should change my plans from a European beach town to a non-extradition country.

If I do not return, please know that I have befallen the same fate as our Department's official Twitter account. Dearest @dcfireems: your dedicated citizens miss you.

EXT. DC GOVERNMENT BUILDING – LATE AT NIGHT,  - ESTABLISHING.

Few cars amble by, as window lights show only a few dedicated employees still at work.

INT. CUBICLE FARM.

Underneath humming, poorly-maintained fluorescent lights, coffee cups litter the desk of frazzled aide CANTER VYING.* A harsh incandescent slung over the desk illuminates his only task, a dictionary of massive proportions.

CANTER

(suddenly; he springs up)

Holy… holy shit. Here it is.

CANTER stands. Finding nobody in the office, realization sets in how late it is.

INT. HALLWAY – DOUBLE DOORS SMASH OPEN

CANTER is sprinting down the hallway, clutching a sheaf of paper.

CANTER (V.O.)

This was it. I knew I had found it, and

the boss was gonna be so happy.

INT. LOBBY

CANTER sits at a public-use computer.

CANTER

(grumbling to himself)

Can’t even give us our own computers…

like it’s my fault that TeleStaff was

actually a spyware installer.

He sits.

CANTER (CONT’D)

It does make some sense, though.

ANGLE: COMPUTER SCREEN – FRANTIC TYPING

COMPUTER SCREEN, TYPED:

We can say that we are 100% “transparent.”

Despite what most people think it means,

I’ve found a strict definition that we can use.

It’s even supported by the online community

 of unquestionable intelligence, “Wikipedia.”

Transparency /transˈpe(ə)rənsē/(n.)

performing in such a way that it is

easier for others to see what is wrong.

CANTER grins evilly, wrapping up his cunning argument with fingers flying over the keys.

TYPED (CONT’D)

You see, boss? They can see what’s wrong,

plain as day! But this word makes us sound really

good, because that’s totally different than having

the people know what we’re actually doing.

     CANTER chuckles to himself.

TYPED (CONT’D)

Our current failings and our day-to-day

operations are two different things, but

Joe Public is probably too dumb to know

the difference!

With a satisfied CLICK, CANTER sits back in his chair.

CANTER

(he sighs)

Damn, that feels good. Nothin’ like a

little spinjob to make you feel like a ma—

The computer emits a PLINK, surprising CANTER and echoing through the empty lobby. The screen lights up his eyes as he reads:

COMPUTER SCREEN, DISPLAYED

Excellent word choice; you’ve done

a fantastic job, [insert employee’s

name here]. Now we just have to figure

out how to make us 100% transparent,

immediately.

CANTER doesn’t even hesitate. Diving back to the screen:

COMPUTER SCREEN, TYPED

The solution is simple… and is as old as

time itself. Eliminate access to those

who like to write; filter access to those

who like to read; and eradicate those who

like to photograph. We ain't giving parties.

A man named George Orwell wrote an

instruction manual for everyone a few

decades ago. Before we ban it, you

should read it.

A triumphant CLICK as the email sends and disappears from view.

ANGLE: CANTER’S face, lit by only the corporate-blue glow of the monitor. He licks his lips, as if to taste the blood of a journalist glistening upon them.

His eyes flare greedily; SMASH CUT to BLACK.

-END-

* It's an anagram. Figure it out.

I'd recommend taking a look, as it's a good read for anyone interested in snippets of ridiculousness (especially if you've ever acted in some capacity of healthcare). One of my favorites: The Sandwich Problem.

—————

It was a sunny day, chipper and bright in every aspect. Breakfast was good, drilltime was hilarious-but-educational, and it was just… too damn happy. I knew something had to ruin the mood.

We're called for some kind of OB problem. As usual, I didn't have time to look at any of the dispatch notes on the way out the door; I hopped in and we took off, fully expecting the typical "I'm six months pregnant and I have a stomachache" sort of call.

Well, I was kind of right.

Outside the door of a small garden apartment complex stood the youngest, smallest pregnant girl I'd ever seen. Perhaps it was due to the relationship of her small stature to her huge belly, but I remember thinking that she was very pregnant, and wondering how it was even possible.

I was so taken aback by this elfen creature who appeared to be in the throes of digesting a medicine ball, and was having difficulty with my usual pointed questions about due date, medicines, prenatal care, etc.

"Uh, I guess we're here for you? Is… is everything… um, so what's wrong?"

"I got in a fight with my sister and she got mad and she threw a big glass thing at me and it hit me in the stomach and my stomach hurt but now it stopped but I called you anyways."

Her words rushed out with the innocently poor sentence structure of a tween who barely reads two grades below her level. Wow. She can't be more than—

"Fourteen," she blurted out, as if reading my face. "Well, I just turned fourteen last week. But now I'm fourteen."

There was almost a proud tone in her squeaky voice, as she rubbed her swollen stomach and clutched a cell phone to her chest.

Waitaminnit. Fourteen now, and she's—

"Almost nine months, thirty-eight weeks, something like that" chirped out of her mouth as she tapped out another text message.

Holy shit.

I shuddered. "So, okay. We're going to take your vital signs while we wait for an ambulance. Is one of your parents home?"

"My dad is on his way back from the store. He wasn't here when it happened, I called you all because I figured I should get checked out. Because, it hit my stomach, something might happen, I don't know."

No, you don't know. You have no fucking idea about what any of this means, do you.

Dad showed up eventually. The profanity he expressed at seeing a bunch of uniformed people standing around outside his apartment with his daughter was drowned out only by the clinking of all the glass inside the bags from the corner store.

Her father pushed right through us, and and we followed him up the stairs slowly. We listened as he bellowed upwards and downwards with his two daughters, who were now standing at the top and bottom of the three-story stairwell.

"Are you serious? You and your sister, again? Well your dumb ass shouldn'ta got into it with her in the first place. She all pregnant and shit. Good job. Well now if you want to go to the hospital, you should get your ass there. See you when you get back. And as for you, get your ass back in the house."

Now or never; I jumped in. "Uh, sir, it doesn't really work like that. You have to go with her, because she's only fourt—"

The old steel door rattled and slammed in my face, mocking my attempt at reasoning.

I brought a gloved hand up to the door, listening to his muffled voice yelling at the older daughter for starting trouble. I sighed and waited for a quiet period so I could knock, again and again.