Curse of the Stone Arms: Kitty-Boy's Tale

From the desk of Gothika, Dark Lord of the Grimalkins aka Kitty-Boy

                “It was a dark and stormy night.”

                No.

                “Once upon a time, in a land far away. . .”

                Oh drats! How does she do this? And why? Slavering for public approval like one of her hulking outdoor “pets” – is nothing beneath her dignity?

                 Actually, it was a rather ordinary night, but for the enormous Iah,  (which modern humans, tapping into their full  literary and imaginative potential, have dubbed “the Supermoon.” *sigh*). I had watched its ascent across the night sky, and had fallen asleep contentedly on the kitchen table (the Man having gone to bed hours earlier) when I was awakened by the horrible shrill of my human’s Pavlov Response system. (Please see footnote#1.) Inevitably, the humans shine at classical conditioning exercises, and I watched with some pride as they hurtled from their bed, donned boots and clothing, and scurried from the house. Their performance was marred only by a brief collision in the bathroom doorway. Both snarled and swore most impressively. My Human showed her teeth.

I did not see them again until the lovely Iah had disappeared over the hill. They came home positively reeking of house fire, their noses black with smoke and their eyes circled with it. Most alarming of all, My Human had turned to stone from wrists to elbows. (Please see footnote #2) She seemed most vexed at this transformation ie, more colorful swearing; she is truly well versed in language skills. The Man, as is often the case, was also quite vocal about the inciting incident, and implied that the entire fiasco could have been avoided had My Human slowed down and looked before you f**ng leaped.

                I haven’t the faintest notion what My Human leaped into, but the results have been catastrophic. She has the temerity to pat my head with her stone hands! I very nearly chipped a tooth whilst defending myself. She is hit-and-miss with my food dish and her attempts at scooping my litterbox have been dismal. In the spirit of generosity, I left my latest offering on the floor next to the toilet and the ingrate swore at me! Who would have realized the tenuous connection between human hands and brains? Is her mind turning to stone as well? I fear it is a possibility.

                My Human knows I must have ice in my water bowl at all times, and yet she is failing at even this simplest of tasks. When in desperation I stand on the (dirty!) dishes in the sink to drink from the faucet, she responds in the vilest manner by trying to lift me bodily with her concrete arms. I will not stand for it!

            Alas, I fear for my well-being. If you are reading this, please send help. Preferably in the form of salmon.

Pink, Alaskan salmon. Fresh.

Canned tuna offerings will be summarily rejected.

#1 Nine-one-one page to a fire.

#2 Arm casts from wrist to elbow.

Christmastime Courage: An EMS Story

The call comes in around six a.m. because that’s when old people tend to get up. Rain or shine, winter or summer, sick or retired – they like to see the sun rise. I’d been at a house fire the night before and my partner had been chasing transfers, so the page for the little old lady fall doesn’t hold a lot of appeal. We grouse around, find our boots, and set off in the early morning chill with the ambulance lights bouncing off the downtown Christmas lights and the new sun cutting the horizon.

                Feeling the lack of coffee.

                Our patient is supine on the floor of a living room that is rife with collectables, Santa wrapping paper and two walkers. The obligatory poinsettias on spindly end tables. Maneuvering the cot will be a difficulty, but not impossible, so my partner initiates that project while I tend to the fall victim.

                Almost certainly a broken hip, with the classic rotating of the ankle, the shortening of one leg. She rates her pain at a ten – on a scale of one to ten - in that quiet way the elderly have of voicing a difficulty without letting it own them. She had fallen, she said, in the bathroom, but Frank had helped her to get dressed and had gotten her this far before they both gave out.    

                “He was going to take you?” My question is abstracted; I’m listening for her blood pressure.

                ‘To the hospital?’ was the tag on my unfinished question, but she misunderstands, and answers a bit archly. “Well, he always has. Taken care of me.”

                And for the first time I see Frank. He hovers in the kitchen doorway on the telephone – small, thin and bent. Not looking as though he could take care of anything this morning.

                My partner has wrestled the cot into the living room, and from there it’s easy peasy – our patient is small, our cot a modern wonder. Pillows for comfort around the hip, two steps going down the porch, across a beautifully manicured lawn and we’re in the rig with a minimum of discomfort.

                I dash back for the jump kit, across the porch and into the living room. And for the first time I see Frank.

He’s crying. He had, of course, thought we’d left, and he’s leaning against the china cupboard with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, when I come back in.

                He’s quick. His head comes up, hands mop his cheeks, and I notice how big those hands are, How rough, with their stubby nails and scarred knuckles.

                “Forget something?” he asks drily.

                Courage wears a lot of faces. But this face, here today, is the one that’s breaking my heart.

                He’d always taken care of her. And today he couldn’t get her from the bathroom to the front door. Always held her hand, and today we’re doing that. Slept with her for probably sixty years and tonight he’ll sleep alone. In one horrid and irrevocable moment, his life has changed utterly, and he wants to know if I forgot something.

                Yeah, I forgot to be kind.

                Courage is hardly ever about the rush you get when you dash into the house fire. It’s not about extricating the accident victims from the mangled car or even doing CPR on the SIDS baby. Courage has love and compassion at its core.

                So I put on my own courage face and breach the comfort zone between myself and this man I have only just seen; and I hug him. At first he stiffens, but then he hugs me back and for a long moment we just stand there like that.

                Finally I say, “Do you want to ride to the hospital with us?” and Frank and I walk out into the new morning.

 

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*Art Source

So you want to be an EMT?

So you want a career in EMS? Both of the rural stations where I work have been hiring. You’ll be called for an interview a week or two after you turn in an app, and then set down in our meeting room amidst four very serious faces and asked a host of enlightening questions. Something like this:

Why do you want to do this job?

Tell us about a moment where your training failed you

Do you consider yourself to have good leadership skills?

Etc etc etc.

Good grief, I say to the hubby (also the fire chief) can you not ask a single question that matters?
Such as . . .

1.) Well, can you lift? And I don’t mean a little. The cot alone weighs a hundred and twenty pounds and the majority of your patients will be something more than petite. They’ll be upstairs, all of them.  Or at least those who aren’t in the basement, under the front deck, on the roof, down a well. What they will never be is standing in the front yard waiting for you.

2.) How do you respond to vomit? Projectile. Large quantities. In your hair, on your shoes, down your shirtfront. You’re no help to anyone if the patient causes you to be the second patient.

3.) Can you back up? I know that sounds simple and I’m sure you’ve backed out of your driveway  a gazillion times. But here – can you back an ambulance? Down a narrow twisty farm lane in a blizzard? Up a hill, down a tow path and – most important of all – into the bay at your station?

The chief cries real tears if you ding the rig.

4.) You’re not afraid to go back to school, are you? A lot of us go for the paramedic, but even those of us who don’t are training on a very consistent basis. So – meetings, meetings, meetings. Classrooms, skills tests, recertifications. Even when you’re beat, even when you’re just off shift or it’s supposed to be your free weekend (ha). Even when, God help us, there is no coffee to be had at the station.

5.) Which brings us to – are you a coffee drinker? Please just nod yes. Dunkins, Starbucks, Peets, plain old Folgers. It is the all-important elixir of life. You must brew a pot immediately upon reaching the station and then you must keep it going all day and most of the night. If, Heaven forbid, you should break the pot, you’ll need to get somebody to cover your shift while you run to Walmart. Pick up some Dunkins on the way home so we don’t have to wait for the next pot to brew.

6.) Oddly enough – but you’ll get used to this, trust me – the next question has to do with sleep. Can you sleep any time of the day or night? More or less at the drop of a hat? Oh, and can you rebound from said sleep and be at the rig in seconds flat?

Lift, wipe up the vomit, back the rig, go to meetings, coffee-coffee-coffee, sleep-sleep-sleep. That’s about it! If you’re still with us, welcome aboard.

*Art by MauserGirl

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5 Reasons Firefighter Training is Actually Life Training

Firefighting is rife with hard and fast rules. And even though, at any given episode unpredictability can fast become the norm, these rules remain in place – guiding stars, if you will. Wisdom of our fathers and all that.

 But the really cool thing I’ve discovered about the rules is that they cross over. Into motherhood, into friendships, into other careers. In fact, with very little manipulation, the golden rules of firefighting can become the golden rules of life.  

I think it looks something like this:

         1.)  Prevention. Smoke alarms, CO2 detectors, an escape plan.

Mothers, can we apply this to our children?  Feed the dog before you do your homework, so he isn’t tempted to eat your math paper. Tidy your bedroom daily so that it never arrives at Tornado Alley status. As for teenagers and prevention . . . well, you know the drill.

           2.) “Two In and Two Out” is a perfect life lesson. In the fire service, it applies to the way we enter a burning building – which is to say, never alone and never without back-up on the outside. It’s hot in there, you can get hurt.

 Don’t enter life alone, either. Be social able, make friends. Because it’s lonely out there, and you can get hurt. Hug and hold hands and love each other – we all need somebody, and that is as it should be.

           3.) Bring all you’ve got. If the worst happens and the fire is up and running and bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, throw everything at it. All the water, all the manpower and all the equipment. Be strong and be smart and keep working. And don’t be afraid to ask for help. Every department near and far. They want to come, they’re dying to lend a hand.

           So it is in life. In the midst of complete catastrophe, you can’t curl up and die. Stand up and throw everything you’ve got at the problem. All of your brains, your skills, your time and talent.  And it’s okay - it’s good in fact - to ask for help. Call friends and cousins, coworkers, Mom and Father Barron. We’re all here to help each other.

          4.) Remember accountability. When you go into that fire, you’re not only responsible for you, but also for your brother. Be safe, be responsible. Remember that you are valued and very much needed, and always loved.

          5.) Oh, and don’t forget your bunker gear. No sense scraping your knees if you happen to stumble. That Superman costume, real or imagined, can be a total life saver.

~*~*~ 

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Not Quite Enough

Lately it occurs to me that twenty years in fire/EMS might be enough. Because . . .  well, because here she is.

                Ninety two years old, a simple ground level fall at the local assisted living facility. Possible broken hip. We’ve got her on a backboard with the injury site padded and suddenly she is vomiting. It happens – pain, fear, any number of reasons. My partner pulls over and dashes back to help me turn the board, and the patient just keeps bringing up lunch for what seems like a very long time.

                But that’s not the story, either, not really. Here is what I want to say about her – tiny little thing all alone, her husband gone, children AWOL. In pain. Sick. When she’s not vomiting, she tries a smile out on me, and asks how I am today, do I like my job, am I from the area?

This just hurts my heart; really, it does.

Since Nine-Eleven, we in the emergency medical field have gotten a lot of hero dust sprinkled on us, but I think most of us would agree with this assessment – usually the hero is the one lying on the cot. And this lady, today, is one of them.

                How am I today?

                That’s where the twenty-year part figures in. Because I used to walk away from the lol (little old lady) falls and forget about them even before the run sheet had printed. Anymore, it feels like I leave a piece of myself on every call. The patient has taken on a level of . . . well, humanness, that leaves me smaller than I like to be and drenched in an empathy that frightens me. At some point it all became real, and the enthusiasm and, yes, even jubilation, with which I used to answer the tones has fallen by the wayside, along with the nine digit emergency number and the headlong ride on the back step of the pumper.             

Laying the call aside when it is over has become a larger task than the call itself, and there are sleepless nights when I think about the twenty years gone with something less than satisfaction or even plain old contentment. The early mornings and late nights. The family events where I was empty place at the table. Again. The meetings.  The trainings. The hours spent in ER after a body fluids exposure. The shuttling the kids to the babysitter and cancelling plans with the spouse. Twenty years chucked, for what?

Ah, but then it happens. I mold the SAM splint around a teensy broken arm, and the child quits crying.  I give the glucagon shot and the patient wakes up. I respond to a house fire and join in the beauty of all of us working together like a well-oiled machine. We not only save the house, we rescue the family cat – and the smile of the little girl holding her singed-but-squalling kitty is, you see, the answer to the question.

                Maybe twenty years isn’t quite enough yet.  


*Art by Tsoi (Coxinha)

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Nicola Writes: "Dark Anniversaries"

Most EMS personnel have been on that call. The call that becomes, over time, a sort of dark anniversary, a still moment in time when we are forced to acknowledge the certain inevitability of death and our own inability to stave it off. My main character, Nicola Thomas, stepped forward this week to blog about one such call. I almost put the kibosh to it, given that it is pretty . . . well, dark. But then she pulled off a beautiful save in the last couple of paragraphs and I decided that maybe the viewpoint of one who had stood so close to death might actually be valuable as far as helping the rest of us to better live. Let me know what you think. I can always fire her.

The last curve ­­­on Kittideere Road is a broad hook, shaded by the arthritic arms of oaks and elms and scented, in the summertime, with the heady stink of joe pye weed. By July, the undergrowth at the roadside will be impassable, tangled with morning glory and maypop, and latticing over the little white cross - finally covering it in vines and blossoms and making it far more palatable.

Are roadside memorials unnerving only to EMS and fire personnel, or do they inspire a universal sort of flinching?

The Kittideere cross commemorates a truck vs tree, victim twenty years old and breathing his last on my nephew’s birthday. I arrived on the scene with the dazzle of three candles still in my eyes and had to blink against the white-hot glare of August sun before pushing my sunglasses into place.  Our patient was part way down a ravine, still in his truck and wearing a tree – the branches encroaching through the shattered windshield to pin him hopelessly, resolutely, against the seat, the cab squashed and flattened all around him.

He was alive, but he had plenty of fluid in his airway, and the irregular gurgling sounds were harsh against an innocuous backdrop of honey bee drone and bird chatter. Cantwell had already wormed his way into the cab and the final remnants of the birthday song faded from my mind as he began suction and Burwell started the Jaws.

Cutters and Spreaders and Rams – huge hydraulic tools that tear through metal like a toddler’s finger trenching frosting. Almost too heavy for me, but the adrenaline rush is an incredible thing - roars through the brain, steadies the hands – and we went to work.

Our patient’s legs were hopeless – splintered bone showing through torn jeans, blood already pouring from beneath the door and pooling on my boot. The dash was hard against his chest.
“Hurry as you can.” Cantwell’s voice was deceptively calm, encouraging in the way of a man pitching a ball to a child, and I was aware again, for only the fleetest of seconds, of the glorious summer all around us. The simple beauty of emerald leaves against boundless sky.

Then someone said “We’re losing him,” and we abandoned caution, finally snapping the door hinge and ripping our patient free from the glut and snarl of metal and elm tree.
He fell gracelessly to the woodland carpet – ugly tangle of gristle, tissue and bone – and we flopped him on a backboard and ran with him.

Of course he died. He had brown skin and a sunburst tattoo on his biceps. A picture of a little girl in his wallet.

And so, it seems to me that memorials can be a messy proposition, little white crosses maybe representing hopelessness and defeat, blood and loss.

Maybe not.

Because if simple thoughts are prayers – and I believe they sometimes are – then I pray for him each time I see the little cross set catawampus against the roots of the broken elm. This soul - the soul of a man I never knew in life - whispers to me whenever I traverse that familiar road; and it no longer seems like bad thing, this holding hands with that other world. Maybe my prayers for him are answered with his prayers for me, and so it goes, life and death and afterlife all in a continuous whirl. All of us related, all of us hoping and praying for each other, sending encouragement, hope and love across the virtual miles.

That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? That would make it all worthwhile.   

~*~*~ 

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Top Ten Silliest Calls for Help

“Fire station,” my partner answers the phone while I groan in my sleep. “No ma’am, we don’t do that. No, the chief’s not here. I’ll pass that on, sorry.”

“Who?” I manage. 

“Lady on the East end. We didn’t pick up her garbage this morning. It’s garbage day and she wants to know why we skipped her.”

“But we don’t . . .oh hell, never mind.” 

Who calls a fire station and why? 

The answer might surprise you, and, to that end – with the help of my wonderful coworkers – I have compiled a Top Ten list of Silliest Calls for Help:

1) Garbage Collecting. It’s not in our scope of practice; it’s odd to us that so many residents believe it to be. In fact, we ourselves often forget to put our own garbage out, and have been known to come flying out the door with a Hefty bag while the truck meanders on past.

2) Pool Maintenance. We can’t fill your new pool with water from our tanker. That water is reserved for fires, and besides it came from the canal and, trust me, you would never, ever want to swim in it. No, we don’t know how to make it clean.

3) If you are the Captain and you want to offer us a cruise . . . We do want to go, we do! But no matter how long we “hold” you never come back.

4) Utilities. Beyond our control! And if you’re ComCast, we can’t add the fancy movie channels. Some of those might be inappropriate anyway. Our trustees are religious and they pay the bills.

5) We’re not always sure what time the post office is closed for lunch.

6) Or what the supper special at the local tavern is.

7) Or why there’s no school today.

8) We’ll be glad to set up the meeting room for the Cub Scouts, but we can’t help you with how many snacks you’ll need to bring.

9) The Chief will get mad at us if we let your children and Dalmatian puppy pose on the truck for a family portrait. You call him.

10) We would love to come and kill the bat fluttering around your kitchen but you’re not even in our district and if somebody here has a heart attack while we’re out there swinging a tennis racket . . . well, that could get ugly.

Which of course brings us to all the millions of good, good reasons to call us! Don’t wait if you have pain or sickness or fire! If your carbon monoxide detector goes off, your life alert beeps or your car door slams on your fingers! We’ve come for dogs in the canal and even cats in trees. We love you! We just can’t do anything about the garbage pick-up.

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"Ah God, You're Killing Me!"

Today’s blog takes us to the fictional location of Mount Bloom Fire Station, where I’m interviewing a handful of my central characters. It occurs to me, belatedly, that these folks often take a backseat to my narcs, Rush and Bobby, so I’m hoping today to rectify that, and to provide my readers with a fuller glimpse of this crew – essentially, who they are and what they do.

            “Most memorable call?” Chief Cotton lounges in the doorway with a coffee mug cradled in his big hand, brown curls on end and a sardonic smile quirking his lips. “Hey guys, c’mere! The nice writer lady wants to know about our most memorable call.”

            “The five kids in the rollover.” Jess Cantwell offers in his unabashed fashion. He is the baby of this bunch, at twenty-two, and the only guy with an earring – big gaudy diamond in his left earlobe. His sandy hair is buzzed short, but he lets a stripe down the middle grow to an inch and a half Mohawk.

            Cotton is frowning at him. “Ugly call,” he says briefly. “Entrapment, sleet, Life Flight couldn’t get to us. We did what we could do.”

            It takes a moment for me to understand there will be no further embellishment, and in that time, Cantwell has moved off to the doorway, where he lights a Marlboro and lets the smoke drift up around his face.

“Downtown fire,” Allen Burwell speaks into the quiet. “Coupla’ kids lit up the old Laundromat. Connected roofs downtown, shared basements, hard wind out of the north.”

“Ten freakin’ degrees below zero,” Cotton elaborates. “Pump froze up, street was a skating rink. Quill broke his ankle.”

“We were frozen in our gear,” Cantwell says. “Like icemen. We couldn’t unbuckle. The newspaper man took pictures of us.”  He holds his arms out stiffly and laughs. “I frostbit two fingers.”

“We lost three buildings.” Burwell runs a hand over the bald dome of his head. “Finally brought a bulldozer in and took out the fourth. Stopped it right there.”

“My ex lived in the upstairs of the building we took out,” Cotton chuckles. “Which pretty much put a cap on the whole mess.”

Nic Thomas wanders in from living quarters with a coffee and a bag of Oreos clutched to her chest. Mount Bloom ’s only female, she is short, and blonde and sturdy in the way of a small athlete. “What about the time me and Jess dropped Albert Logan?”

“Criminy, Thomas, confidentiality.” Cotton pokes her with an index finger, snatches the cookies and scowls at me. “You didn’t hear that name.”

Nic is undaunted. “Grouchiest patient ever,” she says around a mouthful of cream filling. “Frequent flier. He could never talk to us, not one word. Hated the hell out of us. The wife always called, and we’d load him up, not knowing if it was chest pain, stomach, whatever. All the way to Sorrows, we get nothing, not a word.”

“So one day,” Cantwell picks up the thread. “We get a call just like all the others, but when we pull the cot out of the rig at the hospital, it gives. Just freakin’ collapses, and Albert’s on the ground. Thumped the piss out of him.”

“He spoke!” Nic is laughing now. “He said, ‘Ah God, you’re killing me!’ That was it. Never heard him speak again.”

“Dead now anyhow,” Burwell says, and his bright eyes settle on Nic for a moment.

       “I cried when I heard,” she sighs. “I don’t know why. I didn’t like him.” 

      “Her and Quill had a good call last week,” Cotton rallies. “Big guy, full arrest. I’ll never know how they got him into the rig, must’ve weighed four-fifty. He’s still alive. Got him in ICU, but he’s not gone yet.”       

      “It was a nice save,” Burwell acknowledges, and Nic grins.

     “The little boy who fell through the ice,” Cantwell pitches his cigarette outside, and the group grimaces as one.

“Jesus, enough gloom and doom,” Cotton says. “That’s it. We gotta’ do rig checks.”

They are gone – trailing laughter and Folgers scent behind them into the bay - while Cotton’s order is still resonating. 
 I love these guys. 

~Get to know Cotton, Cantwell, Thomas, Burwell and Quill in Lucy's first full length novel, Sugar Man's Daughter.  Available at Amazon.com. ~

"I See Ghosts All the Time" -A Thanksgiving Post-

This Thanksgiving, I wanted to share something that showed up on my Facebook wall a couple of days ago and actually made me cry. But only for an instant. One tear. Because I was at work, and I’m never a sissy at work. One of my partners captured, so beautifully, the very essence of our job, how it lightens and darkens the soul all at once. And in an instant, I was taken back to all the after-turkey walks through our slumbering town where I mark the houses more through my knowledge of the occupant’s tragedies than anything else. “This one battled cancer, this one died in her sleep, here is the heart attack house, here is the basement fire.”  So, such intimate knowledge. Alas, so isolating, and such a downer - especially on a holiday! – that I have learned not to share. But I will share this with you.

Because it’s lovely.

 

 

 

 

~Quentin Buffington - the same man who penned
this post - is also a photographer of enormous
talents, and he has captured here the sunset
over the Illinois River . And while at first
I could not make this relate to Thanksgiving,
it soon came to me that a sunset of such epic
proportions undoubtedly puts us all a
little closer to God.~

 

Q makes art with his camera! View more here.

 "Here is my Thanksgiving "Thankful" post and it will be the only one of the month I am going to do. I once argued with someone about shows like "Rescue Me" being a bit unrealistic because the characters saw ghosts. I tried to explain, I see ghosts all the time, not literally like they do in the "shows" but I do.  I see the boy who drowned. I see the lady I delivered papers to for years who died in her sleep. I see the family members who I had to tell that I am sorry that there was nothing we could do. I see accident victims who died in my arms. I see the lady on her sun porch looking at a Cardinal eating and taking her last breath surrounded by her family. I see suicides and overdoses and heart attacks. I see people at their worst, their most tragic. I have seen the little girl who felt safe because Jesus was with her in the ambulance and there was no pain.  So I thank God everyday for giving me the ability to be there. To give your loved one, someone, for who this is not a job, but someone that cares. God does not hate, God is not evil, he is with us in all things and all places and his is the hand that guides and heals all wounds."

 

So, I love this, and it made me thankful again for a beautiful job and wonderful coworkers. And the really awesome life with the really lovely people in it that God has given me. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

 

 

Why EMS?

“The patient was in the basement.” I say to my kids – just enough information to color my day without violating Hipaa. “Kinda big fellow. In a garden tub.”

Or: “I had a blood exposure. Not a little, a lot.” (I’m wearing the hospital scrubs I came home in while I explain this.)

Or what about – “My partner slipped in the pukey-goop and cracked his head and then we had two patients.”?

“Ugh, Mom! Tell me again why you want to do this?”

I’m fairly certain it has to do with the vehicles. When you’re rolling full-out lights and sirens, yours is, hands-down, the prettiest vehicle on the road. You look like Christmas sailing down the fast lane, all lit up and shiny.

Or the clothing? EMS pants are the best, all those pockets and snaps – what’s not to love? Combat boots and sky blue coats with reflective lettering. And don’t get me started on bunker gear. It’s like a superhero cape, only real.

Down time is almost as good as up time! Read a book, play on your lap top, lift weights, wash the rig. Or not! Twelve hour shifts are spent with your good buds. We share coffee cups, couch space, and each other’s lives.

The adrenaline rush. We can go from zero to a hundred in seconds flat, from a dead sleep to the rig before the second page. I love that about us.

Not enough?

We brought a kitty out of a burning house last winter and although that’s a tired cliché, in real life it’s an awesome save. The homeowner quit crying and actually smiled. 

And once after a bad call – one that had the worst possible outcome –  my partner and I made chocolate chip cookies; that was a consolation without words.

“It’s a little hard to pin,” I say to my kids. “But sometimes the itty-bitty things add up to a really superb whole.”

911 Next Generation

I gave my blog over to a couple of my characters today to better address the issue of 911 Next Generation. This is Delilah’s first “Cop’s Kids” blog, and Bobby is her guest of honor. Let her know how you think she’s doing!

                                                                     Bobby Blogs

          

  I’m Delilah’s first victim. She’s managing a blog called “Cop’s Kid” and I’m her opening guest. “What the hell is a blog?” I say. “Sounds like something you slop down your front at the truck stop.”

            “It’s just little diary entries about your life.”  She doesn’t look up from her keyboard; her fingers are doing a crazed hunt and peck pattern.

            “Nobody wants to know about that. Why don’t you talk about something important?”

            “Such as?”

            “911. You can’t text it.”

            The fingers flutter and pause. “Of course you can. And besides, lame-o.”

            Delilah is fifteen. That’s the problem.

            “Your local dispatch center isn’t set up to receive texts. Or pictures. Or blogs.” I tap her head with my knuckles.

            “Shut up!” She swats at me. “What happens if I send one?”

            “Poof, it’s gone. How the hell do I know? But they don’t get it, okay?”

            “Seems like this should be national news so we all quit making mistakes.”

            “You don’t know the half of it, baby.” She’s got a picture of me up on her screen, looking tough behind my Ray Bans. Ha. “Your generation screws up the call all the time.”

            “Because we feel entitled and we have too much. Blah-blah, what else is new?”

            “You call for help on your little cell phones and fail to give an address or leave a call back number.”

            “Aren’t you supposed to figure all that out?”

            Delilah is an honors student. Scary, ain’t it?  

            “The best the dispatcher can do is to triangulate to the nearest tower. Which in your case is four miles away just outside Wapsi.”

            “Seems inadequate.”

            “Not. Just give them your address.”

            “My address is like a million digits long, thanks to you people.”

            Wow. Really? And this from a cop’s daughter.

            “It’s actually simple,” I tell her. “The roads are set up and numbered in a grid pattern, starting with 00 on the south and on the east and working up from there.”

            She’s stopped typing and her face is crinkled in consternation.

            “Or you can just read the number on the blue sign in your yard.”

            “Bite me,” she says. The fingers are tripping again; she’s brought a county 911 map up already. “All right, I see what you’re saying. But if I use my GPS I don’t need to know any of this.”

            “Until it fails.”

            “It doesn’t.”

            I give up. “What did you want to talk about?” I say.
            “Nothing, I’ve got enough now.”

            Trouble with girls that age? You can never tell if they’re pissed or just preoccupied.