Bulls Are Faster Than They Look

      The south side of Chicago was home for most of my first 26 years of life. So by the time I joined the Harvey Fire Department at age 20, you could say I was pretty comfortable working in that piece of real estate simply known as the South Side. The area was heavily industrialized, with lots of 16- to 24-square city block-size factories sprinkled about. Along with the hundreds of thousands of factory workers came lots of bars and taverns that served to quench their seemingly endless thirst. In the little 4 x 3-mile piece of real estate where I worked as a paramedic/firefighter, there were more than 40 bars and another 20 restaurants with liquor licenses.

   On the topic of danger and violence, the most descriptive word that leaps to mind would be "obvious." Knives were common because they were cheap and easily concealed. In comparison to today, we really didn't have that many shootings, but we had enough. Four down at one scene, and I had more than a handful of three-shooting calls in one 24-hour shift.

   If you were in a bar on the South Side and two guys stood up and said, "You wanna take it outside?" nine times out of 10, it did indeed go outside. More often than not, these impromptu moments of violence involved 9-1-1 at some point.

   How that all changed when I moved to Des Moines, Iowa. Compared to working the streets on Chicago's South Side, I was in culture shock. To say Des Moines was laid back would be an incredible understatement. But I quickly began to adjust, and along with the more relaxed lifestyle, I noticed that my medical practice took on a more easy-going feel. It was indeed different than the last 8 years, but it sure felt safer, not so intense, and ultimately, I think, better.

   Yet, I was about to learn that all was not as it appeared and, unbeknown to me, I had gotten a little too "laid back." I was just wrapping up the rig check after coming on for a Friday evening shift when we got tripped out in the country for a "man down." It was clearly a farm address, and it was close to 15 minutes before we were finally waved in by the farmer's wife. Fearing the worst after the long response time, we pretty much flew out of the rig and moved past the wife pointing us to her husband, who was lying on the opposite side of the barnyard. As the saying goes, "the shortest distance between two points is a straight line," which meant we needed to cut through the barnyard rather than traipse around. We tossed the jump bags over the split rail fence and hoisted ourselves over, totally oblivious to the only animal in sight—a bull standing by the water trough.

   It wasn't until we picked up our bags and began to make our way over to the farmer that we heard a strange sound—faint at first, but increasing both in volume and speed. Thump-ba-da-thump, ba-da-thump, ba-da thump. With the ground now vibrating under our feet, we knew what was happening. As if on cue, we dropped the bags and ran for the fence, throwing ourselves over as the bull ground to a halt. There we were, lying on the ground next to the farmer, who was rolling back and forth, laughing hysterically. Medically speaking, I guess you could call it a "triage moment," because it was obvious he was not dying.

   As it turned out, he had slipped, fallen to the ground and wrenched his right knee. The good news was that his problem was minimal; the bad news was that our jump bags were still in the middle of the barnyard. Being a true team player, the farmer told me get a coal shovel, scoop it full of corn and toss it over by the water trough. The bull followed me over for the unexpected midday treat, allowing my partner to snag the bags. Finally, after our little circus act, we actually began patient care.

   As you might imagine, it was quite a ride to the hospital, with the farmer still laughing in pretty regular spurts. Aside from splinting the man's knee injury, we mostly provided comic relief, but one thing he said to me as we were en route was forever stamped in my head. As I was writing something on the chart, he reached over, grabbed my shoulder and said, "Son, bulls are faster than they look."

   The message was clear, though it took a lumbering bull and a laughing farmer to deliver it: Every emergency scene we work has inherent risks. If you become complacent, as I did, and fail to appreciate that fact and act accordingly, it brings with it increased risks for you, your partner and the patient. Always stay alert and in tune with your work environment.

   Unlike the obvious knife-and-gun-club violence I had been used to, I realized that a barnyard is every bit as dangerous as the South Side, just in different ways: hazardous farm chemicals, dangerous machines and tools, and, oh yeah, that bull.

   Until next month…

   Mike Smith, BS, MICP, is program chair for the Emergency Medical Services program at Tacoma Community College in Tacoma, WA, and a member of EMS Magazine's editorial advisory board.