Partners in Rhyme

I got the first message about Allen at 7:30 on Thanksgiving night. I wasn’t surprised my former Opryland partner had lost his battle with a long illness, but I’d hoped his family wouldn’t be burdened by a national holiday reminding them of his passing.

It’s hard to know what to offer in Allen’s memory; so much of what should have been said has been said. I wasn’t the only one who thought of Allen as an excellent medic and a good friend. People liked working with him. He was a natural caregiver—someone who didn’t need a drug box to help folks feel better.

I wonder if his family knows that.

If it were up to Allen, his kids would be the first priority right now, as always. I’d like to tell them a story I think represents their father’s many contributions to patients and partners.

Randy, Teola and Glen, here’s how I met your dad:

We were assigned to work an evening cruise aboard the General Jackson. You’ve probably seen it: a 300-foot showboat with live entertainment and sit-down meals. As usual, we were headed for a three-hour cruise up and down the Cumberland River with a few hundred passengers.

Your father was working his first shift as a paramedic at Opryland. I was there to help him get used to his new job. It usually takes a few months for street medics like your dad to adjust to a fancy place like Opryland.

Your dad and I had barely learned each other’s names when we got our first call of the evening: a 45-year-old man who’d had too much to drink and was behaving badly two decks below our office. I quickly explained to your father that this kind of call was a lot like the ones he’d handled except for one special consideration: In the middle of the Cumberland River, EMS is the closest thing to law enforcement. Unless our patient was sick or dangerous enough for us to call 9-1-1, we’d have to babysit him for the rest of the evening.

The guy was from Sweden. He said he loved country music and just wanted to keep drinking while he waited for the show. He kept going back and forth between Swedish and English, which he spoke very well. He certainly smelled like he’d had a lot to drink.

I told him he couldn’t have any more alcohol and suggested we all walk upstairs to our office so your dad and I could check him out. Sometimes when people seem drunk, they’re sick with something else. Part of our jobs as paramedics is to consider those possibilities, like low blood sugar or stroke.

I’m not sure if you saw our office on the boat; it’s tiny—just big enough for a cot, a sink and a couple of cabinets. As soon as the three of us walked in and I shut the door, our patient freaked. He started yelling, “Let me out!” Then he got physical. I was closest to the door, so he tried to go through me. He was younger and a lot bigger. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me, but he definitely got my attention.

Your father was there in a second. Instead of fighting with the guy, he was very calm and said, “No problem, just let me get through here.” Our patient stopped struggling long enough for your dad to open the door. We stepped outside and went to the port rail, where the big Swede started to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was in jail in Sweden. Small rooms scare me.”

“No problem,” your dad repeated. “We’ll hang out here.”

“No, it’s too late,” our patient said. “I just want to die.”

He started climbing over the rail. Your dad and I both grabbed him. He wasn’t fighting very hard; I think he was more sad than dangerous. Then I had an idea.

“Hey, you said you like country music? How about we sing some?”

At first the patient seemed surprised, but then he smiled and shouted, “Yes! Good!” Then he started singing “Jackson”; you know, “We got married in a fever…” He was pretty good.

Your dad and I let him do Johnny Cash’s part; then we came in when it was time for June. It was pretty funny. I don’t think the Opry’s going to call us anytime soon, but it did keep him off that rail. The three of us spent the rest of the cruise talking and singing.

Your father must have thought Opryland was a crazy place to work, but he stayed professional and made sure he was never far from me and our patient. That’s as safe as I ever felt in EMS.

I’ll always remember that call: singing with a suicidal, drunk Swedish ex-con, and how your dad, on his first day at work, helped make a bad situation much better.

I wish I could do the same for you.

Mike Rubin, BS, NREMT-P, is a paramedic in Nashville, TN, and a member of EMS World’s editorial advisory board. Contact him at mgr22@prodigy.net.