Post by Nyteguardyan on Dec 19th, 2008 at 1:01pm
While this is not about CH, it is about a disease process that is rare and difficult to diagnose and treat.
December 19, 1997
It had been a long day at the firehouse. It was cold. I was tired. I settled into my bunk for a broken night's sleep. When you live in a fire house, you never plan on a full night's sleep. The life of the volunteer firefighter. Eat. Work. Firetrucks. Ambulances. Nap. There's really no sleep, just naps.
The direct line ran from the 911 communications facility buzzed about 2am. I barely stirred. All I heard was "AMBULANCE!" I think I was still asleep. I pulled on my bunker pants, without the suspenders, and slipped into a sweatshirt. The letters CVFD stretched across my back, the number 25 on my left chest. My second home. I slid the brass pole to the first floor of the firehouse and grabbed the rest of my firefighting gear. The jacket and helmet were carelessy tossed into the storage compartment behind the driver's seat of the white and orange Freightliner ambulance. Ambulance 259, my third home. This process was a standard procedure, ingrained in me like taking my next breath. I still hadn't woken up. I lumbered up into the driver's seat, or more like tripped up into the driver's seat. The passenger's seat was empty still.
I shut the door and laid my head on my hands, my hands folded across the steering wheel. I looked at the mirror and see more firefighter/EMT's getting their fire gear and getting on the fire engine. Must be a crash or a code is the thought that runs through my mind. Jim finally climbs into the passenger's seat (also known as the officer's seat) and he stares me blankly. Still asleep, I ask, "Jim, where are we going?"
A blank stare is his response.
"Jim. I kinda need an address."
A second blank stare is given in return. Louder than the first.
"Fine." I grab the microphone and key up the radio, "Ambulance 259's responding, can I get the address again?"
The dispatcher responded, MEDICAL BOX 2514, FOAM 25, AMBULANCE 259, MEDIC 5, CHIEF 25 ARE RESPONDING, CHIEF 25A IS ON THE SCENE, 10408 DEE LN, CROSS STREET OF SPELL ROAD, FOR THE WORKING CODE. (A working code is CPR in progress). No mapbook was needed for this address. I know it all too well. Chief 25A is my father. And that address is my house. I think the actual words I yelled were, "THAT'S MY F*$^%G HOUSE!"
I made the immediate right out of the firehouse and the quick left onto Brandywine Road. It's 2am. There are no cars to yield to my lights or sirens. Each flash of the strobe lights froze my tears. And all the siren did was drown out my sobs. I couldn't drive fast enough, despite Jim's pleas to the contrary. Three turns later, I was bringing the ambulance to a very abrupt stop in front of my home. I don't think the ambulance was completely stopped before I sprang towards the kitchen door. I was immediately tackled from behind.
The yard looked the same, except for the silver maple tree in the front yard. It's branches were bare, but they seemed even more empty than just a winter's nakedness. It cast long shadows over the driveway in the silvery moonlight. The shadowy hands of the branches seemed to help Jim hold me down, despite my best efforts to break free. Laying face down in the cold, frost covered grass of my front lawn, I kicked, elbowed, and punched one of my best friends. I had to get inside. But the harder I hit him, the softer his voice got, "Dave, this isn't your scene."
The fire engine and paramedic unit crew members were inside now. The sirens had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard for probably miles, were my sobs. Jim never went inside, he stayed beside me, even after I had calmed down. But I didn't get up. I still don't think he would've let me.
The very last time I saw my mother at my house, was as the firefighters and paramedics were carrying the stretcher out to the Paramedic Unit. My mom lay on the cot, with a breathing tube sticking out of her mouth. Someone was holding an IV bag high above their head as they made their way down the steps. I thought I knew true heroes in these firefighters and EMT's and paramedics and police officers, but I was wrong. My mother became my guardian angel, a hero, that day. The day she died of complications of Lupus.
START PRINTPAGEMultimedia File Viewing and Clickable Links are available for Registered Members only!! You need to
or 
END PRINTPAGE
It's been over 50 years since a drug has been approved for the treatment of Lupus.
December 19, 1997
It had been a long day at the firehouse. It was cold. I was tired. I settled into my bunk for a broken night's sleep. When you live in a fire house, you never plan on a full night's sleep. The life of the volunteer firefighter. Eat. Work. Firetrucks. Ambulances. Nap. There's really no sleep, just naps.
The direct line ran from the 911 communications facility buzzed about 2am. I barely stirred. All I heard was "AMBULANCE!" I think I was still asleep. I pulled on my bunker pants, without the suspenders, and slipped into a sweatshirt. The letters CVFD stretched across my back, the number 25 on my left chest. My second home. I slid the brass pole to the first floor of the firehouse and grabbed the rest of my firefighting gear. The jacket and helmet were carelessy tossed into the storage compartment behind the driver's seat of the white and orange Freightliner ambulance. Ambulance 259, my third home. This process was a standard procedure, ingrained in me like taking my next breath. I still hadn't woken up. I lumbered up into the driver's seat, or more like tripped up into the driver's seat. The passenger's seat was empty still.
I shut the door and laid my head on my hands, my hands folded across the steering wheel. I looked at the mirror and see more firefighter/EMT's getting their fire gear and getting on the fire engine. Must be a crash or a code is the thought that runs through my mind. Jim finally climbs into the passenger's seat (also known as the officer's seat) and he stares me blankly. Still asleep, I ask, "Jim, where are we going?"
A blank stare is his response.
"Jim. I kinda need an address."
A second blank stare is given in return. Louder than the first.
"Fine." I grab the microphone and key up the radio, "Ambulance 259's responding, can I get the address again?"
The dispatcher responded, MEDICAL BOX 2514, FOAM 25, AMBULANCE 259, MEDIC 5, CHIEF 25 ARE RESPONDING, CHIEF 25A IS ON THE SCENE, 10408 DEE LN, CROSS STREET OF SPELL ROAD, FOR THE WORKING CODE. (A working code is CPR in progress). No mapbook was needed for this address. I know it all too well. Chief 25A is my father. And that address is my house. I think the actual words I yelled were, "THAT'S MY F*$^%G HOUSE!"
I made the immediate right out of the firehouse and the quick left onto Brandywine Road. It's 2am. There are no cars to yield to my lights or sirens. Each flash of the strobe lights froze my tears. And all the siren did was drown out my sobs. I couldn't drive fast enough, despite Jim's pleas to the contrary. Three turns later, I was bringing the ambulance to a very abrupt stop in front of my home. I don't think the ambulance was completely stopped before I sprang towards the kitchen door. I was immediately tackled from behind.
The yard looked the same, except for the silver maple tree in the front yard. It's branches were bare, but they seemed even more empty than just a winter's nakedness. It cast long shadows over the driveway in the silvery moonlight. The shadowy hands of the branches seemed to help Jim hold me down, despite my best efforts to break free. Laying face down in the cold, frost covered grass of my front lawn, I kicked, elbowed, and punched one of my best friends. I had to get inside. But the harder I hit him, the softer his voice got, "Dave, this isn't your scene."
The fire engine and paramedic unit crew members were inside now. The sirens had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard for probably miles, were my sobs. Jim never went inside, he stayed beside me, even after I had calmed down. But I didn't get up. I still don't think he would've let me.
The very last time I saw my mother at my house, was as the firefighters and paramedics were carrying the stretcher out to the Paramedic Unit. My mom lay on the cot, with a breathing tube sticking out of her mouth. Someone was holding an IV bag high above their head as they made their way down the steps. I thought I knew true heroes in these firefighters and EMT's and paramedics and police officers, but I was wrong. My mother became my guardian angel, a hero, that day. The day she died of complications of Lupus.
START PRINTPAGEMultimedia File Viewing and Clickable Links are available for Registered Members only!! You need to
or END PRINTPAGEIt's been over 50 years since a drug has been approved for the treatment of Lupus.