I often day dream. Always about stupendously impossible things. Like beating Chuck Norris in a martial arts tournament whilst my eight pack abs glisten in the setting sun. Or abseiling into the set of Countdown and rescuing a buxom Carol Vorderman from the evil clutches of Richard Whiteley whilst he sits in his evil chair stroking an evil white cat.
I remember, not so long ago, day dreaming about being a Super Paramedic . . . Continue reading
I’ve nothing against private ambulance organisations. They have a job to do as much as anyone. The theory goes that they end up “scabbing” work from the main Ambulance Service which, in turn, causes resentment. But at the end of the day, a job’s a job.
My own personal view stems from something a little more simple and naive – I believe the work the LAS does, on a whole is excellent. I fear that people look at a truck with the words “Ambulance” on it and club them all into one big organisation, not realising that there are private organisations out there trying to do similar work but who have nothing to do with the LAS. I always thought an Ambulance was an Ambulance – all run by the same people. So, the fear goes that if a private ambulance crew do something bad we (the LAS) get blamed for it.
And then there’s St John’s Ambulance (‘Johnnys’). Continue reading
You aren’t called a Paramedic crew on the or the radio. Instead you are referred to as a “Hotel” crew. At the beginning of your shift Control want to know what skill level you are – so, I would give them the skill level of “Hotel”. Before hand it would have been skill level “Technician”.
Therefore, when a General Broadcast (GB) comes over the radio requesting specifically for a Hotel crew to attend a job you can almost guarantee its going to be something a little more serious than normal. Continue reading
The LAS went out on strike last Wednesday, being one part of many public service workers to do so.
Random strikers with identities protected to protect their identities!
I’ve never been on strike before and so this was an interesting position to be in. To me, striking was nothing more than clashing violence between Thatcher’s police force and the miners in 1984. An old fashioned socialistic movement of solidarity versus oppression. Well, that’s what I’d always thought at least. Call it ignorance, call it naivety, call it what you will – I just never really understood the meaning of strike action until now. Continue reading
We were led into the living room where a dozen various family members all gathered to watch over the patient.
The patient, a six year old Turkish lad, sat on the sofa playing with some toys blissfully unaware of the attention surrounding him. He was covered head to foot with red dots.
Binder: “Ah . . . Chicken Pox . . . marvellous.” Continue reading
Our patient lay on our ambulance bed. In broken English he pleaded with us.
“Please, give me something. Now! The pain . . .”
We assured him we were doing all we could. And we were. He’d tried the Entenox (laughing gas) but couldn’t get to grips with using it. Now we were administering Morphine, 2.5mg at a time.
He’d relax for a minute or two and then start up again.
“Oh . . . the pain, please, its not working!” Continue reading
binder