Brooks

My dog Brooks died a few short nights ago, on September 10th.  A piece of me has gone with him, rightly so.

Brooks with Owen

A dozen years ago, I was pregnant with my son and we had just moved out to Pennsylvania.  At that time we were the last house on the street, surrounded by trees and far from all of our friends.  Right around Mother's Day we made the decision that we were ready to get a dog.  I was home alone frequently, we now had a house with some property, there was no reason really to prevent it.  So began the search for "the dog."

We set out looking for an Australian Cattle Dog (Blue Heeler).  A local place had a pup that was Cattle Dog and Eskimo mix, he was gorgeous ... I even named him in my head.  We got there literally ten minutes after he was placed in a home.  Dejected we went home, put our names in the ring for a few rescue sites and began looking at Petfinder.

In doing the search for a Cattle Dog, we came across this picture of a "Cattle Dog / Lab mix" named "Brooks" at a shelter all the way south in Marlton, NJ.  It was a handsome profile picture, the dog's head was tilted up and you could see he was mostly black with spots on his chest.  But Marlton is almost three hours away and surely something closer would come up.

We found a Cattle Dog pup a few days later at a nearby shelter ... missed him by two hours.  We got contacted by a rescue for a 2 year old, fully trained and raised with kids ... the foster family then adopted him.  So every day brought us back to Petfinder and the picture of Brooks.  I'd like to think that perhaps Fate was nudging us together.

Finally we took a sunny day and decided to make the trip south.  I dutifully filled out the forms online and a few days later we went.  The staff was a little surprised when we asked for him by name, but brought him out to us in the play yard.  That was when we could see why his profile pic was at such an odd angle, why his lineage was unclear on the website - the brindled square jaw, the black and tan markings, there was no doubt that this dog was not really a "lab mix" but was a Pit Bull / Rottweiler mix instead.  We learned that he was brought in to the shelter as a puppy and that nobody had taken him, that he had spent the last ten months growing up in the shelter.  We spent an hour playing with him in the sun, there was no doubt for either of us that this was "the dog."  (We love taking the ones that nobody wants.)

Back inside to sign the papers and finally Mommy is going to have her dog.  I literally had the leash in my hand when the girl looks at the form and says, "Oh ... I have to get manager's approval for this one."  Long story short, they took him away from us.  They came up with a dozen different reasons why we couldn't have him, does not matter what they are now, but we could not take him home.  We left empty-handed.

One of the hardest things I've ever done is walk away from him then, openly crying and cradling my pregnant belly, him watching us with tilted head and confused expression, his wagging tail going slower and slower as he watched us get into our car.  Oh, and it started to rain - it was a scene right off of the Lifetime Network, I'm telling you.  (The person you should really feel sorry for is the Angry Viking, listening to his pregnant wife sob hysterically all the way back home.  "Mommy's never going to have a dog!")

Mama's Boy

A few nights later I was working online and talking with one of my friends, relating the whole depressing story.  He then became a superhero, putting on his cape he flew down to the shelter - lied through his teeth on the application, smiled charmingly and sailed back out with Brooks in tow.  He then drove him directly to Pennsylvania and delivered him to me.  It was one of the most amazing and selfless things anyone has done, one that made a lifelong impact on me and my family.

Which is why for his entire life, one of Brooks' tags read "I belong to Andrew Epstein."  (Besides, it's not everyone who can say they owned a trafficked dog.)

Baby Diva and Dog

While the idea was this dog was for Chris, that lasted all of a day - he had made up his dog mind, he was a mama's boy.  The first time Chris tried to take me out to dinner, he chewed an AC unit out of the window trying to follow us.  He was my shadow, I could not even move to another room without being followed.  He would butt his way into the bathroom, then turn around and stand in the doorway.  Obviously he felt he was guarding me from intruders ... or trolls, because there are definitely trolls hiding in the recesses of the bathroom.

Thanks Dr. Heidi!

He was a relentless guardian of the children.  He slept beneath my feet when I would rock James at night, if you played too rough you would turn around to find 75 pounds of pissed off dog staring you down.  He accidentally knocked James down the stairs once as a toddler, once.  For the rest of his life he would wait on the stairs if anyone was walking on them, he never rushed past again.  Endlessly patient, he endured a decade of being dressed up, bandaged, manhandled and wrestled with - never once even growling a warning.

One word - skunk.

He was clever, he was our Houdini.  Once off the lead he was gone, a black shadow racing into the trees with Beryl fast on his heels.  He knew how to push open screen doors and has successfully managed to escape every single new dogsitter at least once.  Like the "Incredible Journey" they would limp back hours later, covered in everything from pond muck to skunk.  He would just come lay on the deck and patiently wait for us to notice that he'd come back, he'd known where home was all along.

Eat the Baby!

He knew my habits and stayed in rhythm with me better than anyone else (dogs and people included).  If I slept for 12 hours (really, I used to), then so did he - never moving until I was ready to get up.  If I worked nights, he knew that right after breakfast was bed.  He knew how to lay on his side with me during naps, head on my pillow and my arm around his chest.  And always, he would stand guard in the bathroom.

Brooks & Banshee

The kids could do anything to him, he didn't care.  If you said "eat the baby," he would cover them with kisses. The cats often slept on him, he didn't mind.  When my cat George died in my arms, he crawled onto the bed and simply leaned on me.  When Banshee was dying of cancer, he put aside his differences with her and laid with her, day after day.  He would simply curl up around her on the couch, quiet and present - which is all any of us needs sometimes.

He tolerated other dogs, but Beryl was his lifetime friend.  Having been together almost their entire lives, she still sleeps next to his bed, never on it.  It sits empty and cold next to mine.  She used to help herself to treats out of his dish, because even though it's the same food it must be better because he has it.  Today I found her standing where his dish used to be, looking at me hopefully.  I have no hope to give her.


I am forever grateful of the series of events and choices that brought him into our lives, he made this more of a home, my first home.  He was there when we brought James, and then Meredith home - he helped make us a family.  He taught my children the love of dogs and he was my best friend.

Part of the heartbreak of dogs is that when they go you feel the empty places more than you ever did before.

Who will protect me from the trolls in the bathroom now?

Rest easy buddy, I'll see you at the Bridge.

Dear Teachers ... I trust you.

Photo courtesy of: http://www.good.is

Dear Teachers,

The range of meaning that some words contain never ceases to amaze me.  The word "teacher" for me encompasses such a vast span of my life, both personally and professionally.  It is a simple term that no longer gets the venerable inference it deserves, too often associated with the assumptions of undeserved tenure, incompetent instruction and too demanding class of laborers.  As a result you also miss the facets that include the overworked, underpaid and unappreciated maestros of the didactic arena.  When you hear "teacher" what does it elicit from you?  Does it brings to mind your favorite one from school, what image does it evoke?  She's the stereotypical young woman who is patient and quiet, perhaps even boring.  He's the shop teacher with the gravelly voice and missing digits, she's the disciplinarian who obviously never remembered what it was like to be a teenager.  He's the English teacher who droned on and on about how wonderful "Crime & Punishment" is as a literary work (Sorry Mr. H, after Chapter 2 it was no Crime and all Punishment).  She's the History teacher that noticed your eyes were red-rimmed from crying and made a point to distract the class in another direction, conveniently forgetting to collect your paper.  He's the Biology teacher who made you look forward to anatomy class, and it wasn't just for the lesson plan ... (Mr. K, you know who you are.)

Titles like "teacher" stop becoming a role and begin to become a category, which can be unfortunate because labels reflect the lowest common denominator.  The word "teacher" to me gets tossed around like a Frisbee.  When you think about it, it behaves much like those same aerodynamic discs.  Depending on the skill of the toss, it will can soar a great distance - rising higher with each draft it can catch before gracefully floating back to Earth.  It may catch the first breeze it comes across, or gets slapped with and wobble broadly as it tries to find purchase on its invisible terrain.  Perhaps it will simply careen to the side and slam into the ground, having gained neither grace or distance.  I am forever grateful for those teachers in my past (and present) who had the ability and measure of personal investment it took to help me to soar when I could, and make the best landing possible if I could not.

Now that I am a parent I realize more than ever what a sacred relationship there is between a teacher and their students, for I am their teacher as well.  I am beholden to them to make sure that I can provide and protect them, and that does not just apply to material things.  How to be resilient, compassionate, to see the world with an open mind and fair intent, this is no small task and now that autumn has come once more I have to let someone else share that responsibility with me.  In many ways it is a hard, hard thing to watch them get on that bus and drive away from me.  Now I must trust.  I must trust them and I must trust you.

What I need you to know, more than anything right now, is that I do trust you.

I trust that you will at the very least be fair, that you will be attentive and understanding.  That when you notice signs of struggle you will not look the other way.  That you will correct, that you will be firm, that you will invest and stand by your convictions.  That you will demonstrate the behaviour you want my children to display as adults, for you are their role models too.  That you will give them homework, and that you will be reasonable.  That you will not be afraid to communicate with me - about even the slightest issues.  Most of all I trust that you will care, not just about all kids but about my kids, as individuals.

What I also need you to know is that you are not alone in this.

I will make sure they sleep, that they are clean and dressed (I claim zero responsibility for the 7 year old's fashion sense.), that every day will have time dedicated where my attention is on nothing else but reviewing with them their day, reading their assignments and helping them with what I can.  (Though I have NO idea how you people teach math anymore, so if I can't find it on YouTube I'm kicking it right back to you with a sheepish note.)  I will correct when I must and if I have to lock the electronics away for another school year I will not hesitate to do so, they can chew their own pencils sharp and do it by candlelight if they have to.  I do not negotiate with terrorists and it is not your responsibility to give my child a grade they have not earned.  I will not hesitate to provide both positive and negative reinforcement, all decisions have consequences and to go without sends a life lesson that never ends well.

In short - I've got your back.  I will communicate openly with you, for if we do not function in tandem my children will not have the best chance at success.  That's all either of us really wants, isn't it?  All I ask is that you do not violate my trust, for my response will be swift and will be terrible - as I am certain yours would be on behalf of your children.

I believe the most successful teachers do not do this as a job, it is a vocation - a divine calling which is challenging, heartbreaking and ultimately rewarding on a level that the rest of us can never know.  Whether you are in that category or not, you are holding up the mantle of those that are as well as yourself.  You should be proud of your investment and the measure of trust that is laid upon you each day.  When the burdens of the school year weigh heavily on you, or perhaps you are confronted with parents that place the onus of success solely on your shoulders, remember that we are out here as well.  We know you are their for our children and are eminently grateful for that, and they will be too - across the breadth of their lifetime.

Thank you in advance.  Have a great year.

James and Meredith's Mom

Not Our First Rodeo

photo taken from poconorodeo.com 

Downtime is precious, downtime with family infinitely so, so engaging in activities has to include things that we're all willing to play along with - else the whole project suffers.  Problem is that our lifelong exposure to public service has made us anti-social, almost ferociously so at times.  This does create obstacles in taking the children out for activities on occasion.  So ... how to balance our natural aversion for crowds and especially obnoxious urbanites (or people in general) with a need to keep our children socially adept?  

Last week's sociology experiment?  A rodeo.

Rodeo?  You mean with like ... cowboys and cowgirls and flags and bulls and stuff?  I thought you lived in the Poconos!

Yes, a rodeo.

Let's face it, while the Northeast has their fair share of horses - one does not equate the wilds of Pennsylvania on the same scale as the Badlands in the Dakotas.  We have country, but it's like ... country lite, you know - tastes great, less leather.  We play the theme songs but somewhere down the road the line between cowboy and redneck gets dangerously blurred and it's less John Wayne and more Freebird.  Still, mixed in among the pedicured feet tucked into $200 boots and Confederate flags are the vestiges of the West from which it came and the presence of authentic competitors and showmen and women, reflections of this proud and unique culture.  

After a mostly rainy morning the clouds broke and we headed up to check out the Pocono Rodeo at Memorytown.  It's a pretty drive, even for us.  Yeah yeah, you can get to it off of 80, it's the Poconos - you can get to everywhere off of 80 but considering this is a Race Weekend (if you know, you know), why would you?  It's much nicer to meander through the woods, past shuttered barns with beautiful hex signs on them, sun-dappled pavement undulating out in front of you between walls of the variant shades of green from a pallet only true forests possess.  The same treeline opens like a curtain and now you get glimpses of rolling hills and white steeples nestled in valleys not very far away.  It's beautiful, it's distracting and it's totally why SOMETIMES it may not be good to drive with your husband who is suddenly convinced that you will careen off the road every single time you swivel your head to "oooh" or "aaah" at yet another bucolic farm. 

Parking is free and the "venue" spills over both sides of the road - it really does not matter where you park.  We opted down by the Memorytown Tavern, where they had BBQ going, open air seating next to a small lake that had some ambitious paddleboaters taking in the sights.  Dogs were welcome, kids ran through the wet grass and the smell of mesquite rolled out from the restaurant.  There was a free bouncy house set up, I say "was" because before the Diva and the Head could even give it a go it died a glorious death, the inflated pony head at the top collapsing in on itself without so much as a final squeak.  

A small, somewhat sad little petting zoo and pony ride occupied to oval structures on the tavern's lawn.  In the pony ring there was one small speckled pony, done up with his shiny black saddle and dutiful taking little ones on endless circles in the small ring.  Following right behind him was a much larger version of the same pony, similar white and blonde markings simply twice the size and sans saddle.  Yet he followed the little one every ... single ... turn around that ring.  I'm not sure if he's the slower cousin in the family or what, but for the little ones on the pony it was sometimes like being chased by a large dog.  With hooves.  And teeth.

Being photobombed by Thumper!

The petting zoo consisted of little more than a goat, a miniature horse, a sheep and a bunny.  All terribly patient and none in poor condition, but trapped in the small ring being manhandled at will by sticky-fingered darlings must be tough on the nerves at times.  

We finally headed up the hill to where the actual rodeo was, dodging roving bands of Amish folks along the way.  (Don't ask me, I'm guessing they weren't there to listen to Toby Keith.)

They advertise vendors, and by vendors they meant two.  (Two is plural so that counts.)  One for hats, one for leather goods, pleasant folks trying to make a buck.  Pamphlets offering instruction on mounted shooting on a table, "We provide everything except the horse, the gun and the guts."  Quite possibly the most awesome thing ever right there, sign me up!  By the time I get to the gate my inner Annie Oakley is waking up and having a look-see.

Front row seats equates to metal bleachers with prime view between the bars of the fencing, but the kids wanted to be right up front.  Riders are warming their horses up in the ring and let's face it, cowboys may be the stereotype but really who can resist pretty girls galloping around on feisty horses.  Snorts and banging metal draw your attention to the far end of the ring, and you realize they weren't kidding - thar be bulls here, and they have issues.  (This by the way, is conveniently also where the ambulance is standing by.)

Concession stands are just that, concessions to the fact that people will eat because they are bored and focus on quality versus convenience will weigh toward the latter every time.  People are pleasant, prices are fine, but if you restaurant-quality then walk back across the road to the actual restaurant, this is snack food people.  Still, nothing says traditional Americana fare quite like funnel cake and deep-fried Oreos.  

The stands are starting to fill and the Emcee is beginning his show, warming up the crowd along with the requisite rodeo clown.  I watch my kids swinging their feet along the gravel, ignoring the mud in the ring and watching the riders with rapt attention, all while inadvertently coating themselves in that unique paper mache that saliva and powdered sugar makes.

The sound system is tinny and squawks at odd moments, making the emcee sound vintage - he works in tandem with Bull the clown, coaxing cheers from an initially reluctant crowd (which is growing by the minute).  Finally it's time to begin, the riders charge back into the ring to cheers.  There is the Star Spangled Banner and the Cowboy's Prayer (I'm going to wager there are few atheists on the back of a ton of Prime USDA beef actively trying to kill you.), but the part that caught me off-guard was the flag ride.  You know, where the pretty cowgirl rides around the ring, an American flag billowing spectacularly above her?  They do not play "America The Beautiful," "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or even "Yankee Doodle Dandy."  Instead they play the complete passage of  "America - Why I Love Her" by John Wayne.  The Duke was my late father's favorite actor of all time, and honestly if you can sit and listen to him read this entire thing without at least feeling the slightest bit of pride in our country, it's time for you to go - regardless of personal politics.

Speaking of politics, don't expect a lot of interest in them here - nobody was immune to good-natured ribbing.  Whether you were a visiting New Yorker, a local, Amish, or a Democrat, there was a jibe for everyone.

Bull riding evokes a lot of primal excitement, wiry combatants perched atop a ton of flesh-driven horns and hooves is thrilling on a basic level.  Eight seconds, that's all they need - it sounds like practically nothing, it plays out as an eternity.  With each gate release time slows down and getting to the buzzer seems practically impossible.  We cheer for the cowboys, we cheer just as loudly for the bulls.  There is something uniquely satisfying about the way they jog back out of the ring, head up, fully aware that they are the masters here.  Only a couple make the time, the bulls are the winners here.

Slate grey clouds roll in and as the evening wears on we are intermittently subjected to summer rains, my children have no interest in seeking shelter now, they might miss something.  So we all huddle under an umbrella and keep on cheering while the warm water runs down our backs.  Now they know why cowboy hats are designed the way they are ... suddenly one of those vendors outside becomes very popular and now the Diva and the Head both sport "authentic" hats now, the kind that funnel the rain back off of your head.

The barrel racers are up and these are the girls I want my daughter to see.  We are right by one of the barrels, close enough to duck the clods of mud coming from the wheeling horses as the riders push them around the barrels.  Her eyes are huge as she watches each one come through, our throats are starting to get scratchy from all the cheering as we scream each girl home - no favorites here, just a girl, her horse and the clock.

There are trick riders, sharpshooting and trick roping, the kids gallop through the mud on hobbyhorses in a filthy debacle of a race.  Other children do some "mutton wrangling" - attempting to cling to the musty fleece of an irritated sheep who promptly dumps them at the gate.  There's relaxed laughter and lots of applause and we are treated to at least one spectacular rainbow as the skies clear, colors splashed across the sky over the damp trees, children's laughter and the faint sound of country music rolling up from the lakeside tavern next door.

The riders are done, the bulls have won, the girls are cooling off their horses and the stands empty, nobody's in a hurry and the crowds meander out of the lot.  Some go to the adult "after party" at the tavern, others wend their way to their cars as the last shreds of daylight begin to thin out.  I load my family back into the car, they are sticky, wet and chattering happily about the riders - proudly wearing their cowboy hats.

Thanks for the memories Memorytown.  We'll see y'all again.

All the World's a Stage

“There are four ways, and only four ways, in which we have contact with the world.  We are evaluated and classified by these four contacts: what we do, how we look, what we say and how we say it.” ~ Dale Carnegie

On the short list of advice I would consider truly valuable to a person newly entering EMS as a career field is this:  “Never get involved in a land war in Asia.”

No, wait … wrong venue (though you get extra credit if you know the reference) – it’s really this:

“Every day that you are out there is one long job interview.”

Regardless of what area of the country you work in, EMS by design is a small field.  Whether the distance is measured by county, region or state, the gap between you doing something epic (good or bad) and the people on the other end of said area finding out within the week (or day) is actually pretty small.

That was true before there were smart phones and YouTube.

One of the tried and true cautionary adages for anyone working the public sector is that you never know who you are talking to, or performing in front of.  It is short-sighted to think that prudent behavior should be reserved solely for the public eye.  Just as true customer service applies to everyone you interact with – including your co-workers, so does your reputation.  To act as if what you say or do in the “privacy” of your truck, station or any other sort of quarters you inhabit does not have a direct effect on professional perception of you is profoundly naïve.  It will likely become an unfortunate lesson for you at some point in your career.

Why is that?

EMS is part of the Emergency Service eco-system and in such an in-bred subculture there is very little you can do while working that will not create ripples in the professional gene pool.  The area you work in may be different, but in my experience it’s rare to find someone who works only one department – or at the bare minimum, have friends or family in multiple departments across multiple branches of service.  

To enjoy some longevity in this field it’s important to realize that the person sitting next to you today may be the one across the table from you when you need a job next month – or next year, or five years from now.  If you do not think that your actions on everyday routines is not being noted and mentally filed, think again.

We function in a tiered system, a hierarchy by design.  Each rung of the ladder has those that struggle to reach, those that hang on but never get a foot up and those that climb it with ease after some practice.  Every level has eyes upon it.  If you are a sloppy EMT with poor skills who becomes defensive about correction, you are going to end up losing valuable learning opportunities and chances to be coached into becoming a better clinician.  Perhaps you will find yourself having a difficult time entering a paramedic program.  If you are a lazy paramedic who revels in doing the bare minimum, then at some point you may find it very difficult to gain additional or new employment, even though you carry the same card as everyone else.  When you attend educational programs, do you show up on time, prepared, engage in the class?  Those classes are often taught by the people who will make the decision if you’re worth an investment later on.  Where on the ladder are you?

This scrutiny and its effects holds doubly true for paramedic interns.  You should bring your absolute “A game” to every one of your clinical hours.  If you think that as the student you are beneath notice guess again – hiring a brand new medic with no mileage on it is a true gamble.  Especially if that medic did not come from within the system and you have no idea what their performance ability is.  Rest assured however, your preceptors know exactly what you are (and are not) capable of.

None of this has anything to do with your direct patient interaction; the average person really has no idea what the true quality of the emergency care they’re receiving actually is.  I know quite a few EMTs and Paramedics who are absolutely beloved by their patients and other agencies because they are so nice and accommodating in person.  Yet behind closed doors these people rarely come to work on time, uniforms are incomplete or optional, they do not check their vehicles or follow SOPs regularly, they only take education that they are absolutely required to and that is under duress – is this starting to sound familiar to anyone?

While having coffee at shift change at my part-time employment a couple of years ago, I waited for my relief to come in.  There I am in a line position, with the same responsibilities as anyone else.  This was a newly certified paramedic – as in brand new, first shift as a second.  Ever.  They walked in late, uniform undone, boots unlaced and from the moment they came through the door they complained about having to be there.  This was followed by an indignant rant on how they were not given the shift assignment they wanted.  There was no move to take report on the truck, or even obtain the keys and radio and make a suggestion that they might be planning to at least check their vehicle out.  Most of my interactions with them since that day have been in a similar vein.  This person is always looking to take the easy way out, shortcuts wherever they can find them.  There is no drive to be anything more than the minimum necessary.  

In my full-time job my role is a little different and I am one of the people responsible for hiring.  Fast forward this unfortunate interaction a few years and now that same person is looking to me for work.  As much as nobody likes to be the bad guy, the reality is that hiring someone is an investment of money and man-hours.  Just like any other type of investment you have to look for the best return you can get.  Needless to say that person was not a successful candidate, the person hired in their stead had less experience but far more drive and is moving forward with developing this as their career versus just a job.  It is not always enough to be a good provider, this is a profession and if we are to be treated as such then the realization must be made that you need to be a good employee as well.

If you are familiar with the idea of “six degrees of separation” (or Kevin Bacon) then you know that it is the concept that everyone is six or fewer steps (by way of introduction) from any other person in the world.  If you know EMS then you know our degrees of separation or even shorter – down to two, maybe one step away from knowing someone who knows you.  People in the position to hire or advance you have usually been in their respective field for longer than ten minutes, in all likelihood it is more than ten years.  This means they know A LOT of people, probably more than you do and certainly enough to get some decent intel on what you are *really* like.

We interview dozens of candidates a year, reputations notwithstanding.  A poor work reputation is not a death sentence, merely a burden or obstacle toward professional development.  Poor reputations can be overcome with time, effort and someone willing to be objective and honest.  We often take on people with “baggage” from other departments because we know what the issues are and if they demonstrate enough value then very often a clean slate and new environment is just what the doctor ordered.  However that is not as easily done when you have direct knowledge of someone regularly engaging in the exact behaviors you are looking to avoid in your hiring.

Any advice I have for interviewing is not much different than you will read in any number of professional development articles – be on time, dress well, bring your documentation, prepare your answers, do your homework and have some questions in return.

But in this very small field, what do you do when you find yourself sitting across from someone who you know might not have good reasons to hire you?

Own it.

From the moment our fledglings walk into orientation we tell them the same thing – be honest at all times.  Own your mistakes, be accountable for your behavior, do not push something you’ve done off on a pallet of weak excuses.  The same holds true if you know you have a poor track record.

Do not avoid it; if the subject comes up discuss it objectively.  Answer questions fairly, do not shift blame.  Accept the onus that comes with it and make clear your intentions to avoid repeating those same mistakes in future.  Make the person interviewing you believe that you if given the chance you will prove that while you may have baggage, nobody else has to carry it for you.  That given the opportunity, you will be a good investment – a solid provider AND employee.

Own it.

The rest is easy.  Once you’re given the chance then you come to work (on-time & in uniform), be nice, take sick people to the hospital and then go home.  The rest will work itself out with time and consistency.

Please take this as a cautionary tale.  Evaluate your work habits – are you a good employee, or just a good provider?  Look at your interactions – not with the patients, but with those you must work with and rely on to be there for you.  Is your job performance a reflection of your attitude and do you want it to be indicative of who you are as a provider?  Are you looking to move elsewhere in the field and what is your professional reputation going to do to help or hinder that?

My very first job offer as a paramedic occurred before I ever had a card.  It was as I exited my clinical test for National Registry.  I was sitting on the steps, trying very hard to keep the anxiety attack at bay and maintain my composure now that the practicals were done.  One of the evaluators (not mine) came and sat with me, we’d never met before that day.  After he finished talking me off the ledge, he introduced himself as the director of a paramedic project about an hour away – he shook my hand and told me when I had my card, I had a job.

I was taken aback; I thanked him and said, “You don’t even know me.”

His response was, “No, but the people whose opinions really matter do.  Keep up the good work and call me when that card comes in.”

I never forgot that.

What's in a Name?

"What's in a name?  That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

~ William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

This is my 25th year working in the city of Newark; officially more than half of my entire life has been spent working alongside some of the best providers in the history of this still relatively young profession.  To work in Newark, to succeed at working in Newark, is to have it become ingrained as part of your identity.  Even those long gone from our department still wear it proudly somewhere on their person - whether it’s as obvious as a shirt or as subtle as a different perspective on the world in general. 

You cannot see what we have seen and remain the same.

To the outside world, misconceptions swirl around us in murky eddies of grudging respect and poor assumptions.  People are often surprised to find out just how much medicine we actually do and how quickly we can do it in.  Necessity is not only the mother of invention; it is the rock on which we hone our skills shift after shift.  In this environment we are given no other choice.

Do or do not, there is no try.

Please do not misunderstand, my rose-colored glasses shattered long ago.  We are not a department filled with saints and prehospital paragons.  We fail as much as we succeed in all arenas; there is no pretty picture here.  It is a ghetto, it is violent and it is poor in many places, our trucks are often held together with more hope than screws, hours are spent on street corners, the clientele is often more angry than grateful, the living conditions we enter range from executive to horrific, we do not get slurpee machines or warm receptions at the ERs - and it never … stops.

Still we come back, shift after shift, each one changing us just a little bit more - a fraternity forged in filth and exhaustion, picking each other up time after time (even if we do not like each other).  Eventually you find that despite it all, you are given three remarkable gifts. 

The first is experience, period.  A year spent in Newark is equal to five years or even more spent working somewhere else.  For sheer volume and patient contact alone, this is professionally invaluable and if you use it to your advantage it will make a tremendous difference on the type and quality of provider you are. 

The second is fraternity.  When presenting our department to the city not too long ago our Director, John Grembowiec said “We are not providing you with a service; we are providing you with a system.”  You are now part of something larger than yourself that relies on your individual performance while wearing the uniform in order to carry it forward.  You were given the patch to wear, yet every day you come to work you earn it over again in some fashion.

The third is a gift you will not immediately recognize, but one that will grow on you slowly - deepening with each turn of the season until it is a part of you.  That is the gift of an entire city that you will come to claim as your own.  A city with a remarkable history, defunct canals and ghost-laden ruins, centuries-old cobblestones and scars from riots - three and a half centuries of all the good, the bad and the ugly of America, yours for the exploring.  You will know this city better than your hometown, become invested in a geography not your own because it will make you good at what you do, and in the end because you want to.

That is what it means to work in Newark.

What does this have to do with names?  It means that as pointed out elsewhere by Dan and Terry, the change in our name and our patch does not change who we are.  I have worked under the “UMDNJ” logo my entire time here, yet by and large it means nothing to people outside of the area.  Yet “I work in Newark, NJ” gets their attention every time.  

UMDNJ brought an era of growth to a scarred city; it is (was) the single largest employer in Newark.  It became synonymous with trauma care and has provided the administrative umbrella under which we have worked hard to become one of the most comprehensive EMS systems in the state, if not the country.  Things come to us when we need them; UMDNJ was that for the city and for us.  It is time to close the umbrella; we are strong enough to withstand the rain on our own.

Tomorrow I will go to work and those big red letters, which have served as a beacon for so long, will be different - that will make me a little sad.  I will drive past the place where NorthSTAR first landed and I will cross the same rocky parking lot that I have since 1988, go into that “temporary” building I walked into when I was still 18 years old and have the same opportunity I am blessed with every day I’m there - to work with some of the best in the business doing a job I sincerely enjoy. 

I am not a patch, I am not an ambulance driver, I am a Paramedic.  I am not UMDNJ, I am not University Hospital, I am Newark EMS.

Damned glad to meet you.

Not the breach, the ditch.

Momwatch 2013: Me: "Mom are you alright? The Trooper said the car was in a ditch."
Mom: "Yes I know."
Me: "Where were you headed?"
Mom: "Into a ditch, obviously."
Me: "Obviously."
Mom: "Where are you?"
Me: "Home, in PA."
Mom: "What are you doing in Pennsylvania?"
Me: "Mom ... what's my husband's name?"
Mom: "Ummmmmm. Errrrr. Huh."
Me: "Put the doctor back on the phone Ma."

Deceiver

As I'm fueling the car, preparing to head north.

Mom (watching me): "You know, I have yet to pump my own gas."
Me: "Oh? You haven't fueled since Dad died?"
Mom: "No, I mean ever. I never do my own gas."
Me: "There's a place around here that does it for you?"
Mom: "Oh no. I just stand outside the car and look lost and helpless, which is easy for me. Someone always comes over and offers to help."
Me: "So what you're saying is that you use your elderly wiles on these nice small town people in order to get out of a simple menial task?"
Mom: "Hey, if you got it, use it. In my case it's looking like a breeze would knock me over and I'd break a hip and die."
Me: "How long have you lived here?"
Mom: "Over ten years."
Me: "Not once?"
Mom: "Not once."
Me:

(Author's Note regarding breaking of hips - my mother has proven beyond any ability of modern science to explain it that she's indestructible. The only thing falling in a gas station would do is likely expose her Terminator-esque endoskeleton. Then her secret would be out and she'd have to pump her own gas.)

Hoarders, the Prequel

In response to a large box left by UPS (what you see is a quarter of her latest inventory):

Me: "Mom, why did you buy a bird feeder shaped like an Airstream trailer? "
Mom: "It's cute isn't it?" 
Me: "You have eleven, that makes it more like a bird trailer park."
Me: "And the banister post shaped like an Uncle Sam nutcracker?"
Mom: "To show I'm American. Duh."
Me: “Of course, how silly of me. The surfboard clock?"
Mom: "Ya got me on that one. I don't think I surf. Do I? "
Me: "No, not unless you count escaping death in a statistical impossibility."
Me: "Mom, you don't wear hats. Ever."
Mom: "They had one in every color! And you know I love pink!"
Me: "You're a hoarder."
Mom: "I'm just insuring you have enough to do when I finally go."

This, this is why I tell her that I can't teach her the internet. She manages all this with an ink pen, catalogs and a cordless phone. So I tell her that if she breaks the internet she will get electrocuted and all the ventilators in the nearby hospital will short-circuit. It's a lie I can live with.

Tempting Gravel

Me: "I'm going for a run."
Mom: "I don't like the idea of you running. They say it's not good for you, too much of a strain on your system."
Me: "Those who live in glass tobacco plantations shouldn't throw Lucky Strikes."
Mom: "I hate menthol."
Me: "Then unless you're going to cowgirl up and lasso me with that there nasal cannula, I'm headed for the wharf."
Mom: "Ok, you win - I don't have enough slack on this thing anyway."

Two and a quarter miles at a sloths pace. But the sun was shining on the water and the huge vulture that was pacing me flew off disappointed when I didn't drop. Win win for first time out in a month.

Momwatch 2013 - Meet the new Doc

Doctor: "Have you had the flu shot?"
Mom: "I'm allergic."
Me: "Lie."
Mom:
Me: "Doctor, she doesn't do vaccines - she says 'allergic' but means 'control freak who doesn't trust the system."
Mom: "Yes."
Doctor: "I see. So, we don't have a lot of records for you from the last couple of years."
Mom: "That's because until recently I was healthy as a horse."
Me: "Lie."
Mom:
Me: "She says 'healthy as a horse' but really means 'I was an ER nurse for several decades and thus I speak your language oh medical one, therefore with a polite smile and the right keywords I know you will likely let me off with a script and a smile. That is how I have successfully evaded capture for all of these years for my uncontrolled COPD."
Mom: "Yes."
Doctor: "I see. And you brought your mom here to see me because ..."
Me: "Jeff Corwin was unavailable and Steve Irwin is dead. You were the next logical choice. You want my tranquilizer gun? It's in the car."
Doctor (to Mom): "Does she always talk like this?"
Mom: "No. Sometimes she gets mad too. It's probably why I'm still alive."
Doctor: "Strong work."