A Death As Another Day in Life

EMT Diary

By EUGENIA KLOPSIS
January 8, 2007

It's about 4 p.m. when a call comes in for a "male unconscious."

The call angers Bronson — not because it might be legitimate, but because such calls usually aren't. They're usually for someone either passed out drunk, or awake and belligerent. Such calls test the patience of emergency workers and, after a few years, can make us feel burned out.

"Why do we do this job, anyway?" Bronson asks, and then proceeds to answer his own question: "No reason." He sweeps his hand over the scenic backdrop of Sunset Park. "It just goes on and on."

I consider his philosophy, and remember someone once saying that emergency work was 95% bulls--- and 5% "oh s---." It's the 5% you have to be prepared for, fighting against the numbing boredom of the other 95%.

I yawn. We're supposed to back up medics, but they must be farther away than we are because when we pull up all we see is a lone fire truck. Firemen are certified first responders, and often the first ones on scene, but they can't do much except give oxygen, do CPR, and defibrillate if necessary. It's important that we're on they're heels. And it's important that medics are on our heels, if indeed the call is part of the 5%. In this case, it's hard to tell: The front door of the two-story apartment house is locked.

We ring the bell and a Chinese boy who looks to be about 8 comes down the chipped linoleum hallway stairs. He opens the door and says to Bronson:

"Hey, man. I seen you in the neighborhood." His accent is faintly Hispanic, his demeanor jaded, the attitude of someone older. It doesn't go with the yellow duckie embroidered on his shirt. He leads us up the stairs, turns around while walking, and remarks again that he thinks he's seen us around before.

"Who's sick upstairs?" I ask him.

"My father is dead," he replies matter of factly.

Bronson's eyes widen. This child isn't appropriately upset. He seems almost … cheerful. He swings open the apartment door and ushers us inside.

We enter the apartment to find the firefighters hulking in the kitchen. They tell us it's a 10-83, a DOA. The apartment is small, dirty, and there are newspapers, magazines, clothes, and electronics piled everywhere. In one corner I see the boy's schoolbag and parochial school uniform: green polyester slacks, yellow shirt, plaid tie. A woman of about 30, Hispanic but English-speaking, is sitting at the kitchen table, also piled high with all manner of household things, holding a child's book.

Bronson and I greet her, and then enter the living room to find the dead male. He's about 30, Chinese, lying on his back on the couch. He's stiff — rigor mortis has set in. I turn him slightly, pull back his clothes, and find dependent lividity, the pooling of the no longer circulating blood into the lowest part of his body — legs and back. "Confirmed dead," I say, and head over to speak to the woman. She's reading the book to the boy, who is now curled in her lap, more childlike in manner than before. She seems completely unfazed. I tell her I'm sorry the man has died.

She looks up from the boy 's book. "It's okay," she says with a shrug. I ask her questions about the man: his name, age, Social Security number, relation to her, etc.

"He was Frederico's father," she says. "Thirty-four years old." She looks around. "His wallet should be around here somewhere. …"

"Any medical history?" I ask, curious, even though it doesn't matter any more.

"Hypertension, bronchitis, and major depression," she says. "I left him at 6:30 in the morning, when I took Freddie to school, then went to work myself. I'm a legal secretary. In Manhattan." She tells me he had been lying there complaining about not feeling well, but was talking about getting up to go to work. "I guess he never made it," she says, apparently unconcerned that her child's father is lying dead less than 10 feet away.

"Balloons," the boy says, pointing to his Winnie the Pooh book.

"Yes, red, and blue ones," the woman says, and turns the page.

The boy looks up at me and grins.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.