An Army Of One

Bronson and I are listening to Christmas tunes on the radio and reading our newspapers — he the real estate section, me the gossip column — when the call comes in for a syncope. I squint and read the computer screen: "A 65-year-old Hispanic male who fainted." We fold our newspapers and respond to a three-story apartment building on a quiet, ugly street in Sunset Park.

"This neighborhood needs a visit from the Avon Lady," I say.

Bronson looks at the dilapidated structure framed by leafless trees, the tarpaper siding peeling off, and says, "No, it needs to go under the knife."

We ring the bell, climb the stairs, and are met in the hallway by a man in his late 20s who tells us he called about his father. "He has diabetes," the man says, telling us his father fainted in the park across the street and, according to the teenager who brought him home, was passed out for about 20 minutes. "Dad's had a drinking problem in the past," he adds."I don't know what's going on this time — diabetes, or drinking, or what."

We can hear the father yelling, and go inside. He's sitting in the living room on a tweed couch next to his wife, a woman in her 60s. We try to talk to him but he yells at us: "Who called you? Why are you here? This is a private house. Leave!"

Bronson asks the wife: "Has he eaten?"

She shakes her head. "No. And he took metformin." This is a medication for hyperglycemia, or high blood sugar. Bronson radios for medics because the man hasn't eaten, meaning his meds might have lowered his blood sugar to a point where he's suffering altered mental status. AMS can make a person irrational and angry, and give the appearance of drunkenness.

Bronson tries to find out if the man is alert and oriented to person, place, and time. "What's your name?" he asks. "Where are you? What day is it?"

The man looks at Bronson like he's crazy. "I refuse to provide you with any information about myself," he says. I try to take his blood pressure, but he pulls his arm away. "Nor will I allow any kind of physical examination," he says with a glare. "I was in the military, young lady. I know what you're trying to do."

"Antonio, honey," his wife says, and gets him to check his blood sugar. We wait patiently while he pricks his finger and inserts the test strip into the monitor. It beeps three times and we all lean in to read it. It's 140. "That's good," Bronson says.

The man pulls the test strip out of the machine and buries it in his pocket. "You won't get your hands on this," he says, patting it.

Bronson cancels the medics while the man continues to be suspicious and uncooperative. The son pulls me aside and tells me that his father also takes anti-anxiety meds and that he was once admitted for a psychological episode: "He flipped out. Tried to barricade the door against the enemy with a hundred swizzle sticks."

Bronson and I decide to call for an FDNY conditions boss and PD, as the man is shaping up to be an emotionally disturbed person. The man continues to yell, telling us that we should leave, that he wants our names and badge numbers. We offer them to him, but he interrupts us. "No! Your first names!" He then starts quizzing us about who called us and why they called, and starts writing down our answers on a little pad of paper he whips out of his breast pocket. Then he dials 911 and requests the police. "The MPs will take care of this," he says knowingly.

Bronson looks at the man in amazement. "Are we being court-martialed?"

He takes out a mini tape recorder and starts taping our conversation. "Don't play games with me, soldier."

"Maybe he hit his head when he fainted?" I suggest. We don't see any obvious injuries, but he won't let us touch him. "Or maybe he took too much of his meds."

"I don't smell any alcohol on his breath," Bronson says. He shrugs. "Let's wait for the lieutenant, and for PD."

The FDNY lieutenant and PD officers respond quickly, and when they enter, the man shouts at the cops, "Show me your weapons!" They place their hands protectively over their holstered firearms and look at the FDNY lieutenant for guidance, as this is a medical job. The lieutenant tries to approach the man, but he pushes her away and tells her to get down and give him 50.

Before I know it, the police have the man down on the floor, cuffed. His wife is crying, her son is supporting her, and the man is screaming, "Police brutality!" Everybody climbs into the back of the ambulance for a trip to the Kings County psych ward.

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.