Living Large

This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

The New York Sun

It’s a beautiful Indian summer afternoon when the call comes in for an anaphylaxis — an allergic reaction. Our unit has been asked to back up medics. I tilt the computer screen mounted between our seats to read the job more clearly. Apparently, a 25-year-old male can’t breathe and feels as if his throat is closing up.

“Interesting,” I tell Bronson. “I feel that way whenever I look at you.”

Bronson doesn’t pay me any mind. He’s psyched because he has never responded to a real anaphylaxis. The genuine ones are rare: They are caused when a person has a severe allergic reaction to either a substance (such as peanuts) or an insect sting that causes a major release of histamines from the body’s white blood cells. This can result in swelling, blocked air passages, and intense itching.

Bronson goes through his basic paramedic-school protocols: “For breathing, albuterol and epinephrine. For urticaria — that’s hives — Benadryl, either IM or IV.”

“You win a Ford Taurus,” I say, monotone. I’ve been listening to Bronson recite medic protocols for months now, both verbatim as well as simplified for me, and am getting sick of it.

We arrive at an apartment building on Bay Parkway in Bensonhurst, and go up to a third-floor apartment. The door is answered by a middle-age man who seems hyper when we ask him where the patient is. Jumpy, he leads us into the living room, where we finally see the patient, a boy in his teens, not 25 like the computer said, and scraggly, skinny, with long stringy hair and dirty clothes. He’s breathing rapidly, and his eyes dart all around.

“Hey, dude,” Bronson says. “What’s up?”

Agitated, he tells us he snorted about $250 worth of cocaine. That he has spoken in a full sentence without stopping to gasp for air suggests that his airway is quite open. I listen to his lungs. They’re clear. He’s not having an anaphylactic reaction at all, just been partying too much. His pulse is fast, about 130, and his pupils are dilated.

I ask him, “Have you taken anything else?”

He blinks at me.

“I mean besides the mountain of cocaine.”

“Ten Xanax,” he says, referring to a prescription anti-anxiety medication. The excessive number of Xanax in itself could be harmful, but it is potentially lethal when paired with intense cocaine use, which carries with it the risk of serious cardiac dysrhythmias.

I get on the radio to request an ETA for the medics, who will be able to do a 12-lead on the boy and read his heart rhythm. As I do, I hear them pull up. I look out the cloudy window and see two medics I know, both nice guys. When they come into the apartment, I quickly fill them in: “He’s been doing cocaine.”

I find the hyper middle-age man in the kitchen and ask him questions in order to write up the boy’s chart: name, date of birth, Social Security number, health insurance information. I figure he’s been partying, too, but not quite as much.

“You his father?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Guardian?” He shakes it again. I sigh. Maybe I can get the name of the guardian en route to the hospital. Maybe not.

Back in the living room, one of the medics asks Bronson if he wants to start the IV. Technically, it’s prohibited for EMTs to start lines, but no one’s looking. Bronson tells me he’s gotten better at this since the last time I watched him try, unsuccessfully. This time, he finds the vein, gets the flashback, advances the catheter, and is in. “Nice,” one of the medics says. Even the hyped-up teenager is impressed and asks about the training it takes to work on an ambulance. “Man, I’d really like to do that,” he says, eyes darting wildly. “That would be, like, so cool, helping people out and …, like, saving lives.”

I marvel at his verbal eloquence. “First you have to finish high school,” I tell him.

“Yeah but, like, wow, man. That would be, like, so much cooler than the last job I had.”

“What was that?” I ask, thinking maybe he sold stuff off the back of a truck.

He shrugs, blasé. “Porn star.”

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.


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