tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54671117194590812002024-03-13T12:56:59.346-04:00Steven Velásquez - Granting "Sirenity"A non-specific gathering of thoughts and experiences through the lens of a husband, father, paramedic, educator, Realtor(R), photographer, Harley enthusiast and friend.Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-76437895481760230402019-12-16T07:01:00.002-05:002021-10-31T10:48:18.714-04:00Thank You for Sparing Me<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dec. 15, 2019</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Several years ago, we sat across a table from each other. She, a young paramedic (and nursing student) of a different generation, was trying to figure out whether I should live or die. </b></span><br /><br />Re-emerging into the field of EMS after venturing off into corporate America and the world of IT (information technology) for several years, I had renewed my paramedic credentials and was meeting my new colleagues at <a href="https://www.holyname.org/EmergencyCare/mobile-intensive-care-unit.aspx" target="_blank"><b>Holy Name Hospital MICU</b></a>. Like feral dogs displaying dominance, Meg and the rest of the staff surrounded me, sniffed and checked under my tail. They vetted and questioned to see who I know, did my audio match my video; "<i>should we allow him to live or die</i>?" </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newly minted NAEMT AMLS Instructors <br />
(Advanced Medical Life Support) at UMDNJ <br />
Thank you Tracey Loscar</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know, tough crowd right? Not really. They didn't behave any differently than all the other co-workers in all the other places my career had taken me to over the years. Perhaps a little more exclusive as they were a small group with little tolerance for imposters. <br /><br />Meg immediately established herself as an intellectual as only she could. Meg had a penchant for prose, a gift with analogy and was a repository of factoids and detailed information, often deemed extraneous, unless you too were a consumer of oft useless (unless appearing on <a href="https://www.jeopardy.com/" target="_blank"><b>Jeopardy</b></a>) -- facts.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
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<h4>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Aboriginal Tribes of Australia</span></span></h4>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Meg told me a story comparing her inquisitorial demeanor to the behaviors of some aboriginal tribes of Australia (of course, she knew their name and region). She spoke of them as if they lived down the block and she had first-hand knowledge of their history, culture and mores. She explained that if a hunter-gatherer of one tribe captured another, that could often result in death- unless - unless after their form of vetting, the captured knew someone the capturers knew. Having that common denominator, could spare the hunter's life. Fortunately for this hunter, my deep roots in the EMS systems of Hudson County (Jersey City and Union City) provided enough names in common to grant me a pass. It spared my life.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">That rigorous ritual provided me with a friend for life. Two days ago, that beautiful, vibrant, exciting candle of life dimmed for us all. But like all of history's great stories and characters, not without leaving behind a great and beautiful legacy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thank you Meg. Thank you for being a friend, an inspiration and mentor. Thank for adding to the collective beauty of the world around us.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Until we meet again.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steve</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Meg Chandler - so full of life - so full - of life</span></i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJij1QX0jh3Cl1hxq6aW9ivSZ4GI5IzKEJ1qsD0OMATCLYzBDyAUCVeZauhfmNwyp6PUQl92Q659RQdi5-pD8l87G012VW9z5LQ7XUmLTNLlch-6IZ4LoC47rP2ljYDvgm-DpTnUfEdCSF/s1600/meg-04.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">A rare moment, when Dave saw the picture of Meg belly-to-belly with Tito, he burst into an explosive laugh. This intrepid photographer was able to capture - the anomaly.</td></tr>
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</span></b>Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-90735636039608200302019-08-08T03:26:00.001-04:002019-08-11T13:39:28.718-04:00Due Diligence - When reporting an incident isn't worth the keystrokes and calories burned to create it<a href="https://assets.dnainfo.com/photo/2017/6/1497292166-301616/extralarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="620" height="133" src="https://assets.dnainfo.com/photo/2017/6/1497292166-301616/extralarge.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">Your patient is one of the dozens your system will encounter this week who's had an adverse reaction to an opiate ingestion. The patient is revived by law enforcement prior to your arrival with intranasal administration of <a href="https://www.narcan.com/" target="_blank">Naloxone ® (Narcan)</a>, the popular opiate antagonist cited in every news feed in the U.S. The rest of the call is a ground ball, an all too familiar, routine transfer to the local hospital where your patient is likely a frequent consumer of health services.</span><br />
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">Transferring Care</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h3>
<h4>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h4>
<span style="font-size: small;">When your team arrives, there are several ambulances in the ER bays dropping off, picking up, doing the business of their trade. You roll your stretcher inside with your now awake, and visibly annoyed, patient (annoyed because you ruined his high), get him registered, and attempt to give the triage nurse your patient report. A neighboring volunteer EMS agency is also giving report on their patient (completely unrelated incidents) when their "leader" happens to overhear your partner give the patient report. He interjects and confronts your partner with his strong political opinion about the opioid crisis and how he is against the now strongly encouraged public use of Narcan. Further, he actually blames your partner (and thus, all first responders) for "enabling" these people to overdose again and again without fear of consequence. He states that we (EMS and the public) are "perpetuating the opioid crisis." Your partner, now visibly disturbed, attempts to de-escalate the conversation as it is getting louder, and the pontificating EMT gets more emotional. It appears he enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice as he continues to badger your partner and loudly display his strong beliefs.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Eight to ten feet from this tirade, safely strapped to a stretcher and flanked by your BLS team, is your patient, who is now completely awake, alert, and aware of what's happening around him; his privacy and promised <b>confidentiality-- breached</b>. Three feet from his stretcher is the volunteer agency's patient, a young female in some form of emotional distress, evidenced by her crying, sobbing and increased agitation at the hospital's delay in her care. She's in a small, wheeled chair, unsecured and unprotected. The other three EMT's that are "caring for" her are scattered about the lobby, seemingly disinterested and not engaging with (or protecting) said patient. A crescendo is reached between her sobs and his blathering. His abject disregard for patient privacy and narcissistic passion for the, sound of his own opinions are on full display. Now hysterical, the female patient jumps up from her chair, rushes the sliding doors and knocks them clearly off their tracks as she elopes from the emergency department and races out into the night.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Stunned, your team escorts your patient into the ED, transfers the patient to the hospital staff and the story ends -- one would think.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Having witnessed this constellation of poor care, patient abandonment, and flagrant violation of patient's privacy rights, you - are -furious. "This can't (shouldn't) happen" you think to yourself. "We're professionals. Professionals don't behave like this" you reason. Your mind on fire with equal parts frustration and embarrassment, knowing that if this event turns tragic (something happens to the eloping young lady), </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">your hospital will likely point the finger of blame on EMS since that patient's care hadn't been officially transferred to them yet.</span> Shortly thereafter, the media, with its penchant for getting the facts straight, may conveniently forget to name the agency involved, might even misreport this as an event involving your agency. It would be a disaster for sure.</span><br />
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<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">Reporting</span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">You do "the right thing" and report the incident to your supervisor. In turn, your supervisor conducts an investigation. He/She questions your team individually and later, questions the nursing staff that was there. This is an obviously open and shut case you think to yourself. </span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">There was an incident. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">There were witnesses. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">There's video recorded on the security cameras for Christ's sake! </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;">We're not expecting miracles here, but one can hope that in such a case, justice can be delivered swiftly and accurately. The offending EMT needs, at the very least, to be re-educated - and probably a better option - to have his privilege to be around patients revoked given his exercised poor judgement and lack of respect for patients and privacy.</span><br />
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<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">Follow-up</span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">Almost forty days later, your supervisor responds to your incident report. In their brief message, it states that your case has been closed/resolved. They report that management is working on a plan to deal with agencies outside of their control. In short, nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen. And you used your precious time and energy burning calories writing the stupid thing up in the first place for absolutely - nada. Tell me again why I should ever escalate anything to our "leadership team" when leadership is the last thing we can/should expect. They obviously have not the stomach or political will to engage one of these volunteer agencies, even when their people make an egregious error such as this.</span><br />
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<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">My suggestions?</span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h3>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Your job probably requires that you report incidents you witness or are involved in. Don't jeopardize your employment. Do what they ask and do it well. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Keep in mind that some management teams have the ability to make things go away. Sometimes complaints seem to just vanish into the ethos, particularly when convenient or expedient for someone - other than you. </span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Documentation is KEY! Make notes. Record times, dates, locations, what happened, witnesses names. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Make copies for yourself. Write them down. Record them digitally. Make a voice recording. Leave nothing to chance.</span></li>
</ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"> Consider escalation or alternative reporting. When it involves a reportable incident such as the one described here, these behaviors are violations of policies/laws far beyond your agency's control. If they're unwilling/unable to follow through on this, perhaps your Dept. of Health or regulatory agencies may. Kick it up to them and see if anything comes of it. One thing you can be certain of is that your complaint gets memorialized there. If enough similar complaints, or something suggesting a pattern of behavior is noticed, they don't have an option to squash it. Rather, they're obligated to protect the public and hopefully can take action.</span></li>
</ul>
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<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">In Summary</span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">This post can easily be misconstrued as anti-management and nothing could be further from the truth. I've spent over three decades working very hard at being an exceptional employee and role model for others. What I am guilty of is being:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Anti-cowardice</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Anti-ineptitude</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Anti-complacency </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;">People do stupid shit that can jeopardize all of us. You say document and escalate to "leadership." If I do that, I have a reasonable expectation that you might actually follow through (and I mean more than have a very concerned, high-level meeting). Use all that education I see appended to your email signature and execute! When you don't, we're left feeling like your team is</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> more symbolism than substance; and like what we're writing is not worth the keystrokes or calories burned
creating it. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"I'm the guy that does his job...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">You must be the other guy." - <b><i>The Departed </i></b></span><br />
<ul>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
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<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;">In New Jersey, t</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">o file a complaint about a provider of emergency medical services, contact the Office of Emergency Medical Services at 609-633-7777, Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. </span><a href="https://www.state.nj.us/health/ems/reg-enforcement/">https://www.state.nj.us/health/ems/reg-enforcement/</a></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">To verify if someone is provider in the state of New Jersey:<a href="https://njems.njlincs.net/jsp/verify_credential.jsp?type=search#"> https://njems.njlincs.net/jsp/verify_credential.jsp?type=search#</a> </span></li>
</ul>
Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-32181305386754087262019-07-21T12:46:00.000-04:002019-07-21T14:31:30.479-04:00The ED Gauntlet - A ring of sometimes irrelevant fire<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sitting in our station last night, the local cable channel showed a commercial of an unnamed, regional, academic medical center that is known for excellence in many specialties. We'll call it "Big Hospital X". I felt it was a good piece of marketing, liked the imagery, the aerial views of the facility, the smiling faces of the competent within. It was -- good marketing.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the middle of the night, we responded to a call for a person with chest pain who had consumed an enormous amount of <a href="https://www.webmd.com/drugs/2/drug-18030/nitroglycerin-oral/details" target="_blank">nitroglycerine </a>(NTG) as in more than five times the prescribed dose, and more importantly, without relief. Some of our most basic training informs us that chest pain that does not respond to nitroglycerine is less likely to be angina and more consistent with someone having a heart attack.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Upon arrival we encounter a strong looking, hulk of a man in his early 60's seated at the dining room table. Long story short, he's had heart attacks in the past, has had coronary artery bypass graft (<a href="https://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health-topics/coronary-artery-bypass-grafting" target="_blank">CABG</a>), has several stents in place and is in agonizing pain. Even without a strong confirmation on our 12-lead EKG showing ***<b>ACUTE MI SUSPECTED</b>***, one doesn't have to be a cardiologist to suspect, he's more than likely infarcting (having a heart attack) again.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.ecgguru.com/sites/default/files/styles/scale_650px_width/public/66-M2%20IWMI%20%20Testerman.jpg?itok=1Emjzhji" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="650" height="137" src="https://www.ecgguru.com/sites/default/files/styles/scale_650px_width/public/66-M2%20IWMI%20%20Testerman.jpg?itok=1Emjzhji" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy - ECG-Guru</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We packaged him and gave him medications to prevent platelet aggregation (<a href="https://www.heart.org/en/health-topics/heart-attack/treatment-of-a-heart-attack/aspirin-and-heart-disease" target="_blank">aspirin</a>), tried 1 dose of our own nitroglycerine (not expecting miracles after all the nitro he took) and a couple doses of <a href="https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/308156.php" target="_blank">fentanyl </a>to try to blunt the man's pain. 100 mcg of fentanyl usually does a pretty decent job of blunting your pain (or at least makes you not give a f' that it's there). We had about a half-hour transport time to <b>Big Hospital X</b>, consulted with the ER physician about what we saw and verified if there was anything else they may want to give. The hulking patient with a soldier's tattoo across their muscular arm was unfazed by anything we gave him. He was in agony.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<b></b></span> <span style="font-size: small;">Finally we arrived at <b>Big Hospital X </b>(the one's with good marketing) and faced <b><i>"the gauntlet"</i></b> (intake registration and triage nurse). No, they're not a real gauntlet. They do have an important function to register and screen patients according to severity, available resources and other factors. Sometimes however, they really appear less like a part of our team and more like the healthcare equivalent of an offensive line in football; their principal function being -- keep intruders out -- and protect their quarterback (the docs). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: small;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/zjXHHwmEmSubiO1JB6TesSx_fgg=/0x0:1091x577/920x613/filters:focal(576x85:750x259):format(webp)/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/64704773/Screen_Shot_2019_07_10_at_7.50.34_PM.0.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="133" src="https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/zjXHHwmEmSubiO1JB6TesSx_fgg=/0x0:1091x577/920x613/filters:focal(576x85:750x259):format(webp)/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/64704773/Screen_Shot_2019_07_10_at_7.50.34_PM.0.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Denver Bronco's offensive line</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
First stop was the registration person. Usually, with acute patients, we bypass the gauntlet and head right back to the resus (resuscitation) room. A registration person will follow us and do a "quick reg" on the fly. Our patient was acutely ill by my assessment, but lacking the horrible ECG finding mentioned above, I suppose, didn't quite fit into their little box as "critical."</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">After dealing with that slow process came the triage nurse. She didn't seem to be grasping that we likely have a candidate here who is evolving before our eyes into a "<a href="https://myheart.net/articles/stemi/" target="_blank">STEMI</a>" patient (the most critical type of heart attack). She asked her battery of questions as the man writhed and struggled to contain his pain on our stretcher. Then she comes over and asks "what are his vitals?" and "let me see the 12-lead." This is where this began to approach surrealism. Generally, nurses lack the training to accurately read EKG's other than the obvious label across the top. Second, we have already:</span><br />
<ol>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Interpreted the EKG ourselves </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Relayed our findings to the physician and gave the drugs the physician ordered</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Already transmitted a hi-fidelity copy of the EKG to said physician. <i> </i></span></li>
</ol>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lady, this doesn't need your approval or interpretation! Move!! </i>(Inside voice)<br /><i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Armed with only a partial story, she then vanishes into another area of the ER to relay <b>her</b> findings to the ER physician and decide whether this patient needs the resus room (most critical area) or a regular ER bed. This was the entire reason <b>WE </b>already consulted with the ER physician. Meanwhile, precious time and quite possibly heart muscle erodes away as we deal with fifty questions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We're standing in the ER for easily over 10 minutes now or about 9 minutes longer than we should have been there. She re-emerges and begins asking more questions. "Did you call the doctor?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lady, we're fucking paramedics. Yes we called the doctor; move!</i> (inside voice)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Yes ma'am we did." (actual voice)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Did the nitroglycerine burn?" she asked. My head almost exploded right there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Are you kidding me? That's a novice's question aimed at ruling out suspicion that the patient's nitroglycerine may have been expired, an old prescription, or exposed to sunlight to degrade its potency. What do the journals say about this? JAMA 1972 Dr. Copelan on the topic; taste "</span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>had no value as an index of freshness</i></b>."<sup>1</sup> We already confirmed and reported (to the doctor on the phone and now the gauntlet nurse at the desk) that this is a brand new prescription for NTG that was picked up at his pharmacy today! <i> </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>For God's sake get out of the way and let us through!</i> (again inside voice). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We finally began walking slowly toward (wait for it...) the resus room. Again, she badgers my partner since, out of frustration, he didn't adequately answer her the first time: "Did the nitroglycerine burn?" Breathless and with an eye-roll, he answered reluctantly; "We didn't ask that" but assured her it's a current prescription. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: small;">She pressed my partner as if the presence or absence of a burning sensation from nitroglycerine is of any diagnostic value. It's not. This man needs a cath lab, and if not that, at least needs to </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">not </span>be here in the hallway answering your fifty irrelevant questions!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: small;">Before we left, his EKG evolved and they now had their ominous ***<b>ACUTE MI SUSPECTED</b>***</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: small;">Did I tell you they have great marketing?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">References:</span><br />
<ol>
<li><a href="https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jama/article-abstract/340469" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;">Copelan HW. Burning Sensation and Potency of Nitroglycerin Sublingually. <i>JAMA.</i> 1972;219(2):176–179. doi:10.1001/jama.1972.03190280020005 </span></a></li>
</ol>
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</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<b></b></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<b></b></span> Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-76689127462136412412017-11-07T22:17:00.001-05:002017-11-07T22:19:56.046-05:00In the Hands of Experts - A Paramedic's Journey To the Other Side<div style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><b><br /><span style="color: #999999;">It's been nine months, since I had my spinal fusion surgery. </span></b><span style="color: #999999;">This procedure is not designed for pain management, it is designed for adding stability to an unstable spine. The reason I had it, is because:</span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #999999;">My surgeon believed that all else had failed</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #999999;">I was still living with unbearable, daily pain, despite high doses of opioids for over two years</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #999999;">My surgeon believed if he were to add stability to the area, it would be reasonable to expect there might be subsequent pain relief. </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="color: #999999;">I agreed.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">
<span style="color: #999999;">Since February, I've been through months of physical therapy. I returned to my teaching job after 12 weeks and my EMS job after seven, long months. I've lost over thirty pounds and have happily had to purchase the first smaller sized clothing since I was a boy. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;">The article below began as a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/" target="_blank">Facebook </a>post on February 17, 2017. I have since modified it slightly to add more specific detail and correct any errors. This is an account of what I went through immediately after my surgery as a patient at <a href="https://www.meadowlandshospital.org/" target="_blank">Meadowlands Hospital Medical Center</a>, in Secaucus, NJ. When my surgeon suggested this facility, I immediately balked, as I've had my fair share of negative experiences with their ER during years of EMS work in Hudson County. Then I reasoned, "it's not the ER, and it's only a surgical procedure." The surgeons need a place with more resources than a surgi-center, "how bad could it be?" -- I found out. Thank you for reading.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">
<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Feb. 17, 2017 - FaceBook</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; font-size: large;">I have some things on my mind that I need to let out so I can
move on with my life.</span><br />
<br />
</span><br />
<h3>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><b><span style="background: white;">THE RECOVERY ROOM</span></b></span></h3>
</div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">Last week I finally had the back surgery I was waiting for, for the better part of a year. My first surgery (a decompressive laminectomy) failed. My surgeon, who I
trusted, had privileges at <a href="https://www.meadowlandshospital.org/" target="_blank">Meadowlands Hospital Medical Center,</a> a place I never trusted
before, and never will again as a result of my post-op nightmare there.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.hill-rom.com/usa/Products/Category/Hospital-Beds/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="1406" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yRGZfHTc_V1lFqU7LjWq3sI-jt1PkDgJO_lhDeBVfteUqcegBpY50_URYTFE00EGVuQZLXaX70J-YorRAFyTIO9RNlcAe9O4WMTC2nDprlOmhBARFyfZOxETMKk3lhFjKDzV9iIMoiE7/s200/hillrom_bed.jpg" title="Hillrom Bed" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.hill-rom.com/usa/Products/Category/Hospital-Beds/" target="_blank">Hill Rom Adjustable Bed</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 9pt;">Following the surgery, I was transferred back to my bed and moved to the
recovery room. Hours later when I awoke, I was in agonizing pain... pain like I
had never encountered in my life! I complained repeatedly that I felt like "there was metal rubbing against my back." They thought I was speaking in </span><span style="font-size: 12px;">metaphors</span><span style="font-size: 9pt;">, about the new metal hardware I now had in my back. I was not. I felt metal scraping along my freshly closed surgical site, which lined up with the hinge in the bed where the head articulates up from a supine position.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br />
The beds they use are the <a href="https://www.hill-rom.com/usa/Products/Category/Hospital-Beds/">Hill Rom adjustable
beds</a>, like many other hospitals. These are metal frame beds that make
several adjustments and some models have special mattresses that, once connected to a power source, inflate with air (when they're working).<br />
<br />
I writhed about and attempted to shift my weight. The more I moved, the more it hurt; the more I stayed the more it hurt. I couldn't take it. I told my family, who in turn told the nurses. We held the false belief that someone would
raise a flag or say, maybe even do something. We even told the people in the ICU, where I was
headed after my stay in recovery. My cries for help fell upon deaf ears.<br />
<br />
They moved me into the ICU around midnight. We were expecting a blizzard that night so there was
a buzz of anticipation in the air. Off-duty personnel came in droves to sleep at the
hospital, to avoid having to drive on the snow-covered roads. This way, they would be ready for duty when their shifts began in the morning. That buzz turned into
very noisy conversations, not controlled by any ICU personnel. Rest became an elusive impossibility. All the while, my
back is screaming for relief and I... was unable to move in any direction; trapped in a painful nightmare.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<h3>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><b>PAIN MANAGEMENT</b></span></span></h3>
</div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">My ICU nurse was a pleasant, but
seemingly overwhelmed young lady who was forthright, and admitted that while she
is not a "new nurse," it is her very first day in this hospital, in this ICU, and... she has had <b>no orientation </b>and there was no supervisor in sight. Can you tell where this is headed?</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">I inquired about how we were going to control my
pain. Based on my previous surgery (just a year earlier), that resulted in a subsequent hospital admission at <a href="http://www.barnabashealth.org/Newark-Beth-Israel-Medical-Center.aspx" target="_blank">Newark Beth Israel Medical Center</a> (NBI), I shared how they managed my pain (successfully) there.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">At NBI, they assigned a pain mgmt. specialist that spent
several days with me. He tried various configurations, before he got me -- not "well" -- but less
miserable. The mix included Dilaudid, <a href="https://www.rxlist.com/hydrocodone_zohydro_er_hysingla_er_vantrela_er/drugs-condition.htm" target="_blank">Oxycodone</a>, Fentanyl and Flexeril.
MMC's plan was to use Oxycodone alone... and at the same dose I've been using at home -- for "<a href="https://www.healthcentral.com/article/what-is-breakthrough-pain" target="_blank">breakthrough pain</a>." After a lot of
complaining and explaining that I am 10/10, and in excruciating pain, they
allowed me 2 mg of IV <a href="https://www.rxlist.com/dilaudid-drug.htm" target="_blank">Dilaudid</a>. I felt like a junkie, a seeker, like the countless seekers who I've had in my ambulances over the years. You could see the doctor's eyes roll when I asked for the drugs by name and dose (usual tell-tale signs of the seeker).</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">The night was the longest of my life. Every minute
felt like an hour. I called home almost hourly - broken - in tears.
</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">So, why was I in ICU in the first place I asked? They said they needed to monitor my vital signs, and particularly look for signs
of narcotic induced hypoventilation. Now we're in my house! This is one of my specialties! I craned my neck and searched for my end-tidal CO2 monitoring with waveform (snort) yeah, no.
There was nothing. I imagined this was what Joan Rivers might have felt like, except she didn't know she was supposed to have her CO2 monitored (she might have still been with us if they did).</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br />Tick tock, tick tock, the moments dragged ever-so-slowly. The
noisy conversations went on and directly across from me was a man on a ventilator, laying on
his back with his head facing his right shoulder. In an attempt to stay calm, I
would focus on the sound of his ventilator, and watch his readings as his
Diprovan slowly dripped, punctuating the passage of time. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br />
Daybreak! I now saw the sun over my shoulder.
It illuminated my vented friend across the way. Aside from the occasional
suctioning of his secretions, he lay motionless the entire night. Beside him hung a sign that reminded ICU personnel to turn him occasionally to prevent bed sores etc..<br />
<br />
I was famished and COULD NOT wait for breakfast. I
had been NPO (nothing by mouth) for 36 hours now and only had some clear broth the night before. I asked when
the food would arrive; "eight thirty Mr. Velasquez." I wanted to die
as it was over two hours away, and my back was still incredibly sore, not
surgical site sore, the skin and tissue that makes contact with the
stretcher - that kind of sore.<br />
<br />
To add insult to injury, I began spiking fevers
through the night. I would begin shivering and asking for blankets, nod off for
a few then wake up again, covered in sweat. My gown, sheets, blankets,
everything was soaked... and so they remained.<br />
<br />
I finally convinced the doctor to grant me larger
doses of Dilaudid but needed to make the case for myself. I explained that I'm
a 6 foot tall, one hundred and fifty kilo male who has been on opiates for the
better part of two years. I'm post-op and writhing about in pain. 4 mg was his generous response, alternating with a 30% greater dose of oxy than what I take at home.
Still I agonized.<br />
<br />
Eight thirty arrived and they placed a tray with a
big opaque dome over it. Like Pavlov's dogs, I salivated at the thought of some
f'ing food! Voila!! More broth and jello. I almost hurled the pan across the
room! A sympathetic nurse heard me out and ordered another tray of some solid
food. At this point, I didn't know what to cry harder about.<br />
<br />
I continued to complain about my bed for hours and finally that afternoon,
someone asked the question; "see if it's inflated." It was not. For
over twenty-four hours now, I had been laying on a flat piece of metal with a
deflated mattress, where the bunched up plastic from the mattress scraped
across my surgical site day - and night - and day. They finally got some people
together to move me onto a functioning bed beside me. My vented friend across
the way lay motionless. I imagined he appeared shocked about what he was witnessing. Drip... drip... drip... his Diprovan dripped on.<br />
<br />
Some doctor comes in and starts making a big deal
about my Dilaudid dose. "That's a really big dose! Like I've never seen
that much Dilaudid given to anyone!" Excitedly he told the flock of
med-students behind him; "That dose would literally kill most of you!"
(I'm pretty sure that's not true doc. Either way, this is not comfortable
conversation for you to carry on with your little doclings. Get lost!). The doctor began to lecture me about a condition called <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21412369" target="_blank">OIH</a> (opioid induced hyperalgesia). Scholastically, he reasoned that he thought I was having a paradoxical response, where I actually feel more/or different pain than I originally felt because of my prolonged exposure to opioids. I wanted to throat-punch him and cause intense pain on the young scholar. Why could I not just get the same level of competence I got at NBI? Why was I trapped in this f'ing nightmare, unable to move, unable to defend myself? I had never felt so vulnerable before.<br />
<br />
As the hours went on they never brought me my
pain meds on a schedule. They forced me to wait until I was in tears and could
bear no more. Only then, they'd disappear for a long period of time, and finally return with what I needed. Sweating, shivering, immobile I laid. Across from me, my vented friend laid, equally immobile, but fortunately for him, unaware of the care he wasn't getting. Drip... drip... drip... went the Diprovan.<br />
<br />
My rookie nurse from day one returned.. She apologized about the food, the bed, the pain meds or lack thereof.
It seemed that was all she could do was to apologize.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><a href="http://www.rcrmctraining.org/job_education/alaris/etco2/graphics/capnograph.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.rcrmctraining.org/job_education/alaris/etco2/graphics/capnograph.gif" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="408" height="96" width="200" /></a>Respiratory came by. Now he and I could jam and
talk forever. He immediately engaged me and talked about ETCO2 monitoring, its
uses and benefits. He understood that as a paramedic, I used ETCO2 a lot, and at a high level. I asked him if anyone here on the floor had anything beyond the most basic
understanding, something other than what a normal range is... he laughed. He placed a
cannula on me that could deliver oxygen and monitor my carbon dioxide. Him I
liked.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;">At one point my ICU nurse came by, looked at the
monitor over my head and exclaimed; "ohhh, we have to get your sats
up!" Sharply I replied "That's my end tidal." "Yeah, I know
but you're not satting well." I began to wonder if I'd survive a fall from
the ICU's window into the snow below.<br />
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<a href="https://remarkableleader.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/einstein-arrogance-v-confidence.jpg?w=479" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="479" height="149" src="https://remarkableleader.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/einstein-arrogance-v-confidence.jpg?w=479" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Sometime in the afternoon, a robust Italian
looking doctor, who appeared to enjoy the sound of his own voice, came in, trailed
by a gaggle of impressionable doclings in his wake. "This guy can go. That bed can
go, and this one here, he doesn't need to be in the ICU! Let's get these all
discharged" he said with an air of equal parts condescension and contempt.
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br />
Dr. Drive-By did not introduce himself, did
not know me, speak to me, or acknowledge that I was a human being. I felt like a
piece of furniture in a house with a tag on my forehead for the movers to make
sure they move me. He wanted me to be moved to a regular floor.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">My rookie nurse did what she could to stall this. She
knew according to their policy, IV Dilaudid can only be given by an ICU nurse
on their floor. Anywhere else in the hospital, it's given either IM or PO and
with a 2mg max dose. She advocated for me and delayed my transfer.
</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">At some point that evening, another nurse with a
European accent took over my "care." My pain, again, was through the
roof. I finally got her scattered attention and I asked for
my pain Rx. She spoke like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lz0AaJ8FUKs">Madam Yes of the Flintstones</a>; "Next time do not
wait until you are this bad before request pain medication!"
</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">My vented friend of almost 24 hours now, stood in
his bed, shocked at the display of such horrible care. I could swear I almost
saw him move a little. Drip... drip... drip went the Diprovan.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<h3>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><b>TO THE FLOOR</b></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Finally it appeared my new room was ready. I wanted to talk to someone about my pain management, as I was not being forced into a 50% reduction in my </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Dilaudid </span></span></span></span>and changing the route because of this ridiculous policy! Yes, I know, we're worried about respiratory depression on a floor where one doesn't have that "one to one expert care" that I was getting in the ICU! You have got to be kidding me, I thought.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">So they roll me abo</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">ut twenty feet down the hall to my new room. "At least it's a private room" I thought. Maybe I can actually get some rest not listening to <i>Madam Yes</i> and the other chatter boxes in the ICU.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">I'm greeted by a very friendly nurse and her aide. They explain everything to me and I wanted to have a discussion about how they're going to manage my pain. 20 minutes ago, <i>Madam Yes </i>assured me, and gave report to this new crew, that I would be getting 2mg of IM Dilaudid. Yeah, no. Somehow there was a vacuum in that 20 feet of distance we traveled, and there was no mention of Dilaudid there at all! I hit the ceiling! How did I KNOW they were going to f' this up too; and who do I talk to, to unfuck this!?</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><br />The new nurse tries to calm me and apologizes, again and again, that she will do everything she can to "manage [my] pain." She runs off and calls the hospitalist, another drive-by that knows NOTHING about me, my history, my body habitus, what surgery I just had. She returns with... wait for it... 2mg of Morphine! "This should take your pain away Mr. Velasquez!"<br /><br />No! No!! No!!! I want to talk to someone! Who just arbitrarily DC'd (discontinued) my Dilaudid without ever conferring with the fucking patient!!??? Who's the amateur here? </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">"Well Mr. Velasquez, the hospitalist makes that decision." </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">"Then get him here!" </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">"We can't, we can only call him for STAT orders for meds and he will not give an order for Dilaudid, after just giving Morphine. We'll have to arrange a pain management consult in the morning. But don't worry, you can have your Oxycodone in four hours and every four hours after that. Here is your call bell if you need us. We're very sorry."</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">As the night progressed, again came the fevers, the sweating and the soaking of sheets. Whenever I had to pee, it was a shit show as I'd push the call bell and eventually 1 five-foot tall female would come to my room. Then she'd have to call for the tech who took longer. All I wanted to do was to sit up and use the urinal, but I couldn't. A searing pain shot across my lower back like I had just been shot. Finally, they got me up and I could relieve myself. They disappeared and back onto my soaking sheets I'd lay. I prayed to my God for forgiveness for anything I had done... or was about to do. I just wanted to get back to my MICU, back to my team of heroes and colleagues, roaming the streets and providing competent, compassionate care again. It seemed so far away. I exchanged views from my vented friend's drip chamber to slowly falling snow flakes out my window.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">The next morning no one answered my call bell. My urinal stood full and unaddressed, my sheets still wet and bunched up beneath me causing more pain. A cleaning person came in and said she'd be in to clean my room shortly. Two hours passed and she was nowhere to be found. Desperate and needing to pee, I wrestled with my side rails, grunting, struggling, sliding toward the edge of the bed. I thought I was going to pee myself at one point, as I desperately searched for something to urinate in. I found the basin with my personal care items and threw them across the bed. I just barely was able to urinate into the basin and could only leave it on my food tray. I really needed someone to come help me. No one came.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Later in the afternoon, I lodged the mother of all complaints with the nursing supervisor. My room reeked of urine, my dressings were falling off my diaphoretic body. My nerves, frayed from the experience. She was sympathetic and agreed with my assessment. She barked at her nurses and other personnel. She made a phone call and got their stupid f'ing policy overridden and got me an IV dose of </span></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 9pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Dilaudid</span></span></span></span> which immediately quelled my pain. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of that hell-hole. Tick tock... tick tock... tick tock...</span></span></span></span><br />
<h3>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Conclusion </span></span></span></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">I have so many friends out there in the critical care community, I only hope that you never treat your patients the way I was treated. My heart really goes out to those that don't know anything about medicine, who can't file a complaint because they wouldn't even know what to say or how. People like my vented friend who, I'll bet, a week later is still in the exact same position just waiting to be a lovely host to a pneumonia or worse.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/happytobehome?source=feed_text" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">happytobehome</span></a> #MMC #meadowlandshospitalmedicalcenter #hospitals #njhospitals #horriblecare #striveforfive</span></span><br />
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<h3>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><b>November 2017 </b></span></span></h3>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;">Months have passed. My pain is still a daily issue, but I've managed to get back to the MICU, back to my streets. The surgeon's next move is to put a pain stimulator in my spine permanently. I've already had a 5-day trial with it and it had some positive effect. I'm so desperate to make this go away, I feel like I'll try anything. So, we're scheduling a date in the near future to put the device in.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><b> </b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;">My surgeon's office called this week and asked if I'd be okay going to Meadowland's Hospital Medical Center in Secaucus.<b><br /></b></span></span><br />
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com055 Meadowlands Pkwy, Secaucus, NJ 07094, USA40.791695 -74.07331629999998816.289020999999998 -115.38191029999999 65.294368999999989 -32.764722299999988tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-57752400843191167252017-10-31T00:12:00.000-04:002017-10-31T20:21:37.480-04:00First Steps<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>October 30, 2017 </b></span><br />
<br />
<b>It has been quite a while since I've paid attention to my blog. A busy life and crossing over from healthcare provider to patient are partially to blame.</b> Sadly, these past two years have been punctuated with indescribable pain, high doses of opiates, one spinal procedure after another, loss of income, and two surgeries to try to ameliorate my pain. Nothing has succeeded. I'm in less pain than I was prior to my last surgery, but in chronic pain nonetheless. In a few weeks I'll have a<a href="https://youtu.be/_Zwzr9Sc1Bk" target="_blank"> neural stimulator implanted permanently</a> in my spine that will send my brain something to think about other than the constant pain signal.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNE62SFTYXJmTjKWO8ZG4aco0rNC2WTv7CePz5tUArX8NFQCkRuIfCbvcnD2YW0jl-qMGkKSOyTTaiuagS5aXeaQ5bushINB8icK5m9AmYwESb2-GzBw5pihY8Not1TCuEAuOmTl16XIMe/s1600/mmc-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNE62SFTYXJmTjKWO8ZG4aco0rNC2WTv7CePz5tUArX8NFQCkRuIfCbvcnD2YW0jl-qMGkKSOyTTaiuagS5aXeaQ5bushINB8icK5m9AmYwESb2-GzBw5pihY8Not1TCuEAuOmTl16XIMe/s200/mmc-02.jpg" title="First Steps" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>First steps... Feb. 2017</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So that's the story between then and now. Recently, I've received some very strong words of encouragement from people who I hold in the highest regard, people who influence the lives of others, and shape the field I'm so proud to have worked in these past thirty years. "When am I going to read your writing again?" "What's going on with your blog?" they asked. "I miss your words" some said. What a complement I thought to myself. Some people actually care about what I'm thinking and the words I use to express my thoughts. What an inspiration!, not only to write again, but to get myself well so I can continue to amass the experiences, that lead to the thoughts, that ultimately appear as words and images here on "Granting Sirenity."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeocxASNs83xceqbcYW-zAJ9TiE4B0af7Xc1HeqoV8VronEAVnpydQfOULl_MzPa9nehEJBG37DM9KfQEuejMFTX3F-bgPOzhIXiRqoXjOD-UJpXMQDQ-mOZ7pnfSTf8Gnn9TFCUt0gly/s1600/2017_st_joes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="532" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeocxASNs83xceqbcYW-zAJ9TiE4B0af7Xc1HeqoV8VronEAVnpydQfOULl_MzPa9nehEJBG37DM9KfQEuejMFTX3F-bgPOzhIXiRqoXjOD-UJpXMQDQ-mOZ7pnfSTf8Gnn9TFCUt0gly/s200/2017_st_joes.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i>Aug. 2017 - Speaking before the North</i><br />
<i>Jersey Chapter of the ENA - Emergency</i><br />
<i>Nurses Association - St. Joseph's Regional</i><br />
<i>Medical Center, Wayne, NJ</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
It has been a long, painful post-op road. I was able to return to teaching after about three months. During that time and in the months that followed, I was facing the possibility of not ever returning to working as a paramedic. It was depressing like I've never experienced before. It also became the burn that I needed to push through physical therapy, building my strength, and finally getting cleared to return to the MICU this past September. <br />
<br />
With that, I'm taking these first steps. Over the next few weeks, I'm going to be soliciting feedback from people on topics they might find interesting or enjoy reading. I'll also do some soul searching and brainstorming of my own. So if you have some ideas, please shoot me an email or a text message, p.m. me on Facebook, or send me a tweet at @svelasquez on Twitter. Thank you all for the support and encouragement.Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-58525295619110886122016-12-12T12:33:00.003-05:002016-12-12T12:59:50.804-05:00History Windows<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGS3SKBYg87-KOa0p_FioKsAlY5fzI0tUA5iR7Yz5PQTLpAFqyp5ec88hTEWpow4HWZLWJrBGpALnYbiLRgjeW6D9fIlMZkVWLOhVx-BV3iraDkNpXJ13SM61aOT8SBArsXuwHruiUj7D/s1600/wwII+dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGS3SKBYg87-KOa0p_FioKsAlY5fzI0tUA5iR7Yz5PQTLpAFqyp5ec88hTEWpow4HWZLWJrBGpALnYbiLRgjeW6D9fIlMZkVWLOhVx-BV3iraDkNpXJ13SM61aOT8SBArsXuwHruiUj7D/s400/wwII+dinner.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving Dinner during WWII</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">As a photographer and paramedic, I have been blessed (sometimes cursed) with the ability to permanently capture the world around me in vivid, exquisite detail, in "<i><b>History Windows</b></i>" (pictures). Each profession, I believe, has made me better at the other.</span><br />
<br />
Saturday night, I worked with Jamie. It was our first time together though we had known each other for years. The call volume was steady. A little of this, a little of that. Some needed advanced life support and others not. Around 02:30 in the morning, we went to the address of a 92 year old female who was having gastrointestinal discomfort. She had recently been hospitalized for the same and probably would benefit by returning tonight - just not with the care of the paramedics as she was completely stable.<br />
<br />
I disconnected my equipment and explained to the family that the local EMS agency would be taking their mother back to the hospital. Across the bed from me was the patient's son and daughter in-law, tired, frightened and out of their comfort zone, as they were not from the area and were probably tired of dealing with mom's medical issues.<br />
<br />
While talking to the son, I noticed a very large, stunning black & white photograph of a newly married husband and wife on their special day about 3/4's of a century earlier. It took my breath away, the etched excitement, happiness and hope in their smiles - present, their entire future - ahead.<br />
<br />
So here we were in the midst of her future, particularly the part wedding vows refer to as "in sickness" but her other half had long since left, as did most of those she knew from that time.<br />
<br />
I excused myself and told the son, "I apologize for staring. That picture is striking. I, I'm a photographer also." Distressed, he couldn't offer a smile but he did ask, "You like pictures? I'll show you a picture." He circled the bed and led me out of the room and into the kitchen. There on the wall was a large, elegantly framed, photo somewhat similar to the one above. It was, of course, black & white (as were all pictures of that era). The picture was composed beautifully as it used <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/vanishing%20point">vanishing points</a> and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rule_of_thirds">rule of 3rds </a>which any photographer will understand. In the middle at the most distant end (the vanishing point) were the patient's two grandparents. Flanking the grandparents were a seated group of young adults, male and female emerging into the foreground. Between them was an enormous spread that lined every inch of the rectangular Thanksgiving table. Along the right side were six GI's in their pressed army uniforms, their smiles as broad as their shoulders and behind them, standing, were two beautiful young maidens.<br />
<br />
At a glance; "Meah, an old picture of some people at a table. Big deal." The same response we sometimes have toward our patients, 'another gomer,' or 'waste of our time.' Nothing will put you at odds with me faster than disrespect for the elderly. We do not 'sling lizards' or whatever other ignorant pejorative idiots use. We are their guardians and protectors for as long as we wear this patch and do this work.<br />
<br />
The picture (<i><b>History Window</b></i>), her son explained, was taken after combat had ceased in Germany and Japan. The six handsome GI's were all her brothers, safely home from the different theaters and the second fair maiden, her sister. Our patient is now the sole survivor of the lot.<br />
<br />
I was happy that I got to share a moment of her long life and that in that moment, I earned her trust, made her smile and even dance with me as I helped her from the bed and spun her around into the awaiting stair-chair.<br />
<br />
It was the first and probably last time we would exchange glances. My position as a paramedic granted me access to a moment with this beautiful nonagenarian. And now she and her family are etched permanently into my <i><b>History Window</b></i>.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all. Watch for and record your moments, your <i><b>History Windows.</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-21187657444808813172016-11-26T23:02:00.000-05:002016-11-26T23:22:39.164-05:00<div data-block="true" data-editor="786or" data-offset-key="13b74-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="13b74-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="13b74-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Giving Thanks and Seeing Why</span></span></span></span><span data-offset-key="13b74-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />Much has occurred recently, some good, some bad, some by design and some by coincidence. All of it has lead to a late November holiday worth truly giving thanks.</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="176o4-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="bgvkp-0-0"><span data-text="true" style="color: #0b5394;"><b>On Health</b></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-block="true" data-editor="786or" data-offset-key="bgvkp-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="bgvkp-0-0"><span data-text="true">I've been a diagnosed type II diabetic since my </span></span><span class="_5u8u" data-offset-key="bgvkp-1-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8;"><span data-offset-key="bgvkp-1-0"><span data-text="true">Nicolette</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="bgvkp-2-0"><span data-text="true"> was born 20 years ago. The disease has a lot more complexity to it than just managing a euboxic glucose range. </span></span></div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="786or" data-offset-key="7nkgj-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7nkgj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Good diabetics go visit their eye doctors annually. I am a good diabetic. By the age of forty I began wearing glasses. Unsure if my vision was declining due to age, diabetes or a combination of, I kept visiting and every so often, he kept changing my prescription. Me, a photographer and avid reader with declining eye sight - go figure. Last year he dropped this bomb on me; "<i>Steve you're developing a cataract in your right eye. We're not going to worry about it unless it begins to affect your vision</i>." "<i>Cataracts</i>?!" I yelled. "<i>Cataracts are what my grandparents get</i>!" This guy was obviously unaware that I'm a Paramedic and thus immune to bullets, disease and yes - cataracts!</span></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="786or" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Fast forward to this year. Eye dr. finds evidence of a large, abnormal blood vessel that is bleeding right in my macula <a href="https://nei.nih.gov/health/diabetic/retinopathy">(DME - Diabetic Macular Edema</a>). This vessel is exactly what diabetics go blind from. It's not gradual either (or so I'm told), you just wake up one day and are irreversibly blind. He gave me a name of a retina specialist in Little Silver, NJ and told me; "<i>Steve, you need to make this appointment... not two months from now, not two weeks from now, you call tomorrow</i>." Okay, so now I'm scared senseless I might lose my eyesight. The ONLY bright side is I could finally get a cute dog I rationalized. Alright, alright, back to my unfolding tragedy. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">I get to this specialists office and I have to be the youngest patient in the waiting room. Everyone else there are septua and octagenarians, I'm not even fifty! Long story short, the specialist was happy we caught this early and young. We attacked the problem with a combination of injections and laser treatments to both eyes. After several visits, he wished me well and assured me, not that I'll never go blind, but that I won't go blind from that cause. Reassuring.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">A few weeks ago I visit my eye doctor hoping he will write a new script to replace my old, scratched and beat up glasses. He would not. No combination of lenses could correct my sight. The cataract (a cluster of proteins that build in the lens of the eye leading to blurry, decreased vision and the principal cause of blindness around the world) had grown and was now encroaching on my field of vision to the point it needed to be removed surgically.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><a href="http://www.molvis.org/molvis/v15/a149/images/mv-v15-1407-f5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.molvis.org/molvis/v15/a149/images/mv-v15-1407-f5.jpg" height="130" width="200" /></a></span></span></div>
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">This past Monday (Nov. 21, 2016), I sat in the chair was sedated and had a cataract removed from my right eye. I spent an uncomfortable day wearing a patch. Disoriented and escorted by my Kimmie wherever I went I, a level-headed individual impervious to anxiety, was near a full-blown anxiety attack. Tuesday I returned to the doctor to have the patch removed and my eyesight restored.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">The patch was removed and the battery of tests began. I knew immediately there was drastic improvement when I read several lines of the eye chart I haven't been able to read in years. The doctor was equally impressed when he stated how significant and drastic the results were.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Like a scene in a movie, I gazed at the world around me. I observed the lines, colors and shades with a child-like enthusiasm as I realized I had not seen this well since my childhood. It truly looked <b>like God put the world through a car wash and added a coat of </b><a href="http://www.armorall.com/"><b>ArmorAll</b></a><b> for good measure. </b></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">I opened several of my photography apps on my phone to view some recent photos I shot and I actually cried as they looked so incredibly rich compared to what I had been seeing seemingly forever. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true">So this Thanksgiving, I am truly thankful for having health benefits, for fantastic doctors and their teams of specialists and for having my eyesight back. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAopixiGB8zC3GklJJaPyiuH5wdDPdRQFhM4aivZcM_JDL961qeFwG1j3MSksvvWJZUT2Sv1QhqBGQSt5uLh_vexvKBOc1fj0m-Ru8TA262scFTRjh2L22l3Sp448sgtXbYN4JLt_qlP_w/s1600/me-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAopixiGB8zC3GklJJaPyiuH5wdDPdRQFhM4aivZcM_JDL961qeFwG1j3MSksvvWJZUT2Sv1QhqBGQSt5uLh_vexvKBOc1fj0m-Ru8TA262scFTRjh2L22l3Sp448sgtXbYN4JLt_qlP_w/s320/me-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giving Thanks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d6ik8-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-6974641173711545972015-03-17T20:35:00.001-04:002015-03-17T22:07:51.539-04:00A Life Set To Music<!--[if !mso]>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by Steven P. Velasquez</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ever feel like your life has been
set to music; somehow choreographed? Ever feel like there should be a camera
crew filming you in your own reality TV show? A few nights ago would have been a
great night for my film crew and I.</span></b></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
Place For Us Is Born</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was a kid, a roller rink
opened up near my home in Rutherford, NJ. Its name was the "<b><i>Wallington
Skating Center</i></b>" and she first opened her doors on Labor Day 1982.
A buddy of mine (Anthony DiMeo) invited me there for an afternoon skate one day
and curiously, I went. I had no idea what a "roller ring" or
"roller rink" was. Once through her doors though, I discovered an
enchanted wonderland of music and movement. Arcade games, a light show that
reflected colored lights to the beat of the music - and girls - lots and lots
of girls. What more could a pubescent Latino ask for in life than this?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Life
Has Rhythm </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Immediately, this thirteen year-old
fell in love with the place but I'll need to compress time in order to respect
yours. Suffice to say I didn't get spit out of there until my early 20's, a
changed person for life. In those four walls, I encountered many firsts, some
that I can repeat proudly, others not, but firsts all the same. Lifelong
friendships were discovered, lyrics of the songs of a decade were seared into
all of our collective minds. I discovered facts about life that today help me
in the world of emergency medicine, facts like life has rhythm, pulsations and
beats. If you don't understand me, try living without the beat of your heart.
The beat of the music in that building was its life force.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Memories
Are Made</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That rink served as the social Mecca
of South Bergen County and surrounding areas for over a decade. The building
had a capacity of 800 people and we'd often have the Fire Marshall's there as
our crowds could exceed 1,000 with hundreds more in line out the door, along
the building and down the large parking lot beside the railroad tracks. Her
walls pulsated with music and would energize me as I approached night after
night through my teen years. There was a palpable movement and flow through
there, wrapped in spandex, highlighted in neon, frozen in hair-spray and always
punctuated in lyrics - music. One couldn't, or at least I couldn't imagine the
indelible impressions that were being carved in my young mind, but they did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">End
Of An Era</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Over time, like any living creature,
the WSC (<b><i>Wallington Skating Center</i></b>) aged and suffered from health
issues. With declining interest and loss of profit, she ground to a halt. There
were a few attempted incarnations afterwords with different business ideas, but
the music (and thus the pulse) had stopped. It stopped until it re-opened
again as the "<b><i>Inline Skating Club Of America</i></b>" in 1995
(Reference: <a href="http://www.rinktime.com/skating_rinks/nj/inline_skating_club_of_america_skating_rink_arena_wallington_nj.cfm?"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.rinktime.com/skating_rinks/nj/inline_skating_club_of_america_skating_rink_arena_wallington_nj.cfm?</span></a>).
Several of my friends had visited there over the years, posted pictures to
their social media sites and lamented over what they saw as a sad version of a
once great concept. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Roller skates were now referred to
as "quads" and were more suitable for a museum display.
"Skates" now meant in-line skates. I still vividly remember the first
guy to ever come to WSC (from California) with those monstrosities.
"That's the most ridiculous thing ever!" "That will never
catch!" we laughed. He looked so awkward and gawky when juxtaposed against
our teams of talented dancers, shufflers and speed-demons (I guess we were
wrong). Anyway, that business (<b><i>Inline Skating Club of America</i></b>)
also ceased to exist and once again, her music had stopped. For years she lay
abandoned and I feared would be fodder for a bull dozer one day. I'd drive by
occasionally and tell my children of the once great Mecca, the music-filled
home of a generation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">New
Beginnings</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Anyhow, a recent investor has once
again rebuilt our beloved roller rink, right in the same building, the same
mold and form of where she once lived and shaped a generation. Her walls are
music and light-filled once again and she has been resuscitated - breathing and
beating - again! Her new name is <a href="http://www.funforcenj.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Fun Force and can be found at http://www.funforcenj.com/</span></a>.
They have a laser-tag area, private parties, children's parties with huge
bounce houses that get deflated when they open the floor all the way for skating.
They have arcade games from our generation too! I played Ms. Pac-Man with my
eight year-old! You've gotta go!</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jWAH5ELp1i78o0jWPC03D0F9xhLbi3lx7qnYOUDWZVO4RPVeuS9i7Krkch-F-y3KD8QsmhRWnMEmsEtTkWFEY14dEIKX0vDVH3hUlVn9t-Ntx-uLGrIabFbkeI0UOB7_vDCfyZgzjL6W/s1600/wsc-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jWAH5ELp1i78o0jWPC03D0F9xhLbi3lx7qnYOUDWZVO4RPVeuS9i7Krkch-F-y3KD8QsmhRWnMEmsEtTkWFEY14dEIKX0vDVH3hUlVn9t-Ntx-uLGrIabFbkeI0UOB7_vDCfyZgzjL6W/s1600/wsc-29.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzyuPti0-tb3JKmK7KhtLImzdDdCVE0LrcdLB1smRUu-1Qbg5xqz8nKV7cTb4m7RXnMPA0ErJ7JOCEzVPXqhvbkRMqmWIWAbZrCqjQ0fk_MQ36naUZJT4CnfaeBMDquKADHk6ekXDqtc0/s1600/wsc-29.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="mso-ignore: vglayout;"><br /></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
Life Set To Music</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So how did I find out? A brother of
mine from my motorcycle club (<a href="http://www.fourthwatchmc.org/"><span style="color: blue;">The Fourth Watch MC</span></a>) invited me to his son's
birthday party on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a>.
When I saw the address of 551 Main Ave. Wallington, I almost passed out.
Enthusiastically, I replied and committed to being there with my youngest. That
night, I raced up the Turnpike and got off on 46 West. As I traveled along 46, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ozzy_Osbourne"><span style="color: blue;">Ozzy
Osbourne's</span></a> 1991 hit, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mama,_I%27m_Coming_Home"><span style="color: blue;">"Momma I'm Coming Home"</span></a> played loudly
on my radio. I turned to my lady and said; "how appropriate" as I
felt I was, in fact, coming home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSQqL5p3dsw_hKnW2XUIquRH7hbQEgZqL-drTH3zZHJGWAPaa1gO4mwvJKX2Zu2qTLeQkWPzLT4dSOmALhn50B-usyCePLiOEjuhDSZrmBDAE9IbgvYIiU8wtZQn043dxS-E_i9tuWFCh/s1600/al_mack.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="mso-ignore: vglayout;"><br /></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqt-0t61pNsmtSmt5xtoJRpHoNQzuOCauNYikaoEcFTWf98pUJd6gZy7_ybgE-ghtle9mFElhgb93n4Sl5GxjdCeEfLg4fWj614pytDf7dDnMS3NsgyfEzyJVovrHHnGUI7fHE5X0L6iI2/s1600/al_mack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqt-0t61pNsmtSmt5xtoJRpHoNQzuOCauNYikaoEcFTWf98pUJd6gZy7_ybgE-ghtle9mFElhgb93n4Sl5GxjdCeEfLg4fWj614pytDf7dDnMS3NsgyfEzyJVovrHHnGUI7fHE5X0L6iI2/s1600/al_mack.jpg" height="320" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Al Mack made the front page of "The Bergenite" <br />
during a special event at WSC. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We stopped at Shop Rite in Lodi to
get a birthday card for my buddy's son. Still psyched from the perfectly timed
Ozzy song, I entered the store and playing over head was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariah_Carey"><span style="color: blue;">Mariah
Carey and Ol' Dirty Bastard's</span></a> "Sweet Fantasy" from 1995, a
song that heavily sampled the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Tom_Club_%28album%29"><span style="color: blue;">Tom Tom Club's </span></a>1981 "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI"><span style="color: blue;">Genius
Of Love</span></a>." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now anyone from my era at WSC
probably associates that song with WSC's single most talented </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">skater, Albert
Mack. It didn't matter where in the building Al was, when Genius Of Love came
on, Al was out on the floor. A young man fueled by music, fast as the
wind and seemingly made only of cartilage, Al would gracefully float by
avoiding the pile-ups of fallen skaters, dazzling the wall-flowers and
inspiring all of us to discover the energy source in the music, in those four
walls, under those lights.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I wish the new owners success in
their business. I pray that that building continues to inspire future
generations. And I, like many of you, wish occasionally - that I could go
back. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxG44ssCeH6eZM_0m-yqc3kwi7qvVZfBZysw_dY_DbVCnAniGPAXJQcvmy8tNZdjMEGTrlnIrWi9BkZRJtzgjo4E2aXyiXk4JAqr-IVGZC7tWEId8NNn2naq2ROv5ItKtOW2fIbTitAruy/s1600/wsc-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxG44ssCeH6eZM_0m-yqc3kwi7qvVZfBZysw_dY_DbVCnAniGPAXJQcvmy8tNZdjMEGTrlnIrWi9BkZRJtzgjo4E2aXyiXk4JAqr-IVGZC7tWEId8NNn2naq2ROv5ItKtOW2fIbTitAruy/s1600/wsc-3.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our old nasty brown rentals now have a sleek black appearance</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2eoINS_bS82Guyu6R9CoOMN_RgTM3j2pm6L3sP2NrFQnGkIQ4Q20rEe4fwSFBDlLXlDgpuvHC9yuneO4vJUrGV2zRZUDx2D5xMc9C3XaVAIeulGb05Y8IjN316oyqXbd5BNJ63IMzxij/s1600/wsc-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2eoINS_bS82Guyu6R9CoOMN_RgTM3j2pm6L3sP2NrFQnGkIQ4Q20rEe4fwSFBDlLXlDgpuvHC9yuneO4vJUrGV2zRZUDx2D5xMc9C3XaVAIeulGb05Y8IjN316oyqXbd5BNJ63IMzxij/s1600/wsc-7.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A long view of the place. What was the office (upstairs) is <br />
now a party room</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuo4CQ8s98XyfGY26-jCVdjSCFodjDEIBAacbLIwhtT0pvnDZgVbtFXQCHaxwlctpKBSIW9ZJ8rkI91wxuMX0Fq5gg_a1MyevQmhxpmQHi8eyMOw6ruVWhI9r9fmtJ4z0tzFYjcXRCGWs/s1600/wsc-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuo4CQ8s98XyfGY26-jCVdjSCFodjDEIBAacbLIwhtT0pvnDZgVbtFXQCHaxwlctpKBSIW9ZJ8rkI91wxuMX0Fq5gg_a1MyevQmhxpmQHi8eyMOw6ruVWhI9r9fmtJ4z0tzFYjcXRCGWs/s1600/wsc-8.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left window - Skate Rentals<br />
Middle window - DJ Booth (our turntables were traded in for a MacBook - amateurs!!)<br />
Right window - What used to be the Pro-Shop is now a party room</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLO0fuRSmP-k2GJiXKv0Wk-wov_N_w2aOfQ3L6PSKWk2HEMQOxjJ3NrK5GIvDOYQiHpb7Qyp2vBY-XvRtF1F_5pqatIjPVWlAs15_tfra-RpCTdVjbL_I_k1mGHt9zOUEZ4p3J2hfPlxq/s1600/wsc-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLO0fuRSmP-k2GJiXKv0Wk-wov_N_w2aOfQ3L6PSKWk2HEMQOxjJ3NrK5GIvDOYQiHpb7Qyp2vBY-XvRtF1F_5pqatIjPVWlAs15_tfra-RpCTdVjbL_I_k1mGHt9zOUEZ4p3J2hfPlxq/s1600/wsc-22.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm standing in the opposite corner of where you would enter the building.<br />
The couches you see there serve as a barrier to the metal fencing that divides <br />
the bounce toys from the skaters. When the kids are done bouncing, the toys<br />
are deflated, the couches and railings are removed and the floor is open for skating.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVP8kR9My_sNqGE96M8cdr3KlqiAksQs4gHf1qBDd7QfEWZAiOf6f9iPuSNcCa2BogDREeaJNVnuWbIIHPdN01kPqyi2nD8Bi325x0UjgWdQE6ffB6qZmWE_elTXK6UarxFRUMnHSHWtP/s1600/wsc-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVP8kR9My_sNqGE96M8cdr3KlqiAksQs4gHf1qBDd7QfEWZAiOf6f9iPuSNcCa2BogDREeaJNVnuWbIIHPdN01kPqyi2nD8Bi325x0UjgWdQE6ffB6qZmWE_elTXK6UarxFRUMnHSHWtP/s1600/wsc-27.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This shot is from the area that used to be the children's party area with the picnic tables.<br />
To the left are video games.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiED97UO56i_TuxIDUEDFo4iohR6jCp8weoEgeEun_tau_SHsfSHcXAcR6_7ayz0sghXC2ubCOHayk2Bksy0o_F0-mixt6wHARJq7i98EBktWBCRXbUwVmf9U0Y9X7jwbj0m7jzuMrF0tRo/s1600/wsc-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiED97UO56i_TuxIDUEDFo4iohR6jCp8weoEgeEun_tau_SHsfSHcXAcR6_7ayz0sghXC2ubCOHayk2Bksy0o_F0-mixt6wHARJq7i98EBktWBCRXbUwVmf9U0Y9X7jwbj0m7jzuMrF0tRo/s1600/wsc-30.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those little geriatric walkers kill me! A sign of the woosification of this generation.<br />
We use to fall and break shit! We were tough!!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJutu73no4_HrnKUpb-vF2MOxm_Y7_g5fh0ahikYvTBmTvu4YObsRug1lv3QgpAJiaV5C5HABHfPOaRJGaQ6f4pZjwXjM2wEMT5jXZgb0UuBc6Fj0nPGgXJ67lFWN7g_xEY5S2NlVRk675/s1600/wsc-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJutu73no4_HrnKUpb-vF2MOxm_Y7_g5fh0ahikYvTBmTvu4YObsRug1lv3QgpAJiaV5C5HABHfPOaRJGaQ6f4pZjwXjM2wEMT5jXZgb0UuBc6Fj0nPGgXJ67lFWN7g_xEY5S2NlVRk675/s1600/wsc-31.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGw1yLKi9Ig4EesnJb7yoMd4Soqg4C3YAuNtE-16ptmq1x0Lm1FOn8Rc3INKpPpaWz89TnzH7fKHpoje1TIbgt7SFAjeiFGXN1_iXwr_903CHaWMtrOG0mrXlcueOaQrsb9yip2e5dzXWP/s1600/wsc-32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGw1yLKi9Ig4EesnJb7yoMd4Soqg4C3YAuNtE-16ptmq1x0Lm1FOn8Rc3INKpPpaWz89TnzH7fKHpoje1TIbgt7SFAjeiFGXN1_iXwr_903CHaWMtrOG0mrXlcueOaQrsb9yip2e5dzXWP/s1600/wsc-32.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You probably can't see it, but I can see the ghosts of our generation... still out there.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fiGB3Z0UtCwtcuCkVHuJQQNXk-HmtI3gfx0rhEEr61zxnWmBaf0DKvu6iKU2C9-Nd0H494FrCaiCKh4We4XHg8dNlRV_B6WbdAMQOPPIEPibGZKBh7YOPg-ENiVeeXpUc0FYovRvRBE4/s1600/wsc-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fiGB3Z0UtCwtcuCkVHuJQQNXk-HmtI3gfx0rhEEr61zxnWmBaf0DKvu6iKU2C9-Nd0H494FrCaiCKh4We4XHg8dNlRV_B6WbdAMQOPPIEPibGZKBh7YOPg-ENiVeeXpUc0FYovRvRBE4/s1600/wsc-40.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hope you enjoyed this!</td></tr>
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-16090690929471731202014-10-15T01:47:00.002-04:002014-10-15T01:48:37.506-04:00An EMS Instructor's Opus<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven P. Velasquez, NREMTP</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Of all the courses I teach, I am probably most proud of teaching The <a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_658705517">Difficult Airway Course; EMS</a></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.theairwaysite.com/pages/page_content/Airway_Ems_More.aspx">TM.</a> </span><span style="font-size: large;">(DAC).</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="color: #999999; font-size: large;">There are many reasons for this sense of pride, not the least of which is how a student can immediately put these assessment techniques to work, immediately begin practicing airway management more safely and based upon best evidence, can begin driving better outcomes for patients.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQNiwdAFW4BsgMCwVLTyla-jrFnJxLiqct5vafDbVh7qs79vgdrfitW7kBqgkip7nzjVEquclBqVM_Hf1791wkWMTlS5gBbn5b493GvJVW1ObwE3j5b2ymMYX-pt8IKh8a6SHDqkAsZyZ/s1600/difficultairway-103(sm).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQNiwdAFW4BsgMCwVLTyla-jrFnJxLiqct5vafDbVh7qs79vgdrfitW7kBqgkip7nzjVEquclBqVM_Hf1791wkWMTlS5gBbn5b493GvJVW1ObwE3j5b2ymMYX-pt8IKh8a6SHDqkAsZyZ/s1600/difficultairway-103(sm).jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark Bober NREMTP, Difficult Airway Course; EMS Instructor<br />
and Clinical Manager - JFK EMS</td></tr>
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Less than a week ago, our team took the DAC to <a href="http://jfkmc.org/">J.F.K. Medical Center's</a> EMS Department in <a href="http://www.edisonnj.org/">Edison, N.J.</a> The audience included everything from the newest paramedics in search of good information (and perhaps a couple of CEU's) to seasoned practitioners, flight paramedics and critical care transport nurses.<br />
<br />I personally have a near panic attack every time I get in front of a group of people and this group particularly because I directly work with many of them. I prefer the relative anonymity of being the "visiting team" where no one knows me, but that's just me.<br />
<br />
Occasionally, someone pulls me aside weeks, months or years after they have taken one of my classes and they regale me with a story where some valuable nugget I shared or seed I once planted, emerges during a patient encounter and they say "thank you" for helping them - help someone else. There is no bigger reward in the life of an educator.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiK7EL0B3rU5dwz7IkByOojdJSeT5VsJfIRv6xHtiYX6DV2sX6LAi4oOVTw8wrOM9TNDXm_XmEeo0RHne7mYKiE-qE8H7mMqYT_06Claj4qRHKVHZlKBlB1sSOzgpXF3W9pM8Yg6DtZlo/s1600/view_13_Mr-Hollands-Opus_jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiK7EL0B3rU5dwz7IkByOojdJSeT5VsJfIRv6xHtiYX6DV2sX6LAi4oOVTw8wrOM9TNDXm_XmEeo0RHne7mYKiE-qE8H7mMqYT_06Claj4qRHKVHZlKBlB1sSOzgpXF3W9pM8Yg6DtZlo/s1600/view_13_Mr-Hollands-Opus_jpg.jpg" height="208" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left">
<span style="color: #999999;">Richard Dreyfus playing the roll of Glenn Holland, a frustrated </span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;">composer who finds fulfillment as a high school music teacher </span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;">in "Mr. Holland's Opus".</span></div>
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Now I am no "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113862/">Mr. Holland</a>" and this may not amount to my "<a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/opus">Opus</a>," but I am as moved as Richard Dreyfus' character was in the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113862/awards?ref_=tt_awd">award winning 1995 box office hit</a>, by a few text messages I received today. <br />
<br />
A young lady sent me a message describing a patient she encountered today. She detailed how the patient presented, highlighted the abnormalities that would certainly prove challenging if the patient decompensated, and ultimately told of how what she learned a few short days ago, changed her approach to said patient today. Her name will be left out, but the messages were as follows (my replies have been omitted as they are not important):<br />
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<em><span style="color: #b45f06;">"Just took a 450lb patient to the hospital.. In respiratory distress with a sat that started at 65% hellooo difficult airway class"</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="color: #b45f06;"> </span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="color: #b45f06;">"todays job was such a great case.. granted i think the EMT thought i was crazy and thought i just kept talking to myself…. when really i was just thinking about plans in my head .. of the what if this happens."</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: #b45f06;"></span></em> </div>
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<em><span style="color: #b45f06;">"i swear when i walked in and saw this guy…….. first thing i said was….. can i bag him with a bvm… no… ok he's not getting a paralytic…. nor do i want to intubate him… failed 3:3:2. not a good cric can't landmark…. i was like this could get difficult."</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: #b45f06;"></span></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><strong><span style="color: #b45f06;">"before the difficult airway class… i would have just walked in the doorway and shit my pants….. at least today….. i shit my pants and then went through the algorithms lol"</span></strong></em></div>
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And there you have it folks, taking the DAC may not eliminate the biological stress responses one has when faced with a challenging patient, but at least you'll have evidence-based algorithms to follow as you make better decisions and reduce the possibility of harming patients.<br />
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Now go clean up and register for the next <a href="http://www.theairwaysite.com/pages/page_content/Airway_Ems_More.aspx">Difficult Airway Course; EMS</a>!<br />
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-38042629343136469442014-09-10T11:30:00.000-04:002014-09-10T11:35:13.659-04:00The Invisible Patron<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Steven P. Velasquez, NREMTP</strong></span><br />
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<em><span style="color: red;"></span></em> </div>
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A tired paramedic completed his night shift and greeted the beautiful summer morning with a smile -- and strong coffee. His unit was close to the home of his seven year-old daughter who lives with her mommy. He called the mother to see if they were busy. If not, perhaps he could spend the day with his munchkin. She agreed and they chose a venue somewhere between their locations, a diner with a retro 50's theme and customers to match. The place was busy, jammed, filled with what looked like a casting call for Ron Howards' 1985 movie "<em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088933/">Cocoon</a></em>." Walking through the door, a delicate ear could hear a gentle and homogenous hum, an alliance of sound, a mix of atherosclerosis and Elvis filling the air (and apparently rendering the tired paramedic invisible).</div>
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<a href="http://selftaughtidiot.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/waitress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://selftaughtidiot.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/waitress.jpg" height="200" width="194" /></a>Tired as he was, and eager to read the book under his left arm, he moved to the rear of the diner and aimed his large body toward one of the last remaining seats, a booth. Standing before him -- and looking right through him it seemed -- the waitress gestured to a family that had just arrived by the front door across the restaurant. "Family of three?" she called, "I have a booth right here."<br />
<br />
With a now furrowed brow, the tired paramedic looked at the waitress standing directly before him with her arms furiously flailing toward the family by the door. "Are you giving this booth away?" he pointed and asked. "They are a family of three" she sniffed, as she sidestepped him to allow the family's passage. "So is mine!" he said so other tables could hear, but no one cared. He felt slighted though his family had not yet arrived. He felt like an <strong>invisible patron</strong> but was too tired to make a commotion. He returned to the front of the restaurant and sat -alone- at a table for four, spread his books and notepad and began to read, though he was distracted by the stares and whispers of the "visible" patrons, seemingly upset at the view of a table for four only 1/4th occupied -- and during a busy time. Even the exciting vibes of Bobby Days' "<a href="http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=rockin'+robin&FORM=VIRE2#view=detail&mid=1B7E3497FBD566FDD8271B7E3497FBD566FDD827">Rockin' Robin</a>" were no match for the judgment and scoffs of the elderly - the visible.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Finally, the paramedics' little girl ran through the door and leapt directly into his arms. Hugs and kisses followed and so did a simmering of the collective tempers of the white-haired, table jurors.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
His family ordered breakfast and made light conversation, a necessity, as there are many reasons why Mommy and Daddy cannot live together anymore. They traded niceties.</div>
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A man in a booth against the wall seemed to be panting, clutching his chest and telling his wife he had tightness across his chest and down his left arm. Instinctively, the <strong>invisible patron</strong> rose from his chair and went to the man's aid. His daughter's mom ran out to the vehicle to get whatever equipment was in his duty bag from the night before. He introduced himself. He offered his name and said; "I'm a paramedic. I'll stay with you until help arrives. Tell me what's bothering you."</div>
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The man in the booth was warm and profusely sweaty. He clutched his chest and rubbed his left arm and hand. His pulses were palpable and of a normal rate. The <strong>invisible patron</strong> called his local dispatch center, identified himself as one of their paramedics -off duty- and requested paramedics to the diner for a man having chest pains. This act put the wheels in motion for the local agencies as they would now send police, a local basic life support ambulance with EMT's (Emergency Medical Technicians) and a regional mobile intensive care unit with paramedics who have advanced education, skills and tools.</div>
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The police and an EMS unit from Munchfaster Township arrived and entered the crowded diner; a tight and narrow squeeze eased only by "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KseUrBSRBDA">Please Mr. Postman</a>"; a Motown great by The Marvelettes. The Munchfaster EMT's took the patient to their ambulance and sped away. The paramedic unit never arrived as they were coming from a great distance. The <strong>invisible patron</strong> returned to his seat and re-joined his family (of three), but not before a round of "thank you('s)", "good thing you were here('s)" and "great job('s)!" erupted from the elderly table jurors.</div>
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The paramedic, I suppose, through his perceived act of kindness had finally joined the ranks of the visible.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSawgJmcTw99OmA57tAqOQmJW5R6NjCsjqUvLW9-98nFb08v893t9te1oZ-FrssdLD5DaYbpTfVIf_lQ9vod_QZw9deOl5NIsLyXF5M5ZaoB5d3ETBjLVBVtQlF3DcP0g-rCKnnRNzez9/s1600/steve_2013-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSawgJmcTw99OmA57tAqOQmJW5R6NjCsjqUvLW9-98nFb08v893t9te1oZ-FrssdLD5DaYbpTfVIf_lQ9vod_QZw9deOl5NIsLyXF5M5ZaoB5d3ETBjLVBVtQlF3DcP0g-rCKnnRNzez9/s1600/steve_2013-1.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite Visible<br />
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-55790686219391156362014-08-13T16:28:00.001-04:002014-08-13T20:00:14.163-04:00The "Sad Lightning" of Robin Williams<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Steven P. Velasquez<br />August 13, 2014</span></b><br />
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Little B and I visited my parents today. My mother uses me for two things usually, to create and transport grandchildren to her home, and to fix all the technical issues in said home. Today I had to re-direct her Facebook account to her new email address and connect a DVD player to her new HD TV. Her fascination with her oldest son faded many years ago and has transformed to a relationship of utility.<br />
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Abuela, a septuagenarian from Puerto Rico, sat in her rocker, gently rocking to and fro, while Little B watched "<a href="http://www.mamma-mia.com/">Mama Mia</a>" on the newly connected DVD player. The afternoon air filled with conversation about current events, a custom born of retirements' boredom. The sadness of the <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/gossip/robin-williams-dead-63-family-members-issue-heartfelt-remembrances-article-1.1901466">passing of actor Robin Williams</a> dominated the conversation and was only temporarily sidelined to allow for discussion of yesterday's <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/08/12/showbiz/lauren-bacall-dead/">passing of actress, Lauren Bacall</a>. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VXZ4TJGodO8XqdXJ6e0n_9YBvid14KgCkqvv6DaUnjk4XTHu7RtoJ30RlwKnIbpVHLOrw4UnvLaDrC_PnWr2FVt-CwNlQHnEZNvo9LkjJqOrSSZcItbCi-zS8vRnFsx3WSkeJ8MVXs9f/s1600/patch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VXZ4TJGodO8XqdXJ6e0n_9YBvid14KgCkqvv6DaUnjk4XTHu7RtoJ30RlwKnIbpVHLOrw4UnvLaDrC_PnWr2FVt-CwNlQHnEZNvo9LkjJqOrSSZcItbCi-zS8vRnFsx3WSkeJ8MVXs9f/s1600/patch.jpg" height="200" width="199" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Robin Williams as Dr. Hunter<br />"Patch" Adams </b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></td></tr>
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Abuela asked me if I had ever heard of or read the Spanish poem <a href="http://www.poemas-del-alma.com/juan-de-dios-peza-reir-llorando.htm">"Reir Llorando" by Juan de Dios Pesa.</a> My reply, of course, was "no," as I have never immersed myself into anything other than English literature. She began reciting phrases from this poem, as if fresh in her memory. Who knew these were thoughts unveiled from the mind of a 13 year old, now 78?<br />
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<i><span style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">She began to explain how she felt the words of this poem from her childhood, applied directly to the modern day "Garrid," <a href="http://www.robinwilliams.com/">Robin Williams</a>.</span></b></span></i><br />
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Curious, I hit Google and found a version of the poem and nearly sprained my brain reading it. The poem is written in a very formal, Castilian version of Spanish <br />
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<a href="http://thepumpkinshead.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/aquihablamosespanol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://thepumpkinshead.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/aquihablamosespanol.jpg" height="200" width="185" /></a></div>
which really eludes my grasp. We made our best attempt to translate it and make it meaningful. I must admit, I was quite impressed with how much of it I did, in fact, understand. Its' beauty - exposed, its power - felt deep in my gut, and I found myself awkwardly (and rarely) agreeing with my mother completely. This poem was the story of <b>Robin Williams</b> - to a fault. <br />
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The link to the Spanish version is listed above. I also searched for a translation to English and found this in a Yahoo Answers forum. Ironically, it was only posted yesterday by "Carmenzmb" and she too agreed this was Robin's story.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: red;"><br />**Note - Garrid (Sp) and Garrik (Eng) are interchangeable**</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #45818e;">To Laugh While Crying (Reir Llorando)<br />
<br />
Watching Garrik – an actor from England - <br />
the people would say applauding: <br />
“You are the funniest one on earth <br />
and the happiest one…” <br />
And the comedian would laugh. </span><br />
<span style="color: #45818e;"><br />
Victims of melancholy, the highest lords, <br />
during their darkest and heaviest nights <br />
would go see the king of actors <br />
and change their melancholy into roars of laughter. <br /><br />
Once, before a famous doctor, came a man with eyes so somber: <br />
“I suffer – he said -, an illness so horrible <br />
as this paleness of my face” <br /><br />
“Nothing holds any enchantment or attractiveness; <br />
I don’t care about my name or my fate <br />
I die living an eternal melancholy <br />
and my only hope is that of death”. <br /><br />
- Travel and distract yourself <br />
- I’ve traveled so much! <br /><br />
- Search for readings <br />
- I’ve read so much! <br /><br />
- Have a woman love you <br />
- But I am loved <br /><br />
- Get a title <br />
- I was born a noble <br /><br />
- Might you be poor? <br />
- I have riches <br /><br />
- Do you like compliments? <br />
- I hear so many! <br /><br />
- What do you have as a family? <br />
- My sadness <br /><br />
- Do you go to the cemeteries? <br />
- Often, very often. <br /><br />
- Of your current life, do you have witnesses? <br />
- Yes, but I don’t let them impose their burdens; <br />
I call the dead my friends; <br />
I call the living my executioners. <br /><br />
- It leaves me – added the doctor – perplexed <br />
your illness and I must not scare you; <br /><br />
Take today this advice as a prescription <br />
only watching Garrik can you be cured. <br /><br />
-Garrik? <br /><br />
-Yes, Garrik… The most indolent <br />
and austere society anxiously seeks him; <br />
everyone who sees him, dies of laughter; <br />
he has an amazing artistic grace. <br /><br />
- And me? Will he make me laugh? <br />
-Ah, yes, I swear it; <br />
he and no one but him; but… what disturbs you? <br /><br />
-So – said the patient – I won’t be cured; <br />
I am Garrik! Change my prescription. <br /><br />
How many are there who, tired of life, <br />
ill with pain, dead with tedium, <br />
make others laugh as the suicidal actor, <br />
without finding a remedy for their illness?<br /><br />
Oh! How often do we cry while laughing! <br />
Nobody should trust the merriment of laughter, <br />
because in those beings devoured by pain, <br />
the soul groans while the face laughs! <br /><br />
If faith dies, if calm flees, <br />
if our feet only step on thistles, <br />
the tempest of the soul hurls to our face, <br />
a sad lightning: a smile. <br /><br />
The carnival of the world is such a trickster, <br />
that life is but a short masquerade; <br />
here we learn to laugh with tears <br />
and also to cry with laughter.
<br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Dear Robin, I did not know you, but I grew with you in my life. You entertained my family and I with laughter to the point of tears. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #45818e;"><span style="color: black;">Thank you for your art and your life's work. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #45818e;"><span style="color: black;">May God keep you forever more. </span></span>Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-26947226135644239622014-07-26T16:30:00.001-04:002014-07-26T16:31:20.396-04:00Bringing Home Rebecca<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3dOcdYQ-RYY99VQcYhj-PoNZ9iVP5AH2igajFHbnnObOyDMjTUdhe_G4NZ71EUzAD4WCgDW84A6l_RLCX8qM1p8sU1ihxavK9V54DS2QHO-MXnz_NYM8Bvt7JTd2So_KiUi3Nn_UWfPv/s1600/serkey3banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3dOcdYQ-RYY99VQcYhj-PoNZ9iVP5AH2igajFHbnnObOyDMjTUdhe_G4NZ71EUzAD4WCgDW84A6l_RLCX8qM1p8sU1ihxavK9V54DS2QHO-MXnz_NYM8Bvt7JTd2So_KiUi3Nn_UWfPv/s1600/serkey3banner.jpg" height="147" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven Velasquez</strong></span></div>
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<strong>This morning, New Jersey's Police, Fire and EMS agencies were called into respectful action for the third time in as many weeks, to bring another young, deceased, member of service home.</strong> </div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/rserkey?fref=ts">Flight Paramedic Rebecca Serkey's</a> remains arrived at <a href="http://www.panynj.gov/airports/jfk.html">JFK International Airport</a> early this morning to make her final journey home, following a fatal MEDEVAC helicopter crash July 17, 2014 near Newkirk, New Mexico.</div>
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Rebecca (29) was a NJ Mobile Intensive Care Paramedic with <a href="http://www.holyname.org/emergencycare/micu.asp">Holy Name Hospital MICU</a> in Teaneck and <a href="http://www.uh-ems.org/">University Hospital EMS</a> in Newark before following her dream and moving to New Mexico, to work with <a href="http://www.tristatecareflightems.com/med.php">TriState CareFlight.</a> Rebecca had also worked as an EMT for Holy Name Hospital, Teaneck, Ridgefield Ambulance Corps. and others. </div>
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Today she was brought home surrounded by those who loved, worked with and respected her. Numerous EMS agencies including: </div>
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Montclair</div>
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Ridgefield</div>
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Teaneck</div>
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University Hospital</div>
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Jersey City Medical Center</div>
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Holy Name Hospital</div>
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Area police and fire departments, the <a href="http://www.fourthwatchmc.org/">Fourth Watch Motorcycle Club's mother chapter</a>, the <a href="http://www.knightsoflife.org/">Knight's Of Life</a>, and a large cadre of police motorcycle units including:</div>
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Cedar Grove</div>
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North Haledon</div>
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North Arlington</div>
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Essex Fells</div>
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Clarkstown, NY</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Dave Brierty and Lee Ruiz<br />
Fourth Watch MC</td></tr>
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The motor units provided an impressive and valuable escort (and some much needed safety).</div>
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The somber parade departed JFK, and due to traffic conditions on the <a href="http://www.nycroads.com/roads/van-wyck/">Van Wyck Expressway</a>, took a circuitous, but at least moving, route through Brooklyn. We crossed over the <a href="http://www.nycroads.com/crossings/verrazano-narrows/">Verrazano</a>, traversed Staten Island, then went over the <a href="http://www.panynj.gov/bridges-tunnels/goethals-bridge.html">Goethals Bridge</a> before returning to NJ and making the final leg of the journey, up the <a href="http://www.state.nj.us/turnpike/">NJ Turnpike</a> into Fort Lee, where final services will take place Sunday, July 27, 2014.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Dave Brierty and Lee Ruiz<br />
Fourth Watch MC</td></tr>
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<em><span style="color: #e06666;">Rebecca, may you rest peacefully and may God comfort your family. Till we meet again.</span></em></div>
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<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory/medical-helicopters-crashes-mexico-24598970"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Medical Helicopter Crashes In New Mexico; 3 Dead - July 17, 2014 ABC News</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://cliffviewpilot.com/popular-bergen-paramedic-killed-in-new-mexico-helicopter-crash/">Popular Bergen paramedic killed in New Mexico helicopter crash</a> - July 17, 2014 Cliffview Pilot </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></div>
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<br />Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0John F. Kennedy International Airport (JFK), Jamaica, NY 11430, USA40.6413111 -73.77813909999997640.5931171 -73.858820099999974 40.689505100000005 -73.697458099999977tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-57597881167383811162014-06-14T11:44:00.001-04:002014-06-14T11:53:06.904-04:00Transitions<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Steven P. Velasquez</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">June 14, 2014</span></b><br />
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<b>My family, over the recent past, has been encountering (sometimes enduring) what seems to be an unprecedented amount of change, of transitions</b>. From anticipated change like the long-awaited arrival of Spring, to special occasions that no matter how well documented, highlighted or punctuated they are on one's calendar, always feel like a surprise!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nazareth Area H.S. <br />
Class of 2014</td></tr>
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A few weeks ago, we finally began to encounter temps over 50 degrees Fahrenheit. The days are longer and one's warm-weather wardrobe re-emerges from storage boxes beneath their beds. This week, my first born daughter <strong>Nicolette</strong>,<strong> </strong>graduated high school (so proud). Next week, she will blow out 18 candles, be eligible to vote, to serve in the military, to make <strong>her </strong><strong>own</strong> decisions (I pray she makes good ones). A month from today, she'll leave her mother's nest, spread her wings and begin attending <a href="http://www.liberty.edu/">Liberty University </a>in <a href="http://www.virginia.gov/">Virginia</a>, about half-way between her parents (<a href="http://www.state.nj.us/">NJ </a>& <a href="http://www.pa.gov/Pages/default.aspx">PA</a>) and her oldest sister <b>Samantha </b>and grandmother <b>Pat </b>in <a href="http://www.savannahga.gov/">Savannah</a>, <a href="http://georgia.gov/">GA</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHNWl80A8dv8GlOOsYUyWlVJA-czDKt_sDdbzdITDSy4SBV4JkCNcegqP7JmofSOcHAc6VbzoRNTEqTVV1q0j7pMA-kNpc9V49_FNynFv1pZG98s6X73EO9qmTGBRiAoWYZaiwVp0mG1Q/s1600/point_pleasant-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHNWl80A8dv8GlOOsYUyWlVJA-czDKt_sDdbzdITDSy4SBV4JkCNcegqP7JmofSOcHAc6VbzoRNTEqTVV1q0j7pMA-kNpc9V49_FNynFv1pZG98s6X73EO9qmTGBRiAoWYZaiwVp0mG1Q/s1600/point_pleasant-3.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Birthday Abuelo<br />
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A few weeks ago, my father <b>Americo </b>blew out candle-lit pancakes at <a href="http://www.ihop.com/">IHOP</a>, one of his favorite restaurants and guilty pleasures, for the 78th time. Happy Birthday Daddy.<br />
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Last week, we paid a surprise visit to the elders with my youngest, <b>Little B</b>, in tow. This is always a welcome event by my parents as they love their granddaughters more than life and air and the sun combined. One of their complaints in their new home in Toms River is the silence, the sound of time passing and their arteries hardening. They miss getting in the car and going places. They miss the sound of their children playing out in the street, as Mountain Way in <a href="http://rutherford-nj.com/">Rutherford </a>was more like a sports arena than a street corner during my childhood. Perhaps they even miss refereeing another fight between my sister Diane and I. Odd I know, but it was the activity, I suspect, that reminded them they were alive - and young - and vibrant.<br />
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It was late when I decided to scoop them up and take them out. They usually oppose my impulsiveness with their long, choreographed list of:<br />
<ul>
<li><em> How late it is </em></li>
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<li><em> How tired they are</em></li>
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<li><em> Or how little money we have</em></li>
</ul>
That night they offered a gentle "<i>Okay, where are we going</i>?" I was surprised to say the least. I was going to pack the mini-van tight with three generations of Velasquez family and take them to where one is always reminded - that they're alive - and young - and vibrant.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXu4Fa7uHGLRnCDl5ZC6NHYMpy2zHGjsjkWs3dexVXOG8ORnND3LdKKZ0HGsx0tyIArqU3NgX3boCDrp4k_hlwgS26AQM9Sb38Ndov6gcJ3hKYy3XdI_NTdXNTFhnqa3XWggyA0IVICDNX/s1600/point_pleasant-1.jpg" height="320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="180" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abuelo & Abuela on the boardwalk<br />
Point Pleasant, NJ<br />
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Our destination was one deeply embedded in my family's DNA; a place my parents had brought me to since before I could walk. Our love for this location was reinforced with frequent visits during my youth, changes and transitions. Following this tradition, I have taken all my daughters there since before they could walk. Their love for this location was reinforced with frequent visits during their youth, changes and transitions too. <br />
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We watched with smiles ear to ear as Little B, Josh and Kimmie flew through the night, upward, downward, sideways and up again on the roller coaster. We chuckled as they smashed into each other on the bumper cars. I watched my aging parents illuminate, like proud, veteran candles.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwC5GzcwMAebktLeAMHTIGlSrVBB9k9p89QJDaJcEJSOW66kSle7fBGg_PKylEzf2uZcbpxIpj_X5qXsHHDh1JLfHZNGL0X0wOm4XtArbOxKSt225PL31gFRWRYgJ0WYj1-x0CUstrR-M/s1600/point_pleasant-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwC5GzcwMAebktLeAMHTIGlSrVBB9k9p89QJDaJcEJSOW66kSle7fBGg_PKylEzf2uZcbpxIpj_X5qXsHHDh1JLfHZNGL0X0wOm4XtArbOxKSt225PL31gFRWRYgJ0WYj1-x0CUstrR-M/s1600/point_pleasant-2.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little B and Kimmie team up against 16 year-old Josh<br />
Point Pleasant Beach, NJ</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><em>My father then leaned over to me and asked quietly; </em></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><em>"Have we ever come here before?"</em></span> </div>
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I immediately covered my mouth with my hands and attempted to swallow my tears. My father has been showing signs of change and transition in the form of forgetfulness and cognitive impairment. This however really shook me. I had prayed memories like this would remain till the end, reminders of being alive - and young - and vibrant.</div>
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Remember Daddy, remember...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDN0mCkpOLNK7WLd89l761EU32j4_NJYzVh_XHp3qVzCWDvDlnGKAWzp5WJysT_uQooJSOYzcerO7DINkJ7I3Z6qJlLMJwm0xpSwwQaEjRJKt7qrKHR7C0K3lvldobdqkiH5FwGMmsSRv/s1600/abuelo-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDN0mCkpOLNK7WLd89l761EU32j4_NJYzVh_XHp3qVzCWDvDlnGKAWzp5WJysT_uQooJSOYzcerO7DINkJ7I3Z6qJlLMJwm0xpSwwQaEjRJKt7qrKHR7C0K3lvldobdqkiH5FwGMmsSRv/s1600/abuelo-2.jpg" height="320" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2006 Abuelo hold his youngest granddaughter<br />
Little B</td></tr>
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com2Point Pleasant, NJ, USA40.0831714 -74.0681931000000340.034572399999995 -74.148874100000029 40.1317704 -73.987512100000032tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-59196829221236978702014-05-03T17:57:00.002-04:002014-05-03T18:15:40.497-04:00Rain, Rain, Go Away, Rain Took Me Back - To An Earlier Day<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">May 1, 2014</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Steven P. Velasquez, MICP</span></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nycareaweather.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/northeast.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.nycareaweather.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/northeast.gif" height="190" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nycareaweather.com/2014/05/may-1-2014-morning-update/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=may-1-2014-morning-update">Credit: www.nycareaweather.com</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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A soaking rainfall introduced us to the month of May this year. Most of New Jersey got between 5 to 5 1/2" of rainfall over twenty-four hours. The normally miserable morning commute worsened exponentially as roads were impassible, routines were disrupted and tempers flared.<br />
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My commute from the <a href="http://www.keyportonline.com/">Keyport </a>area of Monmouth County to <a href="http://www.ci.newark.nj.us/">Newark </a>was one of them, but this guy ain't complaining, as my detours drove me into a chance meeting with a real-life "<b>Ambulance Driver</b>."<br />
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I abandoned the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garden_State_Parkway">Garden State Parkway</a> in search of perhaps longer, but at least moving, roadways. I traveled into Union County, past one of their submerged county parks, entered <a href="http://www.kenilworthnj.com/">Kenilworth </a>and out of sheer frustration, planted myself in a booth by a window to study <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10400410">Tranexamic </a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">Acid</a>, eat some grub and spectate while my commuter cohorts sat paralyzed in their coffins trying to reach their daily grind.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/kenilworth-diner-restaurant-kenilworth">Kenilworth Diner </a>was the perfect perch to sip coffee, read literature and listen to the locals discuss daily issues from their <a href="https://www.medicare.gov/">Medicare </a>coverage (or lack thereof), to the bunions on their feet or the local propagandist tying the heavy rain to the certainty of <a href="http://www.ucsusa.org/global_warming/">global warming</a>.<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Who Owns That CPR Van? </b></span><br />
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<a href="http://cprtrainingnj.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://cprtrainingnj.com" border="0" src="http://cprtrainingnj.com/images/Pictures/cayl_img.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>My work vehicle is a very distinguished, wrapped mini-van that promotes our <a href="http://cprtrainingnj.com/">CPR Training Center at Newark Beth Israel Medical Center</a>. Sometimes mistaken for a local taxi service (I was once parked, texting, when my doors suddenly opened and several, Central Americans began to enter the vehicle asking for transportation. Quite the scare!)<br />
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A very tall man entered the diner, obviously known to everyone but me and begins querying out loud; <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">"Who owns that CPR Van? If I was still working, I'd flatten all his tires."</span></b></i></span></blockquote>
Not willing to "engage crazy" I remained silent. The locals and propagandists apparently knew him well and understood his sub-reference. Apparently, he was a retired undertaker and saw my business as a threat to his former business (if we're saving lives, he's out of business). Ahh! Gotcha. I continued with my research into TXA.<br />
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Several minutes later, he began asking everyone in the diner who's vehicle it was. The two doctors in the booth behind me sold me out. "It's his we think." He bellied up to the table and introduced himself to me. I invited him to sit down, and politely he began to explain who he was and inquire as to who I was and what my CPR mobile was all about.<br />
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<a href="http://www.autoweek.com/galleryimage/CW/20120924/REG/924009995/PH/0/2/1971-S&S-Medic-I-Cadillac-Ambulance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.autoweek.com/galleryimage/CW/20120924/REG/924009995/PH/0/2/1971-S&S-Medic-I-Cadillac-Ambulance.jpg" height="120" width="200" /></a>George (I don't have his permission, so I won't use his real name) worked for two funeral homes in <a href="https://www.irvington.net/">Irvington, NJ </a>about 50 or so years ago. He told me stories that proudly began with the sentence; "<i>Back when I was an ambulance driver</i>" (<a href="data:image/jpeg;base64,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">mentally, I cringed in the booth with both hands over my ears like a kid in a classroom full of screeching chalkboards</a>) and went on to explain how emergency transportation, in his day, was a rapid ride in a comfortable, but very fast <a href="http://www.autoweek.com/galleryimage/CW/20120924/REG/924009995/PH/0/2/1971-S&S-Medic-I-Cadillac-Ambulance.jpg">Cadillac Ambulance</a>. "<i>We had absolutely no medical training</i>" he laughed out loud as he waxed nostalgic. "<i>On occasion</i>" he said, "<i>we'd give the patients 5.2 liters of Oxygen</i>" when directed to do so by the physicians. I could tell he no longer saw me across the table, but the many patients he'd seen, and good times had, over his time; and I understood that look well. I knew not to interrupt it (<a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&docid=IjlcQeyHF5SEaM&tbnid=koT-Lux_OhW7wM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Ftechguysmartbuy.com%2F2012%2F06%2Fdo-you-suffer-from-phantom-cellphone-vibration-syndrome-yes-it-is-real-a-problem.html&ei=Tl1lU_DvOcnlsASk9oBw&bvm=bv.65788261,d.aWc&psig=AFQjCNG7J8MenayRM-tXAXwB8THxQdmCYg&ust=1399238323747205">never disconnect a man prematurely - from the Matrix</a>).<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>What Is Past Is Prologue</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="color: black;">Of </span><b> </b></span>the many fascinating things George mentioned, I found his problems and complaints of the period eerily similar to ours today. Of them were feelings of futility from a limited scope of practice, frustration over not enough education to be of help, and ironically - fear of competition by who else?? Volunteers!<br />
<br />
He explained the funeral homes he worked for used to earn $30.00 / trip for a pickup. $35 at night and an extra $2.50 for him personally if he had to respond from home. "<i>Then came those rescue squads</i>." The dawn of volunteer first aid squads had arrived and with it (these are his words, not mine) bored house wives who often couldn't lift or do the work required. "<i>Sometimes they'd come over and ask us if we'd come help them lift. I told them go get a job!</i>"<br />
<br />
His laughter really picked up as he told a story of how the ambulance drivers used to bypass the ER and bring the patients right to their beds on the floors. "<i>It was truly door to door, bedside service back then</i>." He told of how one time, a patient had died in transit on the stretcher before him. He leaned into the window to tell the driver; "<i>He's dead. I got nothin</i>'" His driver instructed him to follow his lead. When they arrived in the ER, the driver placed his hand beneath the sheet to mimic movement of the patient so the ER staff wouldn't A: Turn them away and B: They wouldn't get hung up forever waiting for the medical examiner's office to come make a pronouncement of death. They bypassed the ER, avoided the M.E., and took the stiff right to their comfortable bed upstairs! "<i>Let them handle it</i>!" He laughed out loud.<br />
<br />
Before you light your torches and grab your pitch forks, I'm not laughing at the anti-volunterism, the misogynistic tone, the questionably criminal deposit of the dead in a hospital or whatever your imagination is conjuring, so chillax! I find humor in hearing some of the same sentiments of today - from the septuagenarian at my table! It was a delicious view into a window of the past through George's eyes - and words.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Farewell Ambulance Driver</span></b><br />
<br />
George seemed to snap out of his daydream, his eyes fixed on the boulevard before him. He turned his head to me, looked down at my pile of documents and excused himself. "<i>I'd better let you get back to your work. Sorry to have been so long</i>." He rose to his 6'3" height, smiled, turned and left.<br />
<br />
I doubt I'll look upon his countenance again. But I'm glad today for the rain, the traffic, the detours and the look into the past, of the field I love so much today. I'm sure he'd disagree, but understanding how processes work, I realize I / we cannot have what we do today if it was not for the "Ambulance Drivers" of yesterday. I feel blessed to have met George.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-50171553511841621022014-03-07T17:20:00.000-05:002014-03-07T17:21:36.958-05:00Of Birds, Bread and Little B<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven P. Velasquez</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>March 3, 2014</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
This past weekend, my daughter's mother gave us a complimentary pair of tickets to a <a href="http://devils.nhl.com/">NJ Devil's</a> hockey game. I'm sure I don't need to embarrass myself by offering gruesome details of financially difficult times, we all have them, some worse than others.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, for a family that tries to make small things count, since small things are often all they've got, Little B and I tried to make the best of it - on a budget. So, instead of the overpriced foods of the arena, we were going to pack stuff from home and have us a Newark-style picnic. We prepared cold cut sandwiches on Portuguese rolls, wrapped them in foil and headed to the Pru (the <a href="http://www.prucenter.com/">Prudential Center Arena</a>). She was bouncing with enthusiasm as she has blossomed into a devout Devil's fan, and she was spending quality time with her favorite father.<br />
<br />
When we arrived in Newark and found parking. We walked to the Pru at a rapid pace (it was really cold and my head was chock full of flashbacks from working EMS in those very streets).<br />
<br />
Once we arrived, it dawned upon me that we were probably not going to make it inside with home-prepared food on our person. Some cop-wanna-be, homeland security zealot would certainly mistake the foil-wrapped sandwich in my pocket for a hand grenade instead of a ham & cheese with mayo. So, we had to implement Plan-B (no pun intended). <br />
<br />
We stood across the street and had a sidewalk picnic. We joked and ate and watched our exhaled breath dissipate before us into another family memory. I've discovered in life these precious memories serve as their own currency and don't require large capital investment. <br />
<br />
Little B suddenly began crying and buried her face in my chest. "What the hell just happened?" I wondered. I tilted her head upward, reassured her and asked what was wrong. She, gasping for her breath, exclaimed; "I don't like the bread." She felt guilty because she thought I'd be upset at her for wasting food. "She's conscious of this even at the tender age of seven?" I questioned.<br />
<br />
I reassured her that it was perfectly okay to eat the meat and spare the bread. And then I showed her how we can make use of her perceived waste. I explained how birds are in perpetual states of hunting for food and that we could break the bread up, toss some on the ground, and surely some would appear.<br /><br />"But I don't see any birds Daddy." It's okay, Breezy (my pet name for her), believe me, they see us. We scattered a small amount and 1 or 2 began circling overhead. I explained to her how they were communicating with others and more would surely arrive. Within moments, we were surrounded by seagulls, cawing and squawking. She lit up with excitement as she enthusiastically tore and tossed more bread.<br />
<br />
I explained that this was a lesson in leadership for when she gets older. Quizzically, she asked how so? "Behold" I said, "if you throw the bread fast and hard (like a manager with a new idea) they'll startle and scatter out of fear. If you promote your message gently and slowly, you'll build curiosity among a few - which later will attract a larger organization." She may not have perfectly grasped the vocabulary, but she indicated she understood the principle.<br />
<br />
She tore and tossed, and tore and tossed until she had run out - and the gulls flew away.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66FaZFOkqQWPm1QHFdTs1IUcU3NOSEOfSJGJrC_isYiT2GNV0MdFWp7t-Dr6t40Gz_tU1M7y87enpGRblT4n6H6C3kuf-rZcODddeKioPDfqApgKSeUFhKWjZiGxdI92KqNCbig9vJS-P/s1600/breezy_birds-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66FaZFOkqQWPm1QHFdTs1IUcU3NOSEOfSJGJrC_isYiT2GNV0MdFWp7t-Dr6t40Gz_tU1M7y87enpGRblT4n6H6C3kuf-rZcODddeKioPDfqApgKSeUFhKWjZiGxdI92KqNCbig9vJS-P/s1600/breezy_birds-2.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil' B feeding the gulls at the Pru - March 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0Prudential Center, 25 Lafayette Street, Newark, NJ 07102, USA40.73344 -74.1711280000000115.211405500000001 -115.47972200000001 66.2554745 -32.862534000000011tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-20233139845061318352014-02-13T11:50:00.002-05:002014-02-13T17:04:40.646-05:00I Pressed On - The Medic of La Mancha's account of the Blizzard Of 2010<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>by Steven P. Velasquez<br />
Feb 13, 2014</b></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: red;">Originally outlined (but not finished) in January 2011, I never actually
put the finishing touches on this little gem. Today I'm sitting, quietly composing its' final draft, in the Yellow Rose Diner in Keyport, NJ, as we get clobbered with yet another of the endless snowstorms of 2014. I reached back into my archives and thought you might appreciate
another of the Medic of La Mancha's not-so heroic tales.</span></i><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A decade has passed since I last heard
so many friends and co-workers speak with such granular detail about
somewhere they were, something they saw -- or something they endured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Two 110-story office towers had collapsed in lower Manhattan after being struck by fuel laden jet-liners in a terrorist attack. Another plane flew directly into the Pentagon and a fourth dove into a field in
Shanksville, PA after a valiant struggle between unarmed passengers and the blood-thirsty animals aboard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>America, and freedom-loving people everywhere, were dealt a
crippling blow that brought society to a standstill and galvanized a people united –
albeit temporarily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErT9w6MW28dvLJmTikZTSRZmtfhc6P_VOWFKW5CjCXZMARNNuBA4Gwi4wSin8FaT9kd9fzPGpMABWFBOsrXa7SgunFBL9c5HCFckss-F0VhxUq4cOCa-BnInjS6vY6xOL_vOIutVJP5Qk/s1600/wheelchair-01_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2nfw-n5pPI9roCb_j-x_sBWk2-HZPffFVSKOizWWTJ-2On_MwGbdYK0o3lg4ZFOdabSy17u4AwSNxLnS39axLjPBUEenYFFRoGXgOe46_avmN33S2Ldz3lAobRIV65hWtbK8FWy1QPqz/s1600/wreath-01.jpg" height="320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="211" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b><i>"Never Forget September 11, 2001"</i></b><span style="color: #999999;"><br />An "Interfaith Memorial" was held in Sayrevill<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #999999;">e, NJ's</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #999999;">Waterfront Park just days after the terrorist attacks</span><i><br /></i></span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2nfw-n5pPI9roCb_j-x_sBWk2-HZPffFVSKOizWWTJ-2On_MwGbdYK0o3lg4ZFOdabSy17u4AwSNxLnS39axLjPBUEenYFFRoGXgOe46_avmN33S2Ldz3lAobRIV65hWtbK8FWy1QPqz/s1600/wreath-01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><br /></a></div>
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<a href="http://vortex.accuweather.com/adc2004/pub/includes/columns/newsstory/2010/400x266_12261801_snowmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://vortex.accuweather.com/adc2004/pub/includes/columns/newsstory/2010/400x266_12261801_snowmap.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a>Though far less dramatic by comparison, the end of December
2010 brought 18 to 32 inches of frozen precipitation followed by 60+ mph wind gusts
to the Northeast U.S.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Initial reports
said we might see a little, but probably more out toward eastern Long
Island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We brushed it off as a remote
possibility as the forecasters seemed ambivalent about it, so why cause a
public stir?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within hours, the forecasts
had become dire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were suddenly
advised that a nor’easter was headed our way and packing a punch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Sunday afternoon, I spent the day preparing my plow truck,
blower and hand-tools to go recoup at least some of two-thousand plus dollars I
had just sunk into the rear end repairs to my truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to mention the five-hundred dollar TV repair,
the Christmas expenses and my past-due school tuition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This storm, I thought, should put me in much
better financial circumstances than I was about to end 2010 with – I thought.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj185JvZEjPTmyeFSQY2sA_FtQqsNjSJhsDr0gXi9V1VSYfKDpEq5bXAydASfvn7zgmO_fvgg4gS0YLc7V_l60UqMrQFMksZFr4mitdDdcDVfqOPS5kEKEJxKGnYrB1XGCUsfJwDHotOCtH/s1600/2010_blizzard-008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj185JvZEjPTmyeFSQY2sA_FtQqsNjSJhsDr0gXi9V1VSYfKDpEq5bXAydASfvn7zgmO_fvgg4gS0YLc7V_l60UqMrQFMksZFr4mitdDdcDVfqOPS5kEKEJxKGnYrB1XGCUsfJwDHotOCtH/s1600/2010_blizzard-008.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/">Facebook</a> again served
as a powerful advertising tool as I broadcast to friends and followers that I
was available for hire to rid them of their snow-induced woes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went out Sunday afternoon and began making
my first passes during the first 2"- 4” of snowfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My truck and machinery were performing well
and as the snow continued to pile up, so did my appetite for the possible
windfall profit I was in position to earn. </div>
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I swung by the house to clear out some parking spots for my
family and neighbors which surely would earn me my “<i>most favorite neighbor</i>”
status that I enjoyed with each snowfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of my supervisors from work called and asked if I would travel down
to his mother’s house near Long Branch to help her. “Of course” I replied<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No problem.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I figured I’d take care of her property then a few of her neighbors
would see me and ask (or beg) me to do theirs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was about to be a great night!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMoAK37HPeYOPd4vhLDUswexY3FUuvhkFUHETljRgb4udjTlzTsJ_oUUdODcOrnGfFkUfrfh5jV__4HytYAg54iRkoOf2DMQpCOcB5OfGt0lwEwPiwV2E9nrjsuzcROQyYr-ULQnZVUib/s1600/plowing-018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMoAK37HPeYOPd4vhLDUswexY3FUuvhkFUHETljRgb4udjTlzTsJ_oUUdODcOrnGfFkUfrfh5jV__4HytYAg54iRkoOf2DMQpCOcB5OfGt0lwEwPiwV2E9nrjsuzcROQyYr-ULQnZVUib/s1600/plowing-018.jpg" height="212" width="320" /> </a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivjyzwrlzVcY91vYtv_hWEyGTrjSLNL_hOco0Ahx-mPoMoKSlewcVSkpTc5XTG9b45vZ-5BbaXlfCDfmIcoARPoDLnPw6xpHh4Qhmq03Cv5LbKxug7bsPWTmavCZe8yWMLM4XOYonvUTQ/s1600/2010_blizzard%2528b%2529-003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivjyzwrlzVcY91vYtv_hWEyGTrjSLNL_hOco0Ahx-mPoMoKSlewcVSkpTc5XTG9b45vZ-5BbaXlfCDfmIcoARPoDLnPw6xpHh4Qhmq03Cv5LbKxug7bsPWTmavCZe8yWMLM4XOYonvUTQ/s1600/2010_blizzard%2528b%2529-003.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>About 9 p.m. I entered Rte. 18 south in the Marlboro
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My trusty GMC roared through the
snow drifts asserting its four-wheel superiority over the white stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I passed car after car stranded along the road,
down the embankments, buried up to their windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought to help them, but you can either be
a humanitarian or you can make money (trust me, my full-time career is as humanitarian as it gets and there is NO money!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
family's economic needs were such that I had to press on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Events like this are rare and I need to make
some loot. Around 9:30 or so, I was no further than about the Colts Neck
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road was completely empty in
either direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw headlights off
in the distance behind me, but they were not closing in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured they had met their snowy match too
and thanked God I was still mobile. I pressed on.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.fxguide.com/wp-content/uploads//2012/04/Titanic_Trailer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.fxguide.com/wp-content/uploads//2012/04/Titanic_Trailer.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><div class="kno-rdesc">
<span style="color: #999999;">RMS Titanic was a British passenger liner
that sank in<br /> the North Atlantic Ocean on 15 April 1912 after colliding<br />
with an iceberg during her maiden voyage from <br />Southampton, UK to New
York City, US.</span><span style="color: #999999;"> </span><a class="fl q _PK" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RMS_Titanic"><span class="_SC">Wikipedia</span></a></div>
</td></tr>
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You could not see beyond the hood of the truck, couldn’t make
out where the road ended and the grass began, and couldn’t see a guard rail or
even the tree line off to the right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flakes passed my view sideways, driven by the whipping gusts. I
lost sight of the last set of tracks before me indicating which direction was
the right one. Bumpity, bumpity, bump! I suddenly felt my mighty GMC seemingly
falling apart. "Houston! Houston we have a problem! Mayday, mayday,
mayday!" I thought of every distress signal I could think of as I tried to
desperately navigate the behemoth back to the highway. No dice. I slid right
down an embankment into the center median of Route 18. I was in so deep I
couldn't even open my door. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse! Whizzzzzzz! Absolutely no
effect. My tires helplessly spun in place and only buried my little Titanic
deeper into the white stuff.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgezvFEmGy-zp5YZApE0Bo4-gjtxVUpqlR2FmUHK50fyLaIsdHyUpKOQq9oW0cr_7YO9CEz6OSMpolZWQplGlvjWhNS50hoSnFItFHopZEwEJATFtm6lRjNczIEx21YBCX3LjW3djzhXQBH/s1600/CarbonMonoxide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgezvFEmGy-zp5YZApE0Bo4-gjtxVUpqlR2FmUHK50fyLaIsdHyUpKOQq9oW0cr_7YO9CEz6OSMpolZWQplGlvjWhNS50hoSnFItFHopZEwEJATFtm6lRjNczIEx21YBCX3LjW3djzhXQBH/s1600/CarbonMonoxide2.jpg" /></a>Like the survivor of any crashed vessel, I immediately took
inventory of everything around me. I had bottles of water, granola bars,
changes of warm clothing, cash etc... The vehicle was undamaged and the engine
still ran, though I worried about carbon monoxide poisoning if my tailpipe was
occluded and the fumes filled the cabin. My ambitious eyes now replaced dollar
signs with a narrowing look of consternation. The endless list of obscenities emitting from my exhaust pipe were enough to make a trucker blush.<br />
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With much work, I finally fell out the driver's side window;
no easy task if you know my actual size. I fell into several inches of the
white stuff, got up and began trying to get my bearings. The night was dark as
could be and there was no traffic to my left or right. I couldn't tell where to
aim the truck if I could. (When I look at the area in question without snowfall, it's absolutely laughable at how short of a distance it was, but under a precipitous blanket, hidden by darkness and punctuated by frosty wind-gusts, it seemed eternal. Now back to your scheduled story!) I followed my tracks to their origin and finally
figured out where the highway was. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqMMvHGfyMYJZcHKHcBie6o3zKNuYor7N08954mrqnO9BE1O0meDrgvZ5QNiS4Wh2klXimjfNq-h2dXCcPcZ_coNlPgmEvr2lnkA0DP09wrMDiGEfJxFvuP1wYxS5-Tc4fo04dXnUQ9Z6/s1600/Snow+Prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqMMvHGfyMYJZcHKHcBie6o3zKNuYor7N08954mrqnO9BE1O0meDrgvZ5QNiS4Wh2klXimjfNq-h2dXCcPcZ_coNlPgmEvr2lnkA0DP09wrMDiGEfJxFvuP1wYxS5-Tc4fo04dXnUQ9Z6/s1600/Snow+Prayer.jpg" height="200" width="129" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999;">Dear God, please, no more snow!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Karma had visited me as I now shared the desperate feelings
of all those I had passed and left in my profit-motivated wake. Occasionally
I'd see some 4WD trucks blazing south on 18 and tried to wave them down, but
they, like me, were in search of loot, not humanitarian awards. I couldn't blame
them, but prayed for just one to have mercy on me. Funny how being incarcerated
or incapacitated in any form makes such reverent creatures out of us. </div>
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Anyway, I decided to take the words of Deputy Chief Mike
Nasta (Newark, NJ FD), in an article he wrote about self-rescue years before, to heart;
"<b>Do something</b>!" I returned to my truck and tried to figure out an
exit strategy. Initially I began shoveling, then thought of how much of an
imbecile I was. "Use the f'ing snowblower!" I laughed at myself. I
opened the tailgate and when I lowered it, it was resting evenly on the
accumulated snow. "This is bad" I thought. I grabbed the burly blower
by its handlebars and wrestled it off the tailgate. This was the first time I
didn't have to setup the ramps for it to make a safe descent. Poof! It just
plopped into the snow. It fired right up and I began clearing out a circle
around my truck. I thought of how hysterical it must have been for the road
warriors that were transiently passing me by on the highway as they looked to
their left and saw a disabled truck, it's rotating yellow roof lights spinning
and what certainly must be a lunatic snowblowing the center median of Rte. 18.
"Ha ha, yuck it up assholes!" I thought. "You could just stop
and help a brother out you know!"</div>
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Finally, a pick-up truck with a bed full of chopped lumber
and a sympathetic driver stopped. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yes" I replied. "I just need some help if you have chains or a
tow-strap." He backed his war wagon cautiously into a position where he
could help me and not lose grip of the roadway. He handed me two chains with
some huge hooks on the end. I ambitiously dove face first under my front bumper to attach
them. Maybe because of the cold, the loneliness or a combination of both, my imagination began to run away with me while under there.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://massassi.hobby-site.com/massassi/pictures/episode_5/img/plain_of_hoth05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://massassi.hobby-site.com/massassi/pictures/episode_5/img/plain_of_hoth05.jpg" height="192" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #999999;">Han Solo saves Luke Skywalker<br />by gutting a tauntaun and stuffing him <br />in it in "<a href="http://starwars.com/explore/the-movies/episode-v/">Star Wars Episode V The Empire <br />Strikes Back</a>"</span></div>
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My flashlight shone upon
the undercarriage and revealed my exhaled breath to me. Surrounded by a wall of
snow, I huffed and puffed and imagined myself gutting a tauntaun and crawling
inside his smelly carcass till daybreak. I actually remember saying aloud
"Ben... Ben..." I suppose I was a little giddy as I began to once
again see profit in my immediate future.<br />
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After a duel of traction, tension and precipitation the two
big beasts were back on terra firma again. Nick was a guy from Boonton (like
60+ miles north of where we were) on his way to the Toms River area to seek his
own fortune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I emptied my wallet and
gave him $75.00 and wished I could give more, but I was certain my wallet would
fatten up by daybreak. I loaded my blower back into my 8 foot bed along with
the 500lbs of salt I used for ballast, my hand tools and the mounting mound of
snow that was falling at a record pace. </div>
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I had easily lost two hours of my time, but was very
thankful for benevolent Nick - and his chains.</div>
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Again, I began to trek southward, slowly, carefully,
scanning the roadway for some sort of markings that could guide me into a lane
of travel. With each passing exit, I debated turning around and going home, but
was now motivated by greed and anger too! "I'm out the money I began with
and haven't earned anything yet! Keep going!" I pressed on.</div>
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I only smoke on occasion and plowing, for me, was always an
occasion. I sparked up a Marlboro Light and had long discussions with myself as
I pressed further south. I approached an overpass when off to the right I saw a
little, itty-bitty, Isuzu P'up stuck, steaming and this young kid trying to get
out of a snow bank. I slowly rolled right past and when I saw his face, I thought
of benevolent Nick and was immediately reminded of how desperate I was just a
short while ago. "Damn it!" I yelled as I threw my beast in reverse.
"What the f' was this kid thinking? He has no business out here in that
little toy. This weather's not fit for man nor beast!" I actually didn't
say that last part, but do remember it from a movie long ago (insert creative license).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thepetmatchmaker.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/dog-on-concrete.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.thepetmatchmaker.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/dog-on-concrete.jpg" height="139" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999;">"Yipe!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I mimicked benevolent Nick and tried hooking the young lad
with my tow-strap. I was really cautious and upset as I had just finished
paying for a new rear end for the beast. The last thing I wanted was to see my
rear axle and tires sitting on the roadway while the rest of my truck spun in
circles like a dog with an incurable itch.</div>
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It didn't work. He was really in there and even if we got
him out, his truck was no match for the unplowed terrain before us, plus he was
overheating and appeared to have blown his head gasket. Who knows how bad this can get? I asked where he was going and he
told me; "Long Branch." "Meah," I thought. I'm heading to
Ocean Port, I can drop him off on the way in. I offered him a ride and he
accepted. We both lit cigarettes, cracked the windows and pressed on.</div>
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We began to pass disabled vehicles in the left, middle and
center lanes. Slowly we maneuvered around them. They asked or begged as we
passed to please help and we had to balance out what they were asking vs. what
we had the resources for. Sadly, their plight lost and we chose to keep going.
Bumpity, bumpity, bumpity!!!! "FUCK!!! Again???? Are you kidding
me!!!???" Right down the center median again! Karma clearly had me in a
headlock and pushed my nose right into a pile of steamy, white precipitation. The
saving grace was I now had a partner to help me with the ordeal. And now,
thanks to benevolent Nick, I had a template of what needed to happen to
successfully free my behemoth. We both disembarked, lowered the blower and
grabbed the shovels. We dug and blew and dug and blew all the way back out to
the highway. Occasionally, we tried to use the four wheel drive of my mighty
beast. Sadly instead of one tire spinning, I saw four. So again, we dug and
blew.</div>
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Up on the roadway there were three scattered, disabled
tractor trailers and an assortment of other idiots that did not belong on the
roadway (Yeah, that's me calling THEM diots). Some of them came down and
helped push my truck back onto the roadway. In exchange for the favor, I was
now like a mobile <a href="http://www.homedepot.com/?cm_mmc=SEM|THD|G|BT1&gclid=CO6qkpW_ybwCFY1QOgod72sALw">Home Depot</a> as they all helped themselves to my shovels, ice
breakers and hand tools. Again, we lost another hour or so to the white precip.
And again, I saw my windfall profit turn into one of the longest, most
difficult nights of my life.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Not for use shoveling snow</span>!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Finally it was time to go. We mounted and headed south
again. Right in the center lane before us was a disabled car filled with four
teenagers by our estimation. They were using those plastic New Years Eve
derby's one gets to ring in the new year as shovels. "This is pathetic!
What's wrong with these people? Why are they out here!?" But we couldn't
leave them disabled in the middle of the roadway. They'd surely run out of fuel
or get rear ended by the next imbecile coming through. We shoveled, pushed,
tried the tow straps and nothing worked. We finally had to make a decision to
stay and protect them or press on. We got them to the side of the road, gave
them some advice about keeping warm and conserving heat and turning off their cell phones, leaving only one on at a time, until daylight and then
had to leave. We pressed on.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.areawidenews.com/photos/13/10/61/1310619-L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.areawidenews.com/photos/13/10/61/1310619-L.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter 1 - Plow 0</td></tr>
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As we continued forward, we wove through some more disabled
vehicles and just as we were about to exit onto Rte. 36 in Long Branch, we saw
a sight we weren't ready for. We saw one of those behemoth DOT plow/salt trucks
down the center median, disabled. It looked like a wounded hydraulic dinosaur.
We stopped and looked and wondered aloud; "What the fuck are we doing out
here? If they can't make it, what was I thinking?" This now began to
resemble a "last man standing" contest. Our sense of
self-preservation kicked into high gear and as we rode the exit ramp onto 36 East,
we had passed at least a 1/2 dozen stranded motorists begging for help.
"Please! Don't leave us here. Please." Their voices faded into our rear-view mirrors. They trudged through the snow,
wrapped in all their winter gear with the sadness of a panhandler and the
rigidity of a zombie. "Fuck this! We need to keep moving" we said.
"We can either help them or help ourselves." Ourselves won. We pressed on.</div>
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As we reached 36, we thought; "This HAS to be
plowed!" Boy were we wrong. Traffic ground to a halt and upon exiting the
vehicle and walking a bit, one could see the bucket loaders desperately trying
to open the intersection at Wyckoff Rd. and 36. We weren't going anywhere. So we got back into the
warmth of the truck, and we smoked and drank water.</div>
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After about another 1/2 hour, traffic finally began to move.
I was so thankful to be able to move forward, to somewhere - anywhere! I asked
my young passenger where he lives and he told me Bath Ave. That was familiar,
and I figured since it's an access road to a hospital, it HAS to be plowed!
Wrong again. It was immoveable, but the local guys were working hard to open it
up. We finally arrived at his apartment complex. He profusely thanked me then
disappeared into the night. I was thankful for all his help and his cheerful
company to allay my fears. I had completely given up on the idea of making a
single dollar and just really wanted to go home, to a warm bed and a daughter's
embrace. I could cry at this point. I pressed on.</div>
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As I hit the road again, I figured I'd head down Bath toward
the hospital. I was suddenly met face to face with an armada of plow trucks
that eclipsed mine. They looked like a military column making their way through a snowy desert. The foreman jumped out and ran up to me and said;
"You've gotta back up brutha. I've got a disabled truck that lost its
electric system and we've gotta move out!" I threw it in reverse and
figured I'd just turn into one of the partially plowed side streets to get out
of their way. Stuck again! Whizzzz, whizzzzzzzzz was all you could hear as I
desperately tried to free myself - again. I was so done with this.</div>
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After more chopping, shoveling etc... I was finally freed
again. It was now 3 or so in the morning. I continued down Bath Ave. toward
Ocean Ave. figuring that Ocean Ave is a main artery through Long Branch, it HAS to be plowed!. Wrong again. I
tried to assert the power of my truck, put down the blade and tried to press
forward making my own good fortune! Stuck again! Right in the middle of Ocean
Ave. about half way across. My truck was no match for this weather. Whizzzzz,
whizzzzzzz! My tired wheels screeched in slippery protest. Forward and reverse, forward and reverse I went - or tried anyway. I could not press on.</div>
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A guy in a two wheel drive landscaper's truck finally helped
me dig myself out but would not attempt to connect with a tow strap. I was
thankful for his help, as I was of benevolent Nick earlier.</div>
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I did a 180 and got right back on Bath Ave. as I knew for sure it was
now plowed. I figured I'd go right back out to 36 and head for the Parkway. The
Parkway is a main artery that connects North and South Jersey and IT HAS TO BE
PLOWED! I wouldn't find that out for hours. Traffic on 36 would stop for 30
minutes, then move up a car length. And so it went for the next I don't know
how long. I got to the point of frustration and fatigue that I'd park the
truck, go to sleep, wake up, move a few car lengths forward and repeat the
process. This went on till well after daybreak. The part of 36 that either puts
one back on 18 North or further to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garden_State_Parkway">Garden State Parkway</a> was completely
virgin snow, totally untouched by the hydraulic dinosaurs. The plows had not made it 1 inch beyond Wyckoff where we first began when we got off 18 earlier.</div>
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A little bit of navigation and I finally found my way onto
the Garden State Parkway. It was a veritable obstacle course. Disabled transit
buses, cars, DOT trucks, everything was paralyzed. I navigated through this debris
field like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdinand_Magellan#Passage_into_the_Pacific">Magellan
through "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Estrecha de Todos los
Santos</i>" (today referred to as the Strait of Magellan)</a>. And
finally, finally after about 14 hours, 75 bucks, a pack of smokes and a 1/2
tank of fuel, the Medic of La Mancha hobbled back to his castle, back to his
bed and his daughter's embrace. He had - pressed on.</div>
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-89646487247661746472014-01-17T22:21:00.002-05:002014-01-17T22:46:12.179-05:00Squared Away<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Steven P. Velasquez</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">January, 16, 2014</span></b><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>We responded for a report of an unconscious person and when we arrived, were updated this would be for a pronouncement of death.</strong> Pretty routine event, and with (it would appear) greater frequency during the holiday season. </span></span><br />
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"<em>Meah</em>" we shrugged, "<em>at least this will be an easy chart</em>" and bring us about a half-hour closer to shift change.<br />
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He laid in bed upright in the cold, dimly lit room. Without getting into grizzly detail, it was a safe assumption his passing was recent by his presentation. Unlike so many other DOA's we respond to, his home was impeccably clean, disturbingly clean even. I poked around looking for anything we could include in our patient care report like his medications etc... <br />
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<a href="http://assets.inhabitat.com/wp-content/blogs.dir/1/files/2012/03/Campbell-soup-to-phase-out-bpa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://assets.inhabitat.com/wp-content/blogs.dir/1/files/2012/03/Campbell-soup-to-phase-out-bpa.jpg" height="143" title="Campbell's Soup" width="200" /></a></div>
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A police officer was at my side when we opened his cabinets (sometimes this requires more bravery than one might imagine). The sight in the cabinets now punctuated the pristine apartment we were scouring through. Like the <a href="http://www.campbellsoupcompany.com/" target="_blank">Campbell's Soup</a> Army, each can seemingly stood at attention with it's eyes (label) forward. "This is weird" I thought, "<em>this guy must have </em><a href="http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd/index.shtml"><em>O.C.D</em></a><em>. or something</em>."<br />
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The apartment had modest furniture, absolutely zero clutter, no foul odors, nothing. An open closet finally clued me in to this man's background. His suit jackets were hung to the left, dress shirts hung in the middle, buttoned top to bottom, pressed and facing in one direction, and slacks, geometrically perfect, pressed and hanging to the right. Beneath the clothing a shoe rack, polished, symmetrical and ordered by type (dress, casual, athletic).<br />
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"<em>This man is a Marine</em>" I said. The officer replied; "<em>How do you know</em>?" I shined my flashlight in the clutter-free closet and said; "<em>Look</em>." We turned to each other and simultaneously said "<em><strong>squared away</strong></em>." The officer informed me he too was a Marine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiToT07oUG1swiaaop57L1qlyLoXugP32YAQRLCPnqdHGeV6ZjkpbsZJ7Gz5b4E1vWVY9_NWtcLqbZKwAUEG0fAmNP3Ya1YSOWHQjAiApj2Ksqk6a0Sm1nFO-zt1EQCLzHzgS9HUSavdX7/s1600/willy_wonka_squared_away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiToT07oUG1swiaaop57L1qlyLoXugP32YAQRLCPnqdHGeV6ZjkpbsZJ7Gz5b4E1vWVY9_NWtcLqbZKwAUEG0fAmNP3Ya1YSOWHQjAiApj2Ksqk6a0Sm1nFO-zt1EQCLzHzgS9HUSavdX7/s1600/willy_wonka_squared_away.jpg" title="Willie Wonka" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsuLIE3jZBxrrLlcdpiurqZTI6CWpD8n3zzEa1RTkkWN6MDViRpXKN4370taU147TkZUNv3et_nVnfPsei4zMAne4wc9tiZdAzzmaUMZh6-rW8uVD2_n6l8kfNE2AAzo-r8UJVkRic2Jj/s1600/honorable-discharge-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsuLIE3jZBxrrLlcdpiurqZTI6CWpD8n3zzEa1RTkkWN6MDViRpXKN4370taU147TkZUNv3et_nVnfPsei4zMAne4wc9tiZdAzzmaUMZh6-rW8uVD2_n6l8kfNE2AAzo-r8UJVkRic2Jj/s1600/honorable-discharge-1024x768.jpg" height="150" title="USMC Honorable Discharge" width="200" /></a>As our search continued, I finally discovered the two pieces of framed wall art in the apartment. Proudly displayed above his TV was a certificate indicating when he joined the <a href="http://www.marines.mil/">United States Marine Corps</a>. The year was 1954. I looked up, squinted and calculated, the president was <a href="http://www.whitehouse.gov/about/presidents/dwightdeisenhower">Dwight D. Eisenhower</a>. The young police officer seemed impressed at my grasp of history. The second piece was evidence of this man's completion of his service to our country, his honorable discharge.</div>
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There was a somber tone in the apartment as I revealed my findings to my partner, a U.S. Army veteran and the second police officer. We performed what we came to do and turned over the scene to the police. </div>
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My suspicion was that this man had never left the United States Marine Corps despite his age and discharge. He reminded me of the immortal words of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._Lee_Ermey">Gunnery Sergeant Hartman</a> in Stanley Kubrick's 1987 blockbuster hit, "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093058/">Full Metal Jacket</a>."</div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><em><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Today,
you people are no longer maggots. Today, you are Marines. You're part
of a brotherhood. From now on until the day you die, wherever you are,
every Marine is your brother."</span></em></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWU-juHvTIz316vc_1DMmOQWka5jAjfFCjVf31EzMRwGdL42rYhUl7oOg-Och4r1HSTCiQxe4FpgYTzsL5z2DLnogRPmyw91Il2Kj7nICs9IIw69oADqvM0_G_ZOj_AaT5-KOVMUWp-Dx/s1600/motivation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWU-juHvTIz316vc_1DMmOQWka5jAjfFCjVf31EzMRwGdL42rYhUl7oOg-Och4r1HSTCiQxe4FpgYTzsL5z2DLnogRPmyw91Il2Kj7nICs9IIw69oADqvM0_G_ZOj_AaT5-KOVMUWp-Dx/s1600/motivation.jpg" height="430" title="US Marines" width="640" /></a></div>
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Judging by this man's appearance and household, I believe he died as he lived, and he lived as he was taught - six decades ago - <strong>Squared Away</strong>.</div>
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To all those have served, are serving or will serve in the future, on behalf of my family, and from the bottom of my heart, a sincere Thank You. Semper Fidelis.</div>
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0Union Beach, NJ, USA40.4464962 -74.17819880000001840.4223287 -74.218539300000018 40.470663699999996 -74.137858300000019tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-84246362507119202182013-12-30T08:30:00.000-05:002013-12-30T08:31:27.583-05:00Those Pesky Volunteers!!<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Steven P. Velasquez</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">December 30, 2013</span></b><br />
<br />
Recently, an overnight call in a nursing home provided a much-needed shot in the arm for me. I often write about the issues we face in the pre-hospital world like being underpaid, underrecognized and often undermined (sometimes) by people who perform our type of work for free (volunteers). Sometimes I and other writers highlight the blunders and failed expectations and place an accusatory, blaming beam of light squarely upon them, those pesky volunteers. The irony there is that when one works in EMS in New Jersey, unlike any other career, they most often begin as a volunteer EMT before moving into career departments or becoming paramedics or other allied health professionals. Volunteering is a sort of proving ground, a place to cut one's teeth and learn this trade, before moving into a career position (or continuing a life of dedicated volunteerism). So the discomfort lies in being so frustrated at the very system that produced - YOU.<br />
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Now I can go on about the kinks, flaws and perceived failures but that would read like the words of every other angry paramedic in the field. I had an encounter that reassured me that perhaps the field will survive if I, or others like me, who have roamed these streets for decades, should die.<br />
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These pesky volunteers are often young - very young - which sometimes punctuates their errors; and especially from the increasing distance of my aging eyes. They often lack social skills as they interact with the three inch screen of their smart phones more often than fellow human beings. They have no appreciation of history and those who have lived it, whether it's the veteran EMS provider beside them or the WWII veteran on their stretcher. Life, or should I say the world, to these young pesky people, seemingly begins and ends - with them.<br />
<br />
The four EMT's on this call perhaps had a combined age of 75 to 80, or about a decade short of our patient, who happened to be a combat veteran of WWII. I remember being in my late teens, early twenties and facing the geriatric patient before me and hating it! They looked weird, smelled funny, didn't move or act like me, had nothing relatable with me and they were just not exciting. I wanted shootings, stabbings and cars on fire like on TV!<br />
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<a href="http://static.wixstatic.com/media/7064ac_07864675385a7e45c6a6d85cca35667c.jpg_srz_p_150_245_75_22_0.50_1.20_0.00_jpg_srz" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://static.wixstatic.com/media/7064ac_07864675385a7e45c6a6d85cca35667c.jpg_srz_p_150_245_75_22_0.50_1.20_0.00_jpg_srz" width="122" /></a></div>
As we drove to the hospital, the young volunteers of the <a href="http://www.cranfordfirstaid.org/" target="_blank">Cranford First Aid Squad</a> allowed me to <span id="goog_220437314"></span><span id="goog_220437315"></span>perform my work on the patient, and as we buckled in for the trip to the hospital, they did the unexpected. They didn't disappear into their smart phones or imaginations, <b>they engaged</b>. They engaged the patient and <b>listened</b>, not to his medical history and medications etc... but to <b>him</b>, about his military service, where he served and who he served under. Then when he stopped talking, <b>they responded</b> and not with "<i>oh, that's interesting</i>," but with their own stories! No, they weren't in WWII silly, do the maff! Stories passed onto them from their grandfathers!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.strategosinc.com/images/Patton1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.strategosinc.com/images/Patton1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George C. Scott as Patton directing tanks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was witnessing a meaningful, life changing, exchange of information between these young, pesky volunteers and the <a href="http://www.learnersdictionary.com/definition/nonagenarian" target="_blank">nonagenarian </a>before them! One shared a story where if you had ever seen the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0066206/" target="_blank">1970 movie "Patton" featuring George C. Scott</a> as the general, there was a scene in there where the general was playing traffic cop, directing tank traffic through a village in France. One of the tank operators was the grandfather of that young, pesky volunteer.<br />
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<br />
Back and forth they went, patient and providers young, transferring their stories, lived or passed on, both breathing life into the pages of history, something I value tremendously and hope you will too!<br />
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I'll admit, you would have to hold a gun to my head to make history important when I was their age. I hated it and resented having to learn any of it. Today, I'm a proud history buff. I read the books, watch the movies and documentaries and walk the battlefields of our country's fathers. The little I know was transferred to me by the aging infirmed, in the back of my ambulance, when I too was young, pesky and volunteered.<br />
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Thank you <a href="http://www.cranfordfirstaid.org/" target="_blank">Cranford First Aid Squad</a> for renewing my faith in the future of our field. Keep listening and show your young to do the same.<br />
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<br />Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-16239394509190261922013-12-24T22:13:00.000-05:002017-12-24T10:52:29.055-05:00Ghosts of Christmases Past<w:sdt docpart="260A8B9762B04C9C8884D111B036600B" id="89512082" storeitemid="X_3949B5E0-FD5B-4107-9C6D-B4D3BD714CD1" text="t" title="Post Title" xpath="/ns0:BlogPostInfo/ns0:PostTitle"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></b></w:sdt><br>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Steven P. Velasquez</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"> December 31, 2011</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--9u_9_fBOgA/TwEVXZ1oq9I/AAAAAAAAAQI/hIMDC5O6OCY/s1600/2011-Christmas-31%2528sm%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--9u_9_fBOgA/TwEVXZ1oq9I/AAAAAAAAAQI/hIMDC5O6OCY/s200/2011-Christmas-31%2528sm%2529.jpg" width="132"></a></div>
<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: red;">Over the past few weeks, the EMS community in NJ has once again, endured the pain of having to bury a brother paramedic. The details of why, how, ages etc… are irrelevant, for they all can be answered with the adjectives “painful,” “tragic,” “too soon,” “saddening” or “unnecessary.” The reality is that we now have yet another, empty seat at our table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: red;"><br>
</span></span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: red;">Every calendar year ends with the Holiday Season, a time for celebration, family and joy. For us in emergency services, the inverse is often true and can often weigh very heavily upon us. The daily exposure to tragedy and pain can exact a sometimes deadly toll. Thus I encourage all my brother's and sister's – to take steps to actively become “our brother’s keeper” and let none of “our family” suffer in silence. To borrow a saying from the <a href="http://www.dhs.gov/index.shtm" target="_blank">Department of Homeland Security</a>, “If you see something, say something.” </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: red;"><br>
</span></span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: red;">Strangely, even when we have the opportunity to not work the holiday’s we often do. Sometimes for economic reasons and often to run and hide from other parts of our lives, and sometimes without knowing what we signed up for, we go to face what later become “The Ghosts of Christmases Past.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br>
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</span></span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: red;">I can’t begin to express the sense of agony in our crew-rooms or parking lot conversations where those of us left behind scan our minds and memories to see if there was something we missed or could have done to avert a tragedy among one of our own. The following article has been simmering in my thoughts for years and now presents with new and saddening emphasis.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></i>The following are some recent memories of some of my “<b>Christmases Past</b>.”</div>
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A few years ago, I reported to work Christmas Eve just before 7 p.m. The day shift was relieved to see me and informed me there was a call holding for a pronouncement of death (not a high priority dispatch that requires an emergency response). My partner and I gathered our gear and responded to the address. Upon arrival, I was pleasantly surprised to have met my ex-wife’s cousin at the door. He serves as a sergeant with the police department of that town and cautioned us that this wasn’t going to be easy and that we should watch our step. Apparently there were firearms involved and the mess trailed through the festively-adorned house. The agonizing cries of a grieving family emitted from the basement as we made entry into the unknown. His lifeless body lay there in the bedroom. He had received news the prior night that a close relative had unexpectedly passed away. He became overwhelmed, and could deal with it no more. His permanent answer to short-term pain was to face the working end of a deer rifle against his youthful head. He, a boy, was 14.</div>
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The combined experience of my partner and I bring decades of experience and plenty of exposure to ballistic injuries. The horrific sight and devastating pattern of injury left here took our collective breath away. It was a haunting juxtaposition against a beautiful home prepared for the Christmas holiday. With each moment we spent on scene, the horrifying images around us seared into our memories. We made our observations, contacted our medical control doctor and were given a time of death.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div>
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After that call, winded, we visited a local diner in hopes of getting some dinner before the world closed up for the holiday. Our warm coffee was interrupted (as usual) by another call in another town for a “possible DOA.” “Another one?” we said aloud. Death is something we encounter daily but usually not back to back. This was not the beginning of a Christmas merry!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div>
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This one was far less emotional. A person who lived in some form of indigent rooming home, with all of his earthly belongings in a pungent 6X10 bedroom was found on the floor, quite dead, and by the smell of things, for a long time. Again, we went through our ritual procedure, received a time of death and released him to the local constabulary. Back to the diner we flew, quite hungry and quite done with all the death in our call area; or so we thought. The diner people were so good to us, they threw away the first dinner order we placed and completely brought out a freshly cooked order of the same. When what to our wondering taste buds appeared? But another dispatch, for yes, another DOA back in the first town we visited earlier. We looked at each other in disbelief. “How is this possible?” we thought. But off we went with empty bellies, dwindling holiday spirit and a death-induced fatigue that really made us not want to be there this Christmas Eve. <br>
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This woman was in her 50’s, found in bed surrounded by her best friends -- ash-trays piled high with cigarette butts and an army of liquor bottles lined on the shelves, the TV, the window sills, the floors even. She appeared to have been the most peaceful of this evening’s departed, as she was still in bed covered by a warm winter’s blanket. They say bad things come in three’s right? “If that diner closes before we get back, I’m going to be pissed!” I exclaimed.</div>
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After we cleared from that scene, an unprecedented event, and evidence of a true and living God followed. One of our supervisors happened to be working in dispatch that night. He paged us to call him ASAP. We obliged and he greeted us with an offer of genuine concern (something we are not used to). He said he had been monitoring the radio traffic and couldn’t believe the cards we had been dealt. He asked us if we were okay, if we had yet eaten and then offered to take us off the road and send us home! He said, “You’ve had enough. If you want to go home, just say so” then extended the offer. We declined (probably because we didn’t want to be perceived as weak by our peers, but more so, probably for fear of being alone with this rattling about in our heads). In retrospect, I should have sucked it up and gone home! The night remained busy with lots of really sick people and the repeating vision of a lifeless boy, in a festively adorned home, and the result of a rifle’s work on a Christmas Eve.</div>
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Now this is just the stuff that goes on at work. Then there’s the home front to deal with too. After that horrible and exhausting shift, I was to go to my mother’s house for a 2 p.m. Christmas dinner before going back to work Christmas night. My ex-wife was going to have dinner with us there and I would be able to see 2/3 of my children. The littlest daughter was with her mother and their family in NY. Two out of three ain’t bad right? </div>
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My renal alarm clock woke me up at 6:45 p.m. that night, or 15 minutes before I was to appear for work. My phone had about 30 missed calls and 13 voice mails from my parents, my children, my ex-wife, and my other daughter’s mother. They were all looking for me since I was supposed to be at Mom’s about 5 hours earlier. That year, I had bought a Harley Davidson and everyone thought I might have crashed on the way to Mom’s. My sister had driven about 40 miles and was about 15 minutes away when I finally reached her. My daughter’s mother called the neighbors to come knock on the door thinking I may have died at home. <br>
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When I finally became aware of the time and the events in my midst, my face was awash with tears. I shook and uncontrollably cried as I had missed Christmas with my children. I wanted nothing else than to see my daughters on this day and especially since I rarely get a chance to see them on any holiday. I’m usually out fixing the world. “What a friggin’ loser you are” said my teary reflection. I couldn’t even get this right. I failed my daughters – yet again. I made it to work about 15 to 20 min. late and cursed the fact I had to be there. My partner knew something was wrong with me but didn’t ask. He probably figured if I wanted to talk about it, I would.</div>
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A year later, and on the eve of Christmas, we were dispatched to a residence for a “possible miscarriage.” These dispatches are usually non-eventful and don’t require the services of paramedics. We entered the home and there seemed to be a party going on with many faces. A few distressed faces in EMT uniforms emerged with a towel in their hand. They told us about the mother’s condition and said the fetus was in the towel.</div>
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Strangely, the mother was unaware of her pregnancy and claimed to know nothing of what was going on. The many people in the home seemed concerned in the same way slowing traffic does at a collision. They weren’t interested enough, as if they were actual friends or family. It was then we realized these people were part of a group of recovering alcohol or drug addicts from Jersey City. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div>
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My partner performed an exam on the mother and I went into another bedroom to examine the fetus. Unsure of how many weeks it was, I applied the electrodes of our heart monitor to verify the absence of any activity. I regret ever having done that as my eyes nearly popped from their sockets when I saw an organized electrical rhythm on the monitor. Without getting into too much detail, the finding was transient and again, we obtained the time of death. The EMT’s had already left the scene with the mother. We were now left with the awkward circumstance where we don’t move a body after pronouncement of death has been made and, in good conscience, we could not leave the lifeless fetus here with this detached group of bystanders. Not to mention, fetal tissue can often prove beneficial for diagnostics of hidden problems in other family members. So, we decided to transport the towel-wrapped fetus to the hospital as well.</div>
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Quietly, we returned to our ambulance and my partner entered the rear compartment with the towel in hand. I looked up at him and stated, “Bro, it’s already been pronounced. I don’t think it needs to be transported in the patient compartment. There is no care to give to it.” My partner looked like a stunned duck after receiving a shovel’s blow to its head. “Um yeah, you’re right.” He jumped out and sat in the front with the towel in his lap. </div>
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The ride seemed to be the longest, slowest ride to a hospital – ever. All the radio stations had constant loops of Christmas music or ads for erectile dysfunction. We drove with our eyes forward and conversed about the birth of baby Jesus (my partner was Jewish) that the world celebrated this eve.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br>
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The next time you speak to one of us about why we’re working the holidays, please understand that sometimes our schedule demands it, and other times, we go to work purely out of fear of being alone or facing our private lives. Often we wind up facing what turn out to be - the “<em>Ghosts of Christmases Past</em>.”<br>
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-58986637524517619672013-10-03T19:06:00.002-04:002013-10-03T19:11:22.902-04:00Dear John...<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>by Steven P. Velasquez</b><br />
<b>October 3, 2013</b></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></strong> </div>
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Dear John - the <a href="http://www.cvs.com/" target="_blank">CVS</a> Jerk-Off,</div>
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I visited your establishment today in search of some personal products. I'm wearing conservative, business casual clothing just to set the scene correctly. </div>
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Perhaps I was there too long or strolled through an aisle too many. Your not-so-stealthy attempt to follow me with your beady eyes was betrayed by your shark fin-like, bald head that transiently appeared and vanished and appeared again in the aisles beside me as you seemingly sought to catch the brown guy "in the act."</div>
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When I got to the check out, you asked if I had a card. I replied (in fluent and articulate English) that I had lost my keys and thus, my card and asked you for a replacement. You confirmed my suspicion and secured your new nickname of <b>John - The CVS </b><b>Jerkoff</b><b> </b>when you passed me my new cards, unfolded the application and handed it to me - Spanish side up.</div>
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I won't get too dirty here or bore my family and audience with the list of obscenities in my heart (and in two languages no less). I'll just remind you of this my bald, beady-eyed, stereotyping, racist friend, I just left a classroom where I taught doctors how to save critically ill babies. You just rang up my M&M's.</div>
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Buenas tardes Jerk-off.</div>
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Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-42641339269060866752013-10-01T18:33:00.000-04:002013-10-17T23:09:54.926-04:00Runway Ruminations<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven P. Velasquez</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Sept. 28, 2013</strong></span><br />
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He sat in seat 11 at the window before the right wing (no pun intended) of the aircraft. The flight attendants smiled and silently illustrated the narrated safety directions. <br />
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<a href="https://www.leipzig-halle-airport.de/mediapool/resize/t1372080862__dsc_0488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://www.leipzig-halle-airport.de/mediapool/resize/t1372080862__dsc_0488.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
An <a href="http://www.aa.com/homePage.do" target="_blank">American Airlines</a> aircraft was parked beside him awaiting their passengers and cargo while the "<a href="http://gategourmet.com/" target="_blank">Gate Gourmet</a>" trucks fed the craft from the ground below. His plane began to taxi passing "<a href="http://www.airindia.com/" target="_blank">Air India</a>," "<a href="http://www.virginamerica.com/" target="_blank">Virgin</a>," and one plane with the <a href="http://www.newyorkjets.com/" target="_blank">NY JETS</a> logo on the runway.<br />
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He had navigated the roadway beneath the aircraft dozens of times in his mobile intensive care unit, but this time was different, this time he was a passenger and not a paramedic.<br />
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As the attendant, who remarkably looked like his daughter Nicolette, gestured to the exits, his eyes welled up with tears and he wasn't quite sure why.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_XRx6vXAXtdTrCgFSBAe78hqGh7MM2oP-Dwp1YgGtaYA1Qo8UH5pcU8psMXHPJSFTNB785-UaDenkpPcz8Q4RJC_ouxV0UnVYDgapZA8Ukn5yrU4RxYm6Cz0FZ6ffwbMk8x9Ad1gi38C/s1600/cpr_asl-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_XRx6vXAXtdTrCgFSBAe78hqGh7MM2oP-Dwp1YgGtaYA1Qo8UH5pcU8psMXHPJSFTNB785-UaDenkpPcz8Q4RJC_ouxV0UnVYDgapZA8Ukn5yrU4RxYm6Cz0FZ6ffwbMk8x9Ad1gi38C/s320/cpr_asl-15.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nicolette Velasquez teaches a CPR class <br />
for the deaf using American Sign Language (ASL)</td></tr>
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<br />
<a href="http://blog.sakroots.weblinc.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/freedom_tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://blog.sakroots.weblinc.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/freedom_tower.jpg" width="103" /></a>The plane briskly accelerated and in only a few seconds, effortlessly, or so it seemed, leapt into the sky. The cranes of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Port_Newark-Elizabeth_Marine_Terminal" target="_blank">Port Elizabeth</a>, the New York City skyline, and the newly completed "<a href="http://www.nyc-tower.com/" target="_blank">Freedom Tower</a>" that now occupies the space where his office once stood, now filled his window, his teary eyes - and his mind.<br />
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The world became small, the autos - minute. The <a href="http://www.nycroads.com/crossings/pulaski/" target="_blank">Pulaski Skyway</a>, was now a brief mark upon a beautiful, and diminishing, Earth below.<br />
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They headed north then banked west. He traded the view of New York's skyline for the true - lines of the sky.<br />
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<a href="http://www.jdtravelservices.co.uk/index%20images/Evening%20Plane%20picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="http://www.jdtravelservices.co.uk/index%20images/Evening%20Plane%20picture.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
Returning to that tearful moment, he paused and turned his attention inward as his pen furiously marked a notepad before him. The sadness he encountered was at best, transient when juxtaposed against the excitement of lift - and thrust.<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a>He supposed it was a combination of things, his daughter's image, the memory of his office burning, then crumbling, and crushing many of his friends and colleagues. His recent departure from <a href="http://uh-ems.org/" target="_blank">Newark's elite EMS system</a> and the cascade of feelings brought on by no longer being "<em>part of the team</em>." The realization that since 2001 (12 years before), his only exposure to airlines or air travel were during his emergency responses to NYC on 09-11-2001, Weehawken, NJ for what was euphemized as "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/US_Airways_Flight_1549" target="_blank">The Miracle On the Hudson</a>" and countless medical and traumatic emergencies upon such craft.<br />
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And now, in shorts, a t-shirt, no badges, radios, police escorts or equipment, he felt an uncommon vulnerability. His enthusiasm for travel was painfully blurred by a myriad of "what if?" scenarios. "What if we crash?" "What if we have a fire?" "What if I never get a chance to see, hold, or kiss my daughters good night again?" His ears painfully popped and in moments, after twenty four hours of work, he fell gently asleep - and he flew.<br />
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An hour and a half later, his craft safely kissed the ground in Charlotte, NC. New view. New skyline. New opportunities on the horizon and another chance to kiss his daughters good night.<br />
<br />Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-74121544814793613632013-09-29T18:14:00.001-04:002013-09-29T18:25:28.229-04:00Some Thoughts On Change and Never Saying Goodbye... <br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
</span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven P. Velasquez<br />Sept. 29, 2013</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rutherford High School - Rutherford, NJ</td></tr>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I'm driving up Interstate 85 between Charlotte and Greensboro, NC in my
hot rental car. I'm frustrated because the cars on the highway seem
immobile. A glance at my speedometer has me at 85 mph though I feel like
I'm standing still. Comfortable, but probably not a good change from a
safety standpoint.<br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show"><a href="http://kbuz.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/satellite-radio.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://kbuz.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/satellite-radio.jpeg" width="200" /></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">The radio is
filling my ears with literally ALL the sounds of my formative years as
I've found an 80's station that has me in complete nostalgia mode. The
thought of getting a radio signal from a satellite in space vs. AM waves
on terrestrial radio? Never thought we'd see the day back then, but here
it is. I say this is a good change as the clarity, selections and lack
of geographical restriction are seemingly endless.<br />
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<a href="http://www.georgelois.com/images/Milestones/milestones%20images/I%20want%20my%20MTV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.georgelois.com/images/Milestones/milestones%20images/I%20want%20my%20MTV.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">The
personalities on the satellite radio are none other than the original
V.J.'s of the earliest days of <a href="http://www.mtv.com/" target="_blank">MTV</a> before it became the abortion it is
today (bad change). <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Goodman" target="_blank">Mark Goodman</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Hunter" target="_blank">Alan Hunter</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martha_Quinn" target="_blank">Martha Quinn</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nina_Blackwood" target="_blank">Nina Blackwood</a> are still alive and well today and their voices (minus <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J.J._Jackson_(media_personality)" target="_blank">J.J. Jackson</a>) unearth an unending stream of beautiful memories that are
making my journey more of a movie set. The serious teen crush I had on
Martha Quinn and Nina Blackwood I won't detail here. Nina's raspy voice
could raise the hairs on my neck at any hour of the day. The fact that
she, and her raspy voice have aged so, make her sound more like the now
deceased, liberal radio host <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/27/nyregion/lynn-samuels-radio-talk-show-host-dies-at-69.html?_r=0" target="_blank">Lynn Samuels</a> is disturbing; not a good change (<span style="font-size: x-small;">only my fellow die-hard talk radio fanatics will understand that reference</span>).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Steven P. Velasquez</span></td></tr>
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Just now I had to pull over and broadcast this before the thoughts would subside as the next song and its narcotic effects came on. They just played <a href="http://www.bonjovi.com/" target="_blank">Bon Jovi's</a>; "<em><a href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/never-say-goodbye-lyrics-bon-jovi.html" target="_blank">Never Say Goodbye</a></em>" and it reminded me that this
was the chosen and scheduled prom song for the class of 87. Due to the
reference of <em>"[losing] more than that in my back seat baby</em>," being too
much to bear for the administration, that got deep-sixed and our class settled
for <a href="http://www.billyjoel.com/" target="_blank">Billy Joel's</a>, "<em><a href="http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/b/billy_joel/this_is_the_time.html" target="_blank">This Is the Time</a></em>." Hell, they could have been talking
about losing their wallet, change, or a contact lens for God's sake!
Compare that to the complete degradation of all things moral today where
"<em>Jiggly, jiggly, jiggly, bitches and ho's, bitches and ho's, bitches
and ho's</em>..." passes for music, and it leaves me reaching for <a href="http://tylenol.com/" target="_blank">Tylenol</a> -
and longing for the puritan's of our time; not a good change.<br />
<br />
To my classmates:<br /> <span style="color: #666666;"><em>"You and me and my old friends<br /> Hoping it would never end<br /> Say goodbye, never say goodbye"</em></span> - <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=7220821999&extragetparams=%7B%22directed_target_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/BonJovi?directed_target_id=0">Bon Jovi</a><br />
<br />
<br /><br /> Gotta run, "<em><a href="http://www.last.fm/music/Kenny+Loggins/_/Danger+Zone" target="_blank">Danger Zone</a></em>" is on!!</span></span><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContentSecondary fcg"><a href="http://www.mtv.com/" target="_blank">MTV Music Television</a></span></span>Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-15877924704322047312013-09-21T16:28:00.001-04:002013-09-21T16:28:30.925-04:00Of Moments Missed<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven P. Velasquez</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>September 21, 2013</strong></span><br />
<br />Alright, alright already. Maybe you all were right. My strategy of working almost every moment of my life was detrimental to my health and to my family. I can't imagine how many moments like today have been missed while I ran from one employer to the next, to the next - and never was any bit better off financially than if I didn't do it. I owe my daughters a sincere apology as it was the only way I knew to attempt to secure a future for them.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, I didn't hit the lottery or uncover a secret inheritance, but I have blocked some time out to breathe, to smile and to love. And it doesn't suck!<br />
<br />
<br />
This morning after work, I made a "B-line" to my little one's arms. She's been more excited about my birthday than... well, anyone. All week, she couldn't wait. She was going to bake me a cake and get me gifts and she, unlike her father, followed through on every bit of it.<br />
<br />
<br />
After she and her mother took me out to a <a href="http://www.crackerbarrel.com/" target="_blank">Cracker Barrel</a> breakfast, Steve's magic mini-van made an appearance in Belmar at the beach. We unloaded our chairs, a blankie, some books, and of course, my camera gear.<br />
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Little B will grow up with no recollection of the</div>
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boardwalk at Belmar before Super-Storm Sandy.</div>
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I'm just happy she can share in some of the same </div>
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memories I've been so fortunate to have had. Not</div>
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a year has passed yet, and the town is rebuilt - stronger.</div>
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We went right up to the water line, sat, read, watched surfers and hundreds of lunatics practicing for the <a href="http://mudmanx.com/" target="_blank">Mudman X</a> contest on the beach. We went out about knee deep in the water and with every wave, like the opening scene from "<a href="http://www.monkees.com/" target="_blank">The Monkee's</a>," turned and ran away. The wind, the waves and her contagious laughter played a beautiful symphony in my mind's eye. I lamented the moments lost as I tried to calculate how many her sisters never had because Daddy - was always at work.<br />
<br /><br />After some brief frolicking, there was some unprecedented activity too. B took off to play on the children's toys and I knocked the hell out in my chair. I slept for hours! I woke up and it was 2 pm already. I was startled too because I couldn't see my daughter. Actually, I couldn't see anything for that matter. I panicked as I thought being 45 had earned me a sudden onset of glaucoma. Everything was foggy. I removed my glasses and realized that the mist from the ocean had caked across my lenses. Little B was only a few feet from me and having a great time. Whewww!<br />
<br />
<br />
In summary, I've realized that my lifestyle requires compression. Compressed fun, compressed time off, compressed finances and compressed love. I don't have the luxury of free time like many others. So everything I do is brief, but with great intensity. Perhaps that's why I shoot (photos) as much as I do is because I'm trying to isolate those compressed moments into a choppy, but intense movie. Today has been a great scene, in "The Story Of Me."<br /><br />And... action!Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-54361770359780252532013-09-17T21:02:00.000-04:002013-09-17T21:08:30.363-04:00Forgive Me Father...<h2 class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;"><em>Forgive Me Father</em></span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;"><em>Because I Really Want To Sin...</em></span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong></strong></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Steven P. Velasquez</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>09/17/2013</strong></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGZD26ScwrzXycROWj5a8TR5Z_Rh00UpQSryi0-7c-bWvd9nj80-2dIQa3rQp9TvgcgjV9a8d_rsprOXm3_8fCATY_j8-6GrzEREdYStL2PZBroxYtvBpVJo5xiagsccnXQaz595XLtWi/s1600/long_branch--2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGZD26ScwrzXycROWj5a8TR5Z_Rh00UpQSryi0-7c-bWvd9nj80-2dIQa3rQp9TvgcgjV9a8d_rsprOXm3_8fCATY_j8-6GrzEREdYStL2PZBroxYtvBpVJo5xiagsccnXQaz595XLtWi/s320/long_branch--2.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I finished teaching my class this afternoon and upon leaving the hospital, got sucked in by the absolutely stunning fall weather, the cool temps, and knowing that I was just a little more than two blocks away from the beach.<br /><br />When I left the hospital, I was vibrating with enthusiasm and filled with happiness knowing that I was just a hop, skip and a jump away -- from a beautiful sunset and crashing waves.<br /><br />My location in the world was Long Branch, New Jersey, a place I've frequented since childhood, served as a paramedic since adulthood and educated their health professionals these past several years.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I perched here on this scenic deck. There was no one here but me, me and the intense scenery, and the gulls, there's always the gulls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My tripod was up, camera equipment scattered about a small table and clicking away minding my own business (every good story begins with someone minding their own business).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A man in a wheelchair with his woman in tow approach and begin taking pictures of each other and together (she in his lap with their little camera phone aimed at their faces, the bright moonlight in the background. Cute I thought.). They were not in my way, nor I in theirs. We initially exchanged pleasantries. We said hello and; "It's a beautiful night out isn't it?" We both went about our business.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He, they (whatever) never once asked me to help them, assist them, photograph them - nothing!<br /><br />As they're leaving, he turns and barks at me; "Thanks a lot for your help... you fucking asshole!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I actually looked over my shoulder as I couldn't believe his venomous words could possibly be aimed at the quiet guy with the tripod that greeted him so nicely.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I realized that I was exactly his intended target, an anger and rage filled me that I haven't felt in a long time. Perhaps he unlocked a lot of pent up sadness, anger and frustration in my life but thank God, for his sake, that I am a decent person with a healthy fear of consequence. Never in my life have I ever even remotely imagined hurting someone so unfortunate as to be bound to a wheeled chair.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I swear to God, I felt I could make the deck of this restaurant a scene reminiscent to the <a href="http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/achille-lauro-hijacking-ends" target="_blank">Aquille Lauro back in 1985</a>. I wanted to beat the man silly with a tripod and throw him into the sea below!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">What the hell is wrong with people? Because I'm a photographer and have gear, I'm obligated to offer up and take the picture of every person with a friggin' camera phone (and of course free too right? I'll bet this P.O.S. votes for... (ha ha, I won't say it)).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Forgive me father...</span><br />
<br />Steven P. Velasquez, NRPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12454698479993359673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5467111719459081200.post-66546307719940957082013-05-24T23:37:00.003-04:002013-05-25T00:00:01.413-04:00The Fraternity of Us<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>by Amy Eisenhauer, EMT</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>May 20, 2013</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I am blessed to
have such amazing friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One or two of
them I have known most of my life and we have grown and experienced things
together as brothers and sisters would. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
most of my friendships have been forged in the bonds of fraternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect you are thinking, “Fraternity? You
are a female, what would you know about brotherhood?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cf.drafthouse.com/_uploads/galleries/17474/animal_house_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://cf.drafthouse.com/_uploads/galleries/17474/animal_house_2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delta Tau Chi- "Animal House" 1978</td></tr>
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Typically the word fraternity brings to mind
college parties and secret rites or heroic soldiers returning from battle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both of those images are accurate when
speaking of the Fraternity of EMS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
can be silly and rambunctious when at rest, but when called to action we are
professionals ready to mitigate your worst day. All my close friendships have
been kindled via the field of EMS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is something about spending 12 hours in a truck with someone that forges a
bond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You learn how they take their
coffee, what kind of music they like, their facial tics, how to operate
together without speaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know that
when you step into the street, even if you are having an argument or don’t
particularly like that person, they are your lifeline and you are theirs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is sobering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are our brother’s keeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are -- brothers.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I vacation with these people. I break
bread with these people. We encourage and mentor each other pushing one another
to the next level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We laugh together at
corny jokes or at pranks we pulled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wMwP2VLss8yiRcIdviSRhxUghmvZZrW9srnFyLlfAxU58tKN1ykV-8VZ5VA-O70MaNWFdGhT4QbCBH6iWT4rf8dnwjEPyq7VzoM7s6HpfDiACnkTAcst42uNTCKJuo_mWb5i1g8T1Nb8/s1600/Rusticcio_Funeral-194.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wMwP2VLss8yiRcIdviSRhxUghmvZZrW9srnFyLlfAxU58tKN1ykV-8VZ5VA-O70MaNWFdGhT4QbCBH6iWT4rf8dnwjEPyq7VzoM7s6HpfDiACnkTAcst42uNTCKJuo_mWb5i1g8T1Nb8/s320/Rusticcio_Funeral-194.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">EMS Honor Guards from FDNY and Boston EMS pay a final <br />
farewell to Paramedic David Restuccio - Sept. 2012</td></tr>
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</span>We
celebrate our achievements together: awards, children, new homes and holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We mourn our losses together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We help each other, no matter the
circumstance, no matter the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
difficult to describe how I feel about them. Family and love are terms that
come to mind, but those words don’t depict the ache in my heart when they are
disappointed or hurt, the exuberance I feel when they succeed or the rush that
comes when someone tries to bring them harm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I realize that this is not an experience most have the opportunity to
have; a massive family, a brotherhood<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>, stand with you
through your life and I am humbled by it.<br />
<br />
I would like to thank all those who in the spirit of fraternity have taught,
encouraged and mentored me, helping me to continually grow and reach higher;
especially when I did not want to, and was particularly whiney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are the family I choose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not sure why I deserve to have people
like you in my life, but I am so happy you are here.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_L8S3RZ9T2XiUbCYg7OLSvM-80o9R2UZcVn-BwDYJ0wChBg27BDg9FIiMG6wEgnmoyG7aVtelpkfgnZSlR9hQTq7zOQpaCXniLOS5MqQ8k7WQaWUzOftSNYfyUhPjDJKsa6isMuv__mH_/s1600/a_eisenhouer-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_L8S3RZ9T2XiUbCYg7OLSvM-80o9R2UZcVn-BwDYJ0wChBg27BDg9FIiMG6wEgnmoyG7aVtelpkfgnZSlR9hQTq7zOQpaCXniLOS5MqQ8k7WQaWUzOftSNYfyUhPjDJKsa6isMuv__mH_/s400/a_eisenhouer-01.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guest writer Amy Eisenhauer, EMT<br />
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<span style="color: #999999;">Amy has been an Emergency Medical Technician in New Jersey for many
years. She is also an instructor for several courses related to
Emergency Medical Services and an advocate for the profession. She is
currently in pursuit of her Bachelors degree focusing on Political
Science. Amy is the 2013 Recipient of The Captain Jonathan Young
Memorial Scholarship given by the New Jersey Emergency Preparedness
Association. She lives in New Jersey with her cats, Coco Chanel and 13.</span></div>
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