Dueling Banjos

*Editors Note: This story is about 6 years old. It's been re-edited, but remains just as true as the day it was initially written.*

When the directions to a call include "The house is a blue single-wide across from a double-wide, and should have 3 Confederate Flags hanging outside" you know you're in for an exciting experience. Yesterday was no exception.

At about 5pm we were dispatched to a hemorrhage call out in the sticks. Hemorrhage calls suck for a few reasons, but first and foremost they suck because people generally only call 911 when they're bleeding from one of two places- their ass, or their va-jay-jay. Believe me when I say this- nothing will kill your sex drive faster than some of the genitalia I see doing this job.

Sure enough, while we're enroute to the call communications radios us with the additional information they've gleaned from the caller: "Medic Unit- your patient is going to be a 42 year old female, passing clots from her vagina" It's rare for me to put on a pair of gloves before I even see a patient, but I figure this time it's justified.

Pulling up to the "house" I'm suddenly frightened for my life- I can hear the lines from Deliverance repeating over and over in my head. I wondered: Do I have a pretty mouth? What would it be like to kill a man with a bow and arrow? And where's the creepy kid with the banjo?

Oh- there he is.


Seriously. Sitting on the front porch is an blank-eyed youngster holding a banjo. Cornhole tightened, I approach the house.

As I walk toward the front door, I'm forced to shimmy, shake, and rock the stretcher past a few junked cars, through a fence gate, and up a ramp to the flimsy door of the trailer. One of the Confederate flags gets caught on the side rail of the stretcher and rips nearly in half. Apologizing to the strumming youngster, I'm just glad that neither my partner nor I are African-American. There are enough hillbillies here to pull off a lynchin'.

I start to open the front door, but pause as I'm informed that there's "No smokn in the hous". Verbatim. It's been written carefully on the front door in magic marker. At least twice. Underneath the current black letters the former iteration of this message is still visible in a more cerulean shade.

The living room of this house looks like a tornado of all that is redneck struck less than fifteen minutes ago, and since this is a mobile home that's not all that unlikely. The room is covered in naked baby pictures, and all the kids are indistinguishable from one another. They all have broad, flat, blank faces, with narrow-set blue eyes, and a gap mouthed, gap toothed smile. When the final count is in, it appears that no less than 12 people (at least 11 of them related to one another by blood... I think the black guy might've been a friend, despite the Dixie flags outside) are living in this 2 bedroom trailer.

The kids range in age from a couple of years, to somewhere in their early twenties, and all seem to share approximately the same education level. While trying to assess my patient, I got the best answers about her medical history from a child who looked to be about 11.

That reminds me- after pausing to admire the NASCAR collectible plate series displayed on top of the mantle, (I still giggle when I see Dick Trickle's name) I finally managed to get to my patient, and begin the process of figuring out just what the hell was wrong with her.

The "42 year old female who was passing clots" is lying on a hospital bed in the middle of the living room. She's lying on a plastic sheet, and is wearing nothing but a hospital gown, and a urinary catheter. She's had her right leg amputated below the knee, and just from looking in her eyes you can tell she's gorked.

Her husband is standing by the bed and furiously working the wad of tobacco in his cheek. I begin this assessment the same way I begin every assessment, asking- "What's going on today, sir?"

"Well- she bleedin 'gain"

"Ah. And how long has she been bleeding?"

"'Bout three hour"

"And is this abnormal for her, or does she normally have a menstrual period?"

"Well- she do, but this is differin. She passing big clots- 'bout fo, five, an las' time she did this, they had to give her blood an clean her on out in there."

"Okay- so when did this last happen?"

"Hmmmm- prob'ly been 'bout a year now."

"Okay- does she have any other medical problems?"

"She jus had an infection"

"What was infected sir?"

"She was."

"Ooookay. Why does she have the IV in place?"

He tells me that the hospital sent her home with an IV in place so that he (or rather, the 11 year old who understood the instructions) could administer Vancomycin everyday for 14 days. Vanc is a powerful anti-biotic used to combat very specific, and very contagious staph infections that are usually picked up in the hospital.

"Sir- has your wife always been- er- uh- Non-verbal?"

"Do what?"

"Has your wife always been unable to speak, or move?"

"Oh- no. That happened last year."

"Sir, what happened last year?"

"Oh- she had 'bout eight strokes an five- maybe six heart attacks. Doctors dunno why. But we're gettin her better here now."

Shaking my head and wondering how eight strokes and five heart attacks didn't merit a mention in response to my questions regarding "other medical problems" we move the woman over to our stretcher. Throughout this entire process she screams like the monsters from Scooby-Doo, and tries to claw anyone who touches her with her overgrown and yellowing nails.

As we pick her up to move her over, I notice an enormous decubitus ulcer (GRAPHIC!) on her buttocks, and I ask her husband about it.

"She had that oh... three, fo, months now. You can stick your fist in it!"

"Sir- have you been sticking your fist in it?"

*shuffles feet* "Naw... naw... but you could."

Throughout the entire ride to the hospital, the woman continues her monster-moans, and makes any true assessment impossible with her attempts at clawing us. I'm ecstatic when the relatively short drive is over. Wheeling the woman into the ER, we're forced to wait 30 minutes for a room since they're renovating the entire emergency department. This leaves the nurses short on beds, and shorter still on temper.

I drop off my report with the doc, and laugh as I hear him interviewing the husband:

"Sir- about this ulcer on her buttocks..."

"Yeah! You can stick your fist in it!"

"Sir- have you been sticking your fist in it?"