Christmas Third Ride: In the Company of Wolves

It's Christmas night, and I'm sitting in an ambulance in Ann Arbor, Mich. Not to worry--I'm healthy, and I actually plan on spending the next 12 hours here.

I am what they call a "third ride" tonight. A third ride is a jump-seat position normally filled by a medical student. Tonight I will be introduced by the actual medics as "my student," but careful observation of me in "action" should show me doing nothing more than lifting heavy things and staying out of the way of others who look as if they have a purpose.

My steed tonight is an ALS rig operated by Huron Valley Ambulance. Its lead paramedic is a very good friend of mine. I am on leave from the Air Force for this, and no, I did not fill out the required high-risk waiver for this little diversion. I figure if I need medical care, I'll be close enough to slump onto my buddy, the one getting me into all this trouble.

First, an observation: It is a strange thing to invade somebody's home on Christmas day with snow-covered boots and a huge yellow stretcher loaded with scary-looking gear, then cart out a suffering member of their family with their total support and encouragement. It is even stranger to do it with your best friend. That said, let us begin the night.

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a gun club in Middle-Of-Freaking-Nowhere. Supposedly determined by a computer algorithm, it's a location designed to be equally distant from any possible location in our sector of responsibility. It is equally out of allowable wandering distance from any food, nonrolling shelter or bathroom. I get the feeling a lot of these rigs have stinky tires on the shady side.

After driving to this location, we have settled into that common staple of the paramedic's diet, the expectant one-eared wait. A conversation begins, and before we know it my friend and I have burned through two and a half hours. Then, in a flash, he's up, out the back door and into the front as the engine revs, and suddenly I realize exactly what I heard but understood too late, but he heard and reacted to instantly.

"One-eleven."

One-eleven--holy shit, that's us!

"One-eleven."

"Go, Central."

"One-eleven, elderly female complaining of a stroke. Priority One."

The rest of the call is forever lost to me as I struggle to get back into my jump seat and buckled in. This is a task made difficult by the fact that my seat at the front of the cab has begun to lunge away from me to the sound of gravel pelting the bottom of our rig. After lurching like Keith Richards for an embarrassingly short distance, I eventually give up, grab an overhead monkey bar and begin trying to get the patient area ready for our next task.

It's an old military response: When in doubt or danger, do something, anything, even if it's useless, or better yet, wrong. It's surprising how often I use this tactic, and even more surprising how often it works. God must love drunks, small children and weapons troops.

And then, to put it simply, all hell breaks loose around me. I can't help but guiltily admit it here: It is absolutely glorious.

The addictive clik-scree-clik-scree-clik-scree of the strobe relays rapidly charging and discharging in the walls around me, the straining sound of the roaring diesel, sirens wailing and whooping giddily overhead, and all while the cab's Geiger counter-like driver's warning system clicks madly in the turns and howls angrily at every stop. Incomprehensible radio communications about grid coordinates and response codes fly back and forth overhead as I bounce about in the back of the darkened rig, excitedly unstrapping our heart monitor and securing the stretcher for a hasty egress, lit only by the maddening strobes reflecting off cars we blurrily flash pass.