Page 5 of Resuscitation

Chapter Four

Steering with one hand, Blake used his other to stab at the ambulance’s radio controls for the fifth time. Only a crackling hiss came back in response.

“Dammit. I thought Wayne said this thing was fixed already,” he muttered. He slammed the console with his palm before giving up.

“Now he gets to blame it on your physical abuse of corporate equipment, and they’ll take it out of your paycheck,” Alyssa quipped.

Blake smiled despite his growing frustration. “All my check will buy ‘em is a toy walkie-talkie from the dollar store.”

“Let me.” She leaned forward, turned the radio off, then ever so gently, tapped it back on, giving the volume a slight nudge, re-setting the frequency just so, and then clicking the button. An energetic squawk filled the cab.

“Just needed a woman’s touch,” she said with a smirk. “And you know what that means? She who wields the power of the radio?—”

“No, please, no!” Blake said with mock terror.

“Wields the power of the muuuu-ssak!”

She produced her cellphone. A synth-pop track kicked in, booming through the cabin.

“Don’t suppose you have some mellow sixties rock loaded on that thing?”

“Afraid not, old man,” she shouted as she snapped her fingers and wiggled in the seat to the tune.

Blake shook his head in mock disgust. “This should be banned!”

“Oh, is this in your future-retro-imaginary society of guitar-based music and long hair?”

“Yes, absolutely. When I’m king, this will be banned, and we will revert forever back to the sixties.”

“What do you know about the sixties, you weren’t even born then!” Alyssa tilted her head as she contemplated this strange new world of Blake’s. “So, in this nostalgic utopia, do we get cell phones, computers, internet?”

“Absolutely not. We get rid of it all. Re-install the landlines and bring back the fax machine.”

“And telegrams?”

Blake laughed. “Do you even know what that is?”

“Of course! I’ve seen old movies,” she retorted.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You know, Casablanca , that Kane one.”

“ Citizen Kane ? Yeah, Orson Welles. Classic. I love the old movies. Especially the black and white ones,” Blake said with a sigh.

“Oh my god, you look like forty-ish, but you have the mind of a seventy-something old geezer.”

Blake couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Hey, less of the ‘geezer’ talk, please. I’m thirty-nine, for your information.

But I still love the old stuff. Guess because my mom and I lived with Mom’s parents.

” He smiled, remembering long summer nights when Pap-pap, a Vietnam vet turned dairy farmer, would strum his guitar and Nana sang.

“Whatever, those days, their days, seem just…easier.”

“Ah, yes, the good-ole olden-golden daysers,” Alyssa said, rolling her eyes in mock jest.

“What’s so good about nowadays? Just look at this place,” he asked, gesturing at the main street of Eastfork as they drove. Signs declaring bankruptcy or going out of business sales were posted on almost every door and window.

“Seems like more places have shut since we were last here, right?” Alyssa leaned against the passenger window. The ambulance passed the old police station, now also boarded up. The mood in the cabin instantly changed.

“So goddamn sad,” was all Blake could mutter in response to the bleak sight.

“And wrong. Where’s our so-called government when you need it?” Alyssa added.

Blake’s jaw stiffened. “Lining their own pockets and interests is what they’re doing. Propping up the big corporations while throwing mom and pop businesses straight at the wall, just like during Covid.”

He turned onto a residential street and pulled up outside a brick housing project, switching off the engine. “You got his key?”

“Yep,” Alyssa replied, opening the lock box below the dash.

Many of their “regulars” left spare keys with the ambulance service so they wouldn’t need to call the fire guys to come knock down their doors if they were incapacitated.

Saved time and money—the wait on the fire department was sometimes even longer than the wait for the cops, since the FD was all volunteer and guys had to drive in from home.

They went into the rear cabin of the truck, then grabbed their medical bags and the transfer chair. Thomas’s building had no elevator, but he wasn’t a big man, and carrying him down the three flights of stairs in the chair would be easier than wrestling the gurney.

“Ready?” Alyssa asked, bracing one hand on the ambulance’s rear door. Blake nodded and she shoved it open. They stepped down into the howling wind and swirling snow. Heads bowed, they trudged up the snow-covered steps into the apartment building’s lobby and headed up the steps to the third floor.

At Thomas’s door, Alyssa knocked. No answer. Blake unlocked the door.

A pungent smell greeted them as they entered the cluttered apartment that had become a memorial to Thomas’s late wife, Rose, whose photograph was centered on the pony wall that separated the tiny foyer from the kitchen and dining area.

Other smaller photo frames displayed her through the decades, including one of their wedding many years before.

“Thomas?”

In the far corner, across from the small dining table in what passed for a living room but barely had space for a TV stand and coffee table, they found Thomas slumped in his worn recliner, his face a ghastly blue-gray color, sweating and barely conscious.

Prescription bottles were piled on an end table, and to one side of the recliner stood a cane, which Blake had never seen Thomas actually use.

He was a proud man—one of the reasons why, when he called, they always knew it was serious.

Thomas would never waste their time, not like some of their frequent flyers who really were just lonely and wanted company.

“Thomas, we’re here,” Blake assured him. The old man was almost totally blind, and Blake didn’t want to startle him. He was rewarded by the old man’s eyes flickering open, focusing as best they could on Blake.

He and Alyssa went into a familiar routine, one which they had performed on many previous visits.

While Alyssa listened to his heart and lungs, Blake checked Thomas’s vitals and attached the chest leads and hooked Thomas up to the monitor.

“Now I’m going to check your pulse oximetry.

” He clipped the pulse ox over Thomas’s forefinger.

“Heart rate 122, sats 92,” he told Alyssa as he placed an oxygen mask over Thomas’s face.

She nodded, removed her stethoscope. “Thomas, we’re going to send an EKG to the hospital while I check your blood sugar.”

Blake knew her words were as much for him as for Thomas. As they shifted position, Blake worked the monitor to record and send the EKG while Alyssa slid the glucometer from a pocket of her bag.

“Let’s sit you up, Thomas.” She helped the old man up. His color was better with the oxygen and he was more awake now. She swiped an alcohol pad over his finger tip. “A little prick.”

“Never been called that before,” Thomas said, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

Blake could tell he was trying to make light of the whole thing, but he still didn’t look good. Not the Thomas Blake had come to care for.

“I would never be so rude,” she replied. The tiny needle released a droplet of blood. Alyssa pressed the test strip to collect the blood and waited for the result. The glucometer beeped three times—a warning that the measurement was out of normal limits.

“Thirty-eight.” Alyssa opened their med kit and grabbed the glucagon, deftly drawing it up into a syringe. “Okay, we can work with that. Blake, see if there’s any juice in his fridge. If not, we’ll start an IV here instead of waiting until we’re in the rig. And check his insulin supply.”

“You’re gonna be just fine, Thomas,” Blake said as he moved to the kitchen.

“You know the drill, Thomas,” Alyssa said, holding up the syringe. “Where do you want it? Thigh, butt, or arm? You’re so damn bony, it’s gonna hurt wherever I give it.”

In answer, he tugged at his shirt, trying to extract his arm but getting tangled in the oxygen tubing. Alyssa helped him open his shirt far enough that she could reach his deltoid muscle. He made a small groan when she injected the medicine.

Alyssa tossed the sharps in the disposal bin, then circled her fingers around his wrist, feeling his pulse.

She could’ve just have easily read his heart rate from the monitor, but Blake knew she preferred the human touch.

She always said she could tell a lot from how a patient’s pulse felt, more than just counting their heart beat. “Better, already much better.”

Blake pressed a glass of OJ into Thomas’s hand and showed Alyssa his insulin doses, arrayed in two trays, one for evening, one for morning.

Diabetes had ravaged Thomas’s eyesight; he wasn’t totally blind but the tiny numbers on insulin needles were too much for him to read, so he relied on the county health worker to measure out his dosages for the days between dialysis.

Blake tapped the morning tray—there were two missing syringes.

“My fault,” Thomas muttered, pushing aside the oxygen to sip at the OJ.

“Grabbed a morning syringe with the higher dose, instead of your evening one?” Alyssa’s tone was gentle. “Honest mistake. I’m glad you called us when you did.” She glanced at the monitor and took the oxygen off. “Drink.”

As he obeyed, downing the OJ, she glanced around the apartment. “You know, Thomas, I think this place needs a serious makeover. It’s starting to look like a set from a B-rated horror movie.”

Thomas chuckled.

Almost back to normal, Blake thought. Almost.

“Horror movie? More like a classic! Every item here tells a story. Like that old lamp,” Thomas said, gesturing to a tarnished piece that had seen better days. “That’s from when we first got married.”

“When was that again?” Alyssa asked. She was testing his orientation and memory, but doing it in a much nicer way than asking who the president was and the day of the week.

“July 1st, 1973. A sweltering day in Manhattan. At the reception, the AC was down. Fans blowing every which way, but they didn’t help. Rose was so happy, though.” His smile was laced with regret, and Alyssa touched his shoulder with quiet sympathy. “And all I cared about was that I had her.”

“She was a beautiful woman,” Blake offered, glancing at one of the many photographs.

“She was, she was,” Thomas said quietly.

“Hey, you two stop. I’ll be sobbing all the way back to the ER, the way you’re carrying on,” Alyssa interjected.

“Do I have to go?” Thomas asked. “I’m feeling better.”

“That glucagon’s gonna wear off, and you know with your kidneys, you don’t respond as well when your sugar gets out of whack,” she reminded him. “Besides, don’t you need to go to Potsdam for dialysis anyway? When’s your appointment?”

That’s what had been nagging at Blake as he’d looked through Thomas’s fridge.

The calendar on the front of the freezer door.

He shot a look at Alyssa, and she waved for him to go on—they tried to only have one person asking questions so patients didn’t get overwhelmed or confused about who they should be answering.

“Thomas,” he asked in a gentle tone, “weren’t you scheduled for dialysis today?” Dialysis days meant he’d need a lower dose of insulin than usual—something the clinic took care of before bringing him home. Or should have.

Thomas caught Blake’s eye and nodded slowly. “They called, said cuz of the storm they had to cancel.”

Alyssa and Blake exchanged glances. “Okay, new plan,” Alyssa said. “Let me grab a quick I-stat, make sure your potassium isn’t sky high.” Blake moved to get the testing equipment for her. “Your EKG isn’t showing any peaked T-waves, and Dr. Sara would’ve called if she saw anything worrisome, so?—”

“If it’s okay, I can stay here?” Thomas asked hopefully.

Blake knew how much he hated being away from his home and Rose’s memories, even if just for a night. He also knew that even more than missing his home and routine, Thomas was frightened of dying surrounded by strangers in a strange place.

Deep down inside, despite the cold, hard fact that he could never risk the unpredictability and emotional gamble that came with starting a relationship, Blake realized he shared Thomas’s fear: that he was doomed to live and die alone.