I was having gastronomical problems.  That may be putting it mildly.  It was actually quite horrific.  But to get through my shift on the ambulance I had developed a rhythm.  I would make a run, drop off the patient, and run to the restroom to take care of some business.  Make a run, drop off, restroom.  Make a run, drop off, restroom.  I went through about five or six cycles of this.  And then we got a bad run.

The patient had end stage Alzheimer’s.  She was completely comatose and had a “do not resuscitate” order, but the nursing home staff was concerned about her breathing and wanted her to get checked at the ER.  So started the next cycle.  We got her to the truck and started to do our thing.  I gave her an IV, a dash of O2, and a little bit of ECG for good measure.  I might have intubated her if it were not for the DNR, but as it was, my hands were tied.  We began right during the start of rush hour, and that’s where the trouble began.

“Geez, how long is it going to be?” I asked my partner through the little window in our type II high-top van.

“Oh, it’s gonna be a while,” she said, “Doctor’s Hospital is all the way across town and everything is locked up.”

“Well, you are aware of my tender…condition…so make it as quick as you can, eh?”

Five minutes went by.  Ten minutes.  Fifteen.  The internal clock of my cycle was now telling me it was time to drop off the patient and finish up some other business, but we were still in traffic.

“Hey there, chica!  How is the navigation coming.  I got some business to take care of, you know what I mean?”

“No dice,” she said.  “We are nowhere near that hospital.  Twenty more minutes at the very least.”

Panic started to creep into my thoughts.  I tried to reposition myself, but it was no use.  I tried standing up, but that seemed to make things worse.  This is when I started brainstorming.  What if we simply pulled over and I used a restroom in a fast food place?  Would that be patient abandonment?  Could I leave an EMT with a critically ill patient on an ECG while I ran off for what would now surely be at least four or five minutes of extracurricular activities?  Could I get in trouble for this?  What if she died while I was gone?  I know she was a DNR, but how would that look?  “Hey, thanks for watching the patient while I was in the restroom.  Oh, is she dead?  Okay, I guess we can get back on the road.  I got this now. Thanks!”

What could I do?

And then the other shoe dropped.  Something shifted inside, and I knew that my fate was sealed.  It took every ounce of energy, concentration, and yes, muscle tone to keep pure disaster from happening.  I was frantic.  Even if the fast food restroom was an option, I couldn’t even make it inside now.  I had to act.  Quickly.

I scanned the back of the truck.  Immediately useful items which were at arm’s length were a trash can, a roll of red bio-bags, and a roll of paper towels.

I looked at the patient.  Comatose.  I looked at the trashcan.  Sturdy.  So, like any good medic, I made an executive decision. 

I turned the ECG and pulse ox around to where I could see them from behind the patient.  I dumped the contents of the trashcan into the side wheel-well.  Time was running out.  At this point my movements were so quick that my hands were a blur.  I took a red bag and lined the trash can.  Oops, that required me bending over.  Bad idea.  Almost didn’t make it.  I stood up.  I unbuckled.  Quickly now!  Quickly!

It was over in an instant.  The relief I felt was indescribable.  Whatever words I could put down here just will not do it justice.  It was nirvana.  I was at peace.

“Whew!  What happened back there?”  My partner must have caught wind of what happened.

“Uh, the patient had a bit of an accident back here.  Are we very far out?”

“Oh, you poor thing.  Turn on the fan!  We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

I took her advice and turned on the fan.  I quickly wrapped things up in other ways as well.  When I was finished, the only evidence of what happened was a red bio-bag that was tied off in the middle.  I placed it on the back of the stretcher behind the patient’s head just like I would do with any other red bag that needed disposal.  On our way inside I dumped it in the ‘soiled utility’ closet and dropped off the patient.  The flow of my usual cycle was definitely out of order, but I got the job done.

A few minutes later I came clean with my partner.  “No way!” she squealed while I tried to hush her up.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m calling us out of service and going home.  I’m not risking that again.”

“Well, you better make up a good story because we’re still holding calls.”  She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.  She was waiting to watch me lie on the phone to a supervisor.

“I’m not making anything up.” I said boldly as I dialed the phone.

A few seconds later I found myself talking to dispatch and asking for the shift supervisor.

“This is Robert.”

“Hey, my man.  I hate to do this to you, but I gotta go home sick.  It’s an emergency.”

“You don’t sound sick.  Get back in that truck and clear up, we have something like 15 runs holding.”  He sounded stern.

“You don’t understand, man.  I’m going home.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“I just took a shit right in front of a patient.  I was sitting on a trashcan lined with a red bag.  I just threw it away here at Doctor’s Hospital.”

Silence.

“Would you like me to repeat that?” I asked.

“You are going home.”

“That’s what I told you.” I was firm.  Unwavering.

“You may be going home permanently.”

“Naaaaahhhh, she was gorked.”

“Do you know this is a recorded line?”

But I wasn’t ashamed.  I told him my whole story on a recorded line.  Every detail.  How could I abandon my patient?  I did what any hard core medic would do.  I was a freakin’ hero!

“Well,” he paused for a moment, “You’re not fired.  But you are definitely going home.  Try not to shit on anything else on your way back.”

My evening off led into my regular three days off during the week.  By the time my next shift had rolled around I was good to go.  I felt better than ever.  And I had been gone for a few days so I figured everything would have blown over.  I was wrong.

When I got to work my truck was covered in red bags.  The mirrors.  The radio.  Everything.  As I walked into the station red bags were hanging from the ceiling.  Red bags were covering lamps in the break room.  The coffee maker had a red bag taped to the counter nearby and people were using it to dispose of creamer containers and stir sticks.  I went to clock in, but found a red bag covering the clock.

It was bad.

I soon found out that my new name was Red Bag.  It would be for the next two years until I left the company.  This originally happened in Texas, but I sometimes tell the story to break the ice with a new partner.  They have spread the word and now I am often called Red Bag here in Kentucky.  Why not?  Everyone has their fifteen minutes of fame and I am no exception.  It was not my most professional moment, but things happen.  Moral of the story: if you absolutely have to use the restroom with a patient on board, make sure they are comatose.  And you may want to lie afterwards unless you want a new nickname.