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Part II
11
Sting Kept Singing
The streets were slick. The inner city lamp lights reflected off road markings and blinded the eye. Screeds of people were falling out of a nightclub opening. Faces distorted through the windshield wipers. Laughing. Stumbling. Wrapped up warm for winter.
“Chest pains,” Ted said, looking down at the pager. “But they could be trauma-related; he fell apparently.”
I nodded my head and slowed at an intersection. Our red and white strobe lights painted the petrol station beside us in candy stripes.
“Did you do anything interesting today?” he asked. I opened my mouth to reply, but he beat me to it. “Watch out!”
I hit the discarded box at sixty. The crunch of the cardboard beneath the ambulance’s axles sounded loud, even over the sound of our sirens.
“It’s just cardboard,” I said.
“I’d rather you hadn’t hit it. What if it had damaged the truck?”
What if it had damaged us?
“It’s fine,” I said. “I can see it flattened behind us.”
He remained silent.
The address was in a suburb I wasn’t familiar with. Auckland City is large, and when you enter the inner burbs, it can become a rabbit warren. Left. Right. Right. Left. Number 14. Left-hand side.
I parked, and we grabbed our gear, hauling close to ten kilos up the garden path. The outside lights were on, illuminating a metal sculpture of a duck flying on the side of the refurbished bungalow.
The door opened before we reached it; an older woman, back stooped, face wrinkled, hands liver-spotted, showed us inside. It smelled of camphor and tea. I immediately thought of the Weet-Bix Guy. But our patient was fully conscious; clutching at his chest, face pallid, sweat beading his brow.
“So, how are we doing?” Ted asked.
We look like shit, I thought, but just pulled the electrodes out to attach to the patient’s — Joe’s — chest.
“Bad,” Joe said. “It hurts.”
“Joe,” I said, calling his attention. “I’m just going to shave your chest slightly. You’re a woolly mammoth.”
He smiled. “Best offer I’ve had in years.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I chided. “There’s still the blood pressure cuff to survive.”
“Any history of heart conditions?” Ted asked, inserting an IV in the crook of Joe’s arm.
“No,” Joe said. “But I have high blood pressure.” To me, he added, “On doctor’s orders, I keep a very active sex life.”
“Exercise does help with hypertension, I’m told,” I agreed, smiling.
“Do you take any medication for your hypertension?” Ted asked.
“Cilazapril,” Joe advised.
“Yes, an ACE inhibitor,” Ted agreed with a nod, watching the ECG screen. “Anything else?”
“No. Otherwise, I’m as fit as a fiddle,” Joe said on a crackling cough. “Can’t keep me down for long.” He winked at me.
I smiled. My eyes flicking to the disconcerting looking waveform on the defibrillator’s screen as I took his blood pressure.
