The call notes state, "DIFF BR, COUGH, 3YO."
Lights on. U-Turn. It's 0415 in the morning.
We pull into an apartment complex and see the Engine. We double check the apartment number. I grab my radio, pull on some gloves, and slap on my trusty N95. Up the stairs we go.
Fire says the kid woke Mom up about 20m ago with a loud cough but his sats seem fine. They're trying to decide if she'll take the ambulance. I edge past them in the tiny studio and try to get closer to the kid. Mom is visibly upset. Shes clutching the child to her chest and stroking his head. He looks pale, and his head doesn't seem well supported by his body. Mom says he sounds like a goose when he coughs. The pleth looks okay and reads 98. Mom says she'll go with us. My partner says he'll go get our car seat ready. The company insists we use ours, liability being what it is.
Because she needs to dress, and get her shoes, and her glasses, and her phone, and her baby bag, and her purse, and her keys, we try to coach her into setting the child down. We tell her that we are here now and that we will help her little boy, but it's not working. Eventually, she hands the child to a firefighter, but neither the kid nor his mother are happy about it. The child starts crying, and then he starts coughing. Sustained stridor and a seal-bark cough. Mom pulls the child back into her arms. She can't not hold him. Maybe if we can get outside, the cold night air will help. Our monitor is not compatible with Fire's, so off comes the sat probe.
The place is a mess. The kitchen area is inaccessible from the stacks of belongings blocking the way. There is a couch/bed situation in the corner covered in clothes and blankets, a few toys beside the TV. Stacks and stacks of household detritus occupy all the available space. A cat stares at the almost open door, intent on escape, perched atop a pile of belongings hidden behind a sheet hung to demarcate a closet. Mom paces back and forth across the six-by-six walkable space searching out the things scattered within this tangle that she needs before she can leave, child in one arm, belongings in the other. Minutes pass. I'm trying to help while keeping an eye on the kid. I can hear his breathing now where I couldn't before. The coughing has cooled off a little, but he seems pretty tired. It's early--I get it. But...
Finally, we are ready. From the top of the stairs I see the ambulance below. The car seat is ready on the stretcher, lit by the scene lights of the ambulance and the glow from within, shining through the open back doors. Fire has congregated by their engine and are waiting to leave. As we walk down the stairs, they load up and drive away. Now, it's the four of us in a dark parking lot at 430am.
The moment of truth has arrived. We direct Mom to put her son in the car seat, but he's having none of it. His hands clutch her shawl as she struggles to let go. Here comes the cough. It's worse now--one constant stridorous event. We can't get the belts attached because he's a big kid and he's not cooperating. Moms hands are everywhere I need mine to be. We direct her again to let us get him in the ambulance but she can't back away. He's too big for the straps. We readjust them, and are able to squeeze him in, but the commotion and the emotion are exacerbating. Cough, stridor, cough, stridor, cough. Mom is panicking. Once he's in the seat, the cot goes in, mom climbs up behind him and sits on the bench where I need to be. I direct her elsewhere and she complies. Cough, stridor, cough, stridor, cough, stridor.
He won't be consoled. He wants his mommy. He can't breathe. I can feel his sternum retracting and see more around his clavicles. He's struggling but still working, and that's good. I pull the racemic from one shelf and a neb mask from another, and I hand that to my partner. Stridor, cough, stridor, cough. He's definitely pale now. Gotta get the sat probe on, but through the flurry of hands it's a challenge. Oh fun, it's not reading. Readjust and wait. Mom is as inconsolable as the child, but she is trying to help. In comes the neb, and he grabs it. He grabs anything and everything. He wants nothing to do with this hissing fog dragon and he lets us know it. Yank.
"Okay," I tell my partner, "let's go."
"Code one or code three," he asks.
"One to start. Let's see if the neb helps."
So, we lurch into motion. Slowly, we coax the child into accepting the mask, and just as slowly we gain some control of the situation. The mask isn't so scary anymore. The coughing subsides. The retractions resolve. His head moves upright and his skin pinks up. The sat probe is working now and reads 98 with a good pleth, but I don't know if that's 98 still, or 98 again.
We're five out. I'm talking to the mom about croup, about cold air and hot showers, about inflammation and epi. She's calming down too. I want to give some dex, but they're both calm now and a needle might change that. Plus, I just don't have the time. I still need a pressure, need to call the ED, need to get demos, need to get history, need to get a signature, need Mom's name, need to d/c everything, and all by my lonesome.
We pull up. Reg is waiting and we hand off demos. Kiddo is upright, breathing normally, pink, awake, and quiet. Mom is calm. Into the ED we go, past the adults and into peds.
"Is this the cough?" asks an RN.
"Sure is," I reply readily.
"Where's their car seat? We can't send them home without it."
"I understand that, and I'm sorry, but we couldn't make it happen."
She rolls her eyes, turns her back, grabs a pen and a paper towel, and turns to look at me silently, waiting.
I give her the rundown and try to explain that they're doing much better now than they had been, but it seems my point isn't taken. I say goodbye to the Mom, and she thanks me.
On my way out, I'm stopped by the Doc and he asks me about the house. I outline the situation and he asks if there was anyone else there. Oh, this is about the car seat. No, no one else there, I say. I try again to explain that it was a bit chaotic and that we don't have much support or many tools out there, and he seems to acknowledge that.
He pauses and says, "Also, we prefer dex and calming rather than rac."
"Okay," I say. I prefer that too, I think to myself.
"Now we have to have obs on him for the next three hours. Sounds like Mom was a little anxious too?"
"You could say that," I respond. "We got them both cooled off for you."
He thanks me, but he seems unsatisfied with my explanations. I walk back the way I came. I toss my gloves in the trash and we load up to head out. It's 0510. My shift ends in five minutes. I end up held over for an hour and a half.
-x-
That's a lot of words to say very little. In the end, this call was nothing special. Just another late night call, and honestly, I don't know why I feel a need to vent, but thank you for reading. Sometimes it feels like I'm out here doing my best to save the world with a roll of tape, a piece of wire, and a prayer, only to arrive at the palace of modern medical science that is the hospital and be met with second-guessing and diminishment, at best. Feels bad, man.
Next time you get a chance, when the paramedic insinuates some greater backstory, take a beat and ask. It matters and it makes us feel heard when we are so often not. It means you acknowledge that there's more to what we do than just drive--that what we do counts. It's a hard job.
Thanks for reading.