Blinded By the Light...

Wrapped up like a douche. Dressed up like a dude. Wrecked up like Medusa. Knocked up like a douchebag.

Okay, so misheard lyrics don't have much to do with anything here, but since I blatantly stole the song's title for this post, there ya go.

Anyway, we get sent to a cardiac arrest in the world's tiniest apartment.  We arrive at scene and climb the three flights of stairs (of course) to access the patient's residence.  I walk in to find two beat cops working the patient up in the smallest kitchen in the history of humanity.  Seriously, this thing is so narrow we can't get an 18" backboard in to the patient.  The cop controlling the patient's airway is squatting and grimacing like a catcher that should have left home plate 3 or 4 innings ago, but he mans up and volunteers to stay there while we move the patient from the patient to the outside breezeway, which is the only place we can work without claustrophobia and/or furniture and walls getting in our way.

The cop doing compressions gets out of the way to help us make access and take over treatment. I straddle the patient to take over compressions while we evaluate the quickest and easiest way to move our patient.  Due to the close quarters and our inability to get the backboard to the patient, we decide to just drag the patient outside.  With the plan made, I feel like things should finally start to move a little more smoothly.

That's when the kitchen light burns out and we are plunged into darkness. 

Awesome. 

I decide to stand up and stop compressions for a moment to pull out a flashlight. The cop behind me had the same idea at the same time, though, and, believing that I was still straddling the patient and doing compressions, pulled out his 6 cell Maglite. He snapped it toward his partner like he was deploying an ASP (watch this video if you're not sure what that means) just as I stood up.

I heard the thud as the light crashed into my skull. My vision dimmed, the stars came out, and I almost fell over. BAD times.

So the cop apologizes profusely, I attempt to clear my head, and we finish running the call. 

Our patient, an elderly frequent flier with an extensive medical history, died in the ICU the next morning without ever regaining consciousness. If he had one of those Hollywood style out of body experiences while we worked the arrest, hopefully he got a chuckle at me getting clobbered by the Maglite as he walked toward his own light.

A couple of Excedrin later and I felt like myself again. Oh, and as a huge bonus, the cop brought me a hard hat and a quart of cookie dough ice cream. I'm sure we'll be laughing about the incident for a long time. He even drew me (on a napkin, no less) a cruder version of this:

 Good times.