Profanity, too

Thanks to Sam over at On the Clock for getting me thinking about this topic.

I curse as well at midnight-thirty in the morning when I'm being dispatched to... well... whatever. It doesn't matter what I'm dispatched to. I curse.

I'm not a sailor, so I can't curse like one. But I can curse like an irritated volunteer firefighter, which is near close to a sailor, I'd wager.

My old partner would be rolling on the floor at the string of curses (including my favorite "fuckin'-fuckity-fuck-fuck") coming from my mouth. I could hear her exploding in laughter in the next room over. And the string of profanities would continue while I walked to the ambulance, got into the driver's seat, and drove to the call, pausing only to key the mic. Only when I would open the driver's door and step out, would the cursing stop and the game face go on.

You see, I value sleep. I have an early bed time at work: 2100 hours. I like to maximize my head-to-pillow time because I never know when I'll be up, or what I'll be doing. Even with this forethought, this planning, I'm still highly irritable when I'm up after midnight.

Heaven forbid we be dispatched to an abdominal pain at three-thirty in the morning. I would diagnose it as "I can't fucking poop!" before even rolling out of bed. An unconscious male at four-thirty was "a fucking drunk dumbass!" And a male with chest pain at the jail at two-fifteen was "fucking handcuff-induced chest pain because he doesn't want to spend the night in jail! Fuck!" (For those of you that keep up with my blog, the F-bomb rule only applies when there are patient's in around.)

And Ms. Dominguez, the 79-year-old female with abdominal pain that hasn't pooped in 5-days, but is now deciding it's a problem at three-thirty in the morning--we'll be medivaning her back to the raisin ranch three hours after dropping her off in the ER, with a prescription of Milk of Magnesia in hand.

So last night, shortly after my head had hit the pillow, the tones went off.

"Medic 1, respond code 1, Raisin Estates for non-emergent transport."

The profanity started low in my stomach, accompanied by this deep, ugly feeling about wanting to do serious harm to care facility nurses.

"Medic 1 responding," my partner keyed the mic after we got into the rig.

"Copy, en route Medic 1. Be advised, patient requesting Columbia hospital. Dispatch clear at 0337."

"That's another 20 god-damn miles! For fuck's sake!"

And without missing a beat, my partner turns to me, "um... can I say that on the radio?"

I still love my job.