Lachrymatory 1/3

lach·ry·ma·to·ry

1 : of, pertaining to, or causing the shedding of tears

2 : a small, narrow-necked vase found in ancient Roman tombs, formerly thought to have been used to catch and keep the tears of bereaved friends

“Tears are the silent language of grief.”  Voltaire

We’ve been sitting here in the rig, parked deep in the hood, for the last 25 minutes. Scottie is playing a word game on his iPhone and I’m checking e-mail and reading EMS blogs on my iPad. There’s an assault going on six blocks from us but there are no police officers on scene yet so we have to stage here until they tell us it’s safe to enter. It’s been raining all day and the wipers are on delay; going off every few seconds to wipe the rain from the windshield.

“Anything new in the notes?” Scottie doesn’t even look up from the game.

Glancing over at the mobile data terminal (MDT) in the center console I see that nothing has changed. “No, still no PD on scene.” It’s unbelievable to me that an assault can continue for a half hour and the police are stretched so thin that they don’t have the manpower to respond. I wish the city council members who voted to lay off the officers six months ago could spend the day with us and see what their decision is costing the public.

At the 30 minute mark the MDT finally shows that two officers have arrived on scene and five minutes later we are cleared to enter. We pull up at the same time as the fire engine who was staging on the other side of the incident. We ran a call with this crew earlier in the day and they were a good group. Walking up to the corner I smell the fresh scent of rain. It’s refreshing how it washes down the hood and makes it a little more pleasant but even the rain can’t change the fact that it’s a dangerous neighborhood.

The officer walks up to me and points to a young woman in tears standing by his car. “Just one vic – looks like a domestic, assaulted with closed fists.”

She’s crying and breathing fast but otherwise she looks okay at first glance; no blood and she’s able to walk and move all extremities. I look over at the LT on the engine and tell him I can handle it so they can clear and go on to the next call. As the engine is pulling away I walk my patient to the ambulance and she climbs in to sit on the gurney.

As I’m doing my regular checks of vitals and cataloging wounds the officer pops his head in the back door. “Hey, can you guys hang out here for a few? My crime scene tech is in a really bad mood and doesn’t want to go to the hospital for photos”

I slam the ice pack into my knee to activate it and hand it to my new patient to apply to her facial swelling, along with a few tissues to wipe away the tears. “Yeah, no problem, I’ve still got a little to do here and she’s pretty much stable.”

As I continue my assessment the officer is standing in the back door of the rig and questioning my patient, Anika. I listen in and start to get the story of what happened. She’s a foster kid who ran away from home with her adult boyfriend. She’s been living with him for the last few months. Today he was angry and he took it out on her by hitting her in the head, stomach, back, and kicking her when she fell to the floor. She’s more emotionally distraught than physically hurt – all of the injuries are pretty minor. As she’s telling the story the other officer walks up with a gun. That is exactly why we were staging until the scene was secure…

“When he was beating you down did you ever see this gun?” With a cracking voice and uncontrolled tears she tells him no. The officer is looking for anything that would increase the charges on the assailant. Possession of a firearm during the commission of a crime would increase the time he spends behind bars.

Anika asks the officer, “How long is he going away for?” She’s scared yet also conflicted.

“We’ve got him on an outstanding warrant and firearm possession but you need to press charges for the assault to stick.” Anika is holding the ice pack to her quickly swelling face and eye while shaking her head. She doesn’t want to press charges. “Look, I’ve seen this before, it just gets worse; the next time he’s really going to hurt you. You didn’t do anything wrong and you don’t deserve this. It’s not okay to treat a woman this way. You need to help put this guy away so he doesn’t hurt you or anyone else. I’m telling you; it’s going to get ugly next time.”

I’m tracking her respirations on the monitor so I can see a wave form for each breath she takes. The wave form is getting smaller and the duration between breaths is getting shorter – she’s starting to hyperventilate. The officer is pushing her a little hard but it’s for her own good. We all know where this kind of thing will lead. We’ve all seen the final outcome and it really is as ugly as the officer said it would be.

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~ by KC on November 7, 2010.

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