"Boy,

that looks bad!" is a good indicator that you need to go to the hospital,

especially when you hear the phrase repeatedly.

That's right,

faithful reader; last week Mr. Safety here took a tumble and then got

to ride in an ambulance. Not just any ambulance, mind you, but one of

the big red and white ones from my place of work. No, I wasn't driving

this time. I was riding in the back, and trust me, I'm a difficult patient.

"Boy,

that looks bad!" During the last 14 years in the fire service, I've

seen a lot of that. I've transported many patients in the back of my ambulance,

but I never thought I'd be one of them. Okay, so it's not really my ambulance;

it belongs to the county. They just let me drive it every third day.

Many years

ago, I had to make a decision about whether or not to move out of this

county. I decided to stay in this land of monster houses, over-priced

real estate and 10,000 golf carts for two reasons. The first is a very

obvious one; we have one of the best school systems in Georgia and, might

I add, some of the best teachers to go along with it. The second reason

I stayed in this county is because of the Fire and Emergency Medical Services.

It's no secret

where I work. Just look at the byline at the bottom of this article. So

pardon me if I'm a tad bit biased, but these folks I work with are good

at what they do ­ really good. I've worked with them, fought fire

with them, joked with them, and fed them (yes, Mr. Safety here is a good

fire house cook) and have always been impressed with the professionalism

of how they treat a patient. Just never thought I'd be one.

"Boy,

that looks bad!" is what The Boy said when he saw my elbow swollen

twice its normal size. We were right around the corner from the fire department,

so he drove me there. Ya know, that kid's becoming more useful everyday.

"Boy,

that looks bad!" is not what I heard when I walked into the office

at the fire department. Instead the firefighters, EMT's and paramedics

sprang into action like I had seen a hundred times before. They assessed

my injury, and helped me into the ambulance where they gave me further

treatment.

The Lt. on

duty instructed one of the paramedics to cut off my shirt. When I objected

(being the difficult patient that I am), he smiled at me and said, "Don't

worry, Rick. I'll buy you a new one." Cool! A trip to the hospital,

a needle in the back of the hand and a new shirt! This is my lucky day.

On the way

to the local hospital, the paramedic called in and gave his report to

the doctor. Then he looked at me and asked if he could do anything else

to make me feel comfortable. I said, "Yes, take this needle out from

the back of my hand and give me another shirt." I told you I was

a difficult patient. He just smiled and said, "We'll be at the hospital

in 5 minutes."

"Boy,

that looks bad!" is not what I really wanted to hear when the nurse

first looked at my elbow ­ now swollen three times its normal size.

The paramedic gave his report to the nurse and told me he would stop back

in and check on me before going back into service. Twenty minutes later,

the emergency room doctor came in, looked at my arm and ordered an x-ray.

When he left the room, the paramedic came back and asked me if I needed

anything before he went back in service. I told him all I needed was another

shirt. Just call me Mister Difficult.

"Boy,

that looks bad!" is what the X-ray technicians said when they saw

my elbow. They set up the machine and told me not to move. One technician

left the room and hid behind a lead wall while the other put on a lead

dress and held my arm still. I asked them why, and they said it was to

protect them from the X-rays. "What about me?" I said, "I'm

the one hurt here. Don't I need protection?" I know I'm a difficult

patient.

The Wife was

waiting back in my room when I returned from X-ray. Showing her my elbow,

I said, "Yeah, I know what your about to say 'Boy that looks bad!'"

She didn't say a word; she just smiled and called Best Friend Mitch and

told him I was hurt again now it's his turn.

Three hours

later, after I was released from the hospital, The Wife dropped me back

told them I'd be out of work for a couple of days but should by okay to

cook after that. (I think they all looked relieved.) The Lt. came in the

room, and I said, "You don't have to buy me a new shirt after all.

While I was at the hospital, they gave me this nice hospital gown to wear."

Don't know why, but when I turned around to leave, they all ran out of

the room.

On a side personal

note: Yesterday marked the two-year anniversary of the largest loss of

firefighters and police officers in a single day. Thank you for your show

of support for these two professions. For those of us who put on the uniform,

it's nice to know that people really do care that our lives are on the

line, something we do every day we go to work.

Today marks

another two year anniversary, one that's neither as somber nor as profound.

This is the 104th article that I have written and I thank The Citizen

and its editor for allowing me to express my opinion here each week. Most

importantly I thank you, the reader, for enduring the many stories of

the kids I grew up with, life at 110 Flamingo Street, The Wife, The Boy,

and my wacky observations of the world around us. I hope you have enjoyed

reading them as much as I have writing them.

[Rick Ryckeley

is employed by the Fayette County Department of Fire and Emergency Services.

He can be reached at [email protected].]