There’s so much to write about… I don’t really know where to start. To tell the truth…

There have been two things that have kept me away. One is online burnout and the other is fulfilling my obligations as a National park service Rranger and firefighter… I’m done with all that for now, and I can settle down to write again.

And, with what’s going on in my life…I desperately need to.

To all of you who I’ve left in the unknown…I’m sorry. I can’t say anymore than that. Some things are just so painful, you have to deal with them on your own.

Rod’s fine. Dogs are fine.

More later.

It’s the call none of us want to take, and all of us know we will eventually have to face at some point during our careers. We just hope that when the time comes, when it’s someone we love on the line, that we can do our jobs with professionalism, that we can do what needs to be done without hesitation and without our emotions getting in the way. None of us wants to take that call. None of us wants to see our loved one in the mangled wreckage of an automobile… And yet, we know, as we serve every day in our cities and towns, that at some point, we will see someone we know, someone we love and we will be called upon to work the most excruciating call of our lives.

We weren’t doing anything. We were just sitting around bullshitting when the alert tones went off. An accident. EMTs responded, as customary. It was simply called in as “a car accident, injuries unknown,” so it was perfectly normal for the EMTs to go out first. Not long after, we, the ALS boys were being called out. Here’s what I found.

I found a hysterical firefighter-EMT attempting to intubate a teenage girl. As I got closer to the patient, I saw the reason for his hysteria. It was his own daughter. One of the other EMTs tried to get him to move away and ended up flat on his back. After a third failed attempt to intubate, I gently moved my friend of ten years aside and intubated his little girl.

We lost her in the rig on the way to the trauma center. I shocked her and re-established a good cardiac rhythm.

I called the ER and told them we had a thirteen-year-old girl coming in who’d arrested and had a closed head injury. Once we got her to the ER and I filled out the paperwork, I went to wait with my friend. We didn’t have to wait long. The doctor came out and told my friend the words I never thought I’d hear.

“Your daughter has a closed head injury and is not responding to noxious stimuli. I’m sorry to say that she is brain dead.”

I’m sorry to say is stuch a stock phrase. It is as useless as any words are in that situation… the sound that escapes my friend is a primordial one…inhuman…animalistic. I put my arms around him and he clings to me as if drowning. My vision starts to blur as the tears come.

This morning, my friend announces that he’s retiring. He’s gone on his last call.

I feel the need to celebrate the life of a girl, and the career of a friend.

I can’t help but feel empty…

Death in a convalescent Home

We’re called for a teen not breathing. The address is a convalescent home. It makes no sense.

Then we pull up. There is a car parked askance by the entrance, two front doors and a back door open. The engine still running.

In the front lobby two nurses and a police officer kneel over a small body– a boy of maybe ten years. One nurse does chest compressions, while the other
holds the bag valve mask over the boys face and tries to breathe for him. The police officer attaches a defibrillator.

I kneel down by the head. The robotic voice from the defibrillator says, “No shock advised. Check pulse. If no pulse, continue CPR.”

The boy is lifeless. I feel for a pulse. None.

My partner Rod attaches the cardiac monitor to the patient while I take out my airway kit.

I slip the tube into his throat. I glance up at the monitor. Asystole. Flat line.

I look at his arms for a vein. I see nothing, so I take out an IO bone needle. I pull back his pant leg, swab his tibia, then twist the needle down hard
like a screw. It pops as it goes through the bone.

I push epi and atropine. No response.

“What happened,” I ask now.

His parents were driving by, a nurse says. They brought him in, he wasn’t breathing. They said he wasn’t feeling well today. We started coding him right
away.

I look up at a woman sitting in a chair, looking glazed. A man stands behind her, no hand on her shoulder. Then I notice a silent row of residents in their
wheelchairs in a semicircle around us.

I see in my head this scene from above. Us kneeling around a lifeless child, trying to make his heart beat and to fill his lungs with air. The honor guard
of the aged around us. The scene gets smaller and smaller as the camera view goes up through the roof, through the night clouds and up into the stars.

Hi all,

I hope this evening finds you well in spirit, if not pain free.

As many of you know, my ortho doctor decided not to give me any post-op pain
meds, feeling that I could get by wwith what I had at home. I have a very high
drug tolerance, and a very low pain threshhold, and even though I take some of
the strongest opioids, if I have a new pain problem come up, or get into a bad
Lupus/Spondylitis flare, my nine pain meds can’t fight the battle…

An old doctor friend of mine Doctor Dominique, who is in my group and who has
agreed to take over my primary care, gave me some Norco. She gave me 100, and
she guessed, with me taking 12 a day, 2 every 4 hours, that I’d run out pretty
quickly. She hoped that my post-op pain would be somewhat diminished after the
first week and I’d be able to get by.

Saturday, I called her and told her just how bad it was. My knee was swollen up
to the size of a soccer ball, I couldn’t walk on it and nothing, and I do mean
nothing, was doing any good. She commiserated with me, and told me as she was
on her way out to Quebec, where she is from and also has a practice, (she
rotates), to go to ER if I needed.

I, not wanting to bother anyone, just suffered. Sunday passed in the same sort
of haze, but today, the pain was even worse and my blood pressure, which tends
to skyrocket when I’m in severe pain, was in the stroke out region…
Reluctantly, I called in an ambulance crew.

Now, it’s always been embarrassing to me, when a medic like me, and I’m a good
medic if I do say so myself, (my colleagues agree), has to call for a rig. My
friends were available and were going to take me but they were a few miles away,
so they sent a fire truck to sit with me and monitor my BP…

This was part of the same fire crew that had given me a hard time last time
about my service dog. I did have them written up. I apologized, and they both
agreed that they’d deserved the write-up.

As senior medic in our corps, I have some clout.

So, finally, the ambulance got there and Dewey and I were whisked away to the
hospital. I decided to go to the same hospital which had performed the surgery,
seeing as how they would have all my records and everything.

We get there, and they put me in the waiting room. I raise holy H*** . I say,
“No way are you sticking me in this waiting room to wait for hours when I could
have a blood clot.” My friend Jeff, one of the medics who brought me in, went
over to the desk and the nurse said to bring me to triage.

After giving me the third degree on why I took nine schedule II meds and why
they were not working for me, and why I didn’t have most of my injectables, (I
am given a supply of injectables, if I use them as I normally do, I don’t run
out early, but if I use them as prescribed, I run out a day or two early). I
don’t ask for early refills. I explained that the reason I was out of my
Fentanyl and Demerol injections was that I am due to get them on wednesday, and
I had permission from my pain doc to up my dose if I needed because of surgery.

Finally, Dewey and I are taken into a room and another nurse comes in. She,
too, gives me the third degree. Then she rips the bandages off my incisions,
(nice of her), and says, “They’re not draining, your leg is bruised but not that
swollen).

I said, “Oh yeah, watch this!” and I hopped off the stretcher. As soon as I
did, my knee began to swell, within a few minutes, it was the size of a
softball, that being the swelling. She said, “Oh my God, I guess you are in
pain, you poor thing. I’ll go get Doctor J.”

She leaves and I wait a while. By this time, I’m slipping out of consciousness
and a man, who I assumed was the doctor, comes in and said he had some pain
patches for me, where did I want them. I said, “pain patches? What kind?”
Imagine a drunken slur and you’ve got it about right.

He said, “Fentanyl, you take fentanyl.”

I mumbled that I did but by injection. He explained that they didn’t have
fentanyl injection in the ER. So, I got two 75 mcg patches on my right arm.
Then he taped them down. He warned me that they may take a few hours to really
kick in. I told him I was a paramedic and wasn’t stupid. Thank God, he took it
with good humor.

Then, the doctor comes in, and he talks about giving me something for pain. I
explained that I had already been given Fentanyl patches, and then he said he
wanted to do an ultrasound of my leg to make sure there was no blood clot.
There wasn’t.

After that, they let me go home. It was obvious that I was still in pain, and I
didn’t know this until I got home, but the doc had given Rod, who had come to
get me, some Fentanyl for breakthrough pain called actiq, which is a losenge on
a stick… Rod had two of them, since the doc told him it could be several
hours before the patch began to work…

Everyone there was so impressed with Dewey and how well he behaved. He made me
proud. I can’t wait until my Dobermann in training, Demon, can be the same way.

So, that’s my story, and…I’m sticking to it, or rather, it’s sticking to me!

–
Dodge

 Ok, I know you are all just dying to know what happened during the Dodge at Surgery Show… NOOOOOOOT. So, I’ll tell ya.

It went something like this. Rod took me and two books. One for him about telivision, and one for me called Leaderdogs for the Blind: Whither Thou Goest,
about the forming of that particular guide dog school. Why? You ask? Because I have been active in training dogs for service/guide and protection/law
enforcement work, as well as detection, search and rescue and competition, since I was 12, and it was my first thorough reading on the subject… And one
of my favorite books still today!

We had to wait for a looooooong time. Apparently doctor was behind. We made it to chapter 4. This book is out of print and was written in 1982, but if
you are a serious dog person, get it, read it, take notes!

Anyway, finally, they brought me back into a room. There was the usual changing into a gown stuff, which Rod had to help me with, because they wouldn’t
let me take my morning meds, no other docs have ever had a problem with me taking an opioid injection a couple hours before surgery. Then I was ready.

One of the nurses came in and gave me two pills, both for my stomach, then, they took me to “the Holding Area”. And I’m like thinking what the hell did
I do wrong?

While I’m there the first nurse who comes up to me starts talking to me about my service dog. I’m like how do you know I have one? I ask. She says they
wrote him, and his name and breed in my chart, along with how beautiful he is. She even let me see it. I had not brought him up there with me. The plan
was for Rod to bring him at the end.

I was then spoken to by the nurse anesthetist. She noted that I was very opioid/drug tolerant. I mentioned it, but she said she was aware, and by the
tone of her voice and her body language, she was. She talked to the circulating nurse and the anesthesiologist who then both came and talked to me. The
anesthesiologist said, “Well, since you didn’t take your meds, we’ll just give you what will get you up to the point as though you had, then, we’ll give
you the extra narcotics for your procedure.” They also gave me some verced, because I was so scared I was shaking. I wasn’t scared long. I received
that, plus Dilaudid and Fentanyl.

After giving me”enough narcotics to kill a horse” and being surprised that I was still chattering like a magpie on a sunny day, the anesthesiologist was
about to order me to have more, when the doctor said he was ready. this meant I got them on the move.

Flashback to the age of two, and when I had an organ transplant… A big room…bright lights…no one telling me a thing and them just slapping that mask
over my face and me freaking out.

This time, at least they warned me, and honestly, I was too relaxed and pain-free to care. I had nice pain free thoughts.

… … … … .. … … … …

I was “Mary”. I was dying. They told me I couldn’t go home because I was dying… I was very upset.

… … … … .. … … … …

I woke up. I found out later that there had been a Mary in the room. She had coded and slipped away. She was 99.

She gave it her best shot, but obviously, it was time for her to come home.

First thing I noticed upon waking was THAT I HURT! There was a nurse right there who asked me if I was in pain and I said yes, and immediately, I was given
some morphine. Again, “Enough to kill a horse.” It last a little over an hour and again…same dose.

The second thing I noticed is that I was freezing…I was covered with blankets. The third thing I noticed was… I had to pee. They bring me this bedpan
and I’m like, “Heck no, I can walk to a bathroom.” Nope. Well, I finally gave up on that, since they wouldn’t cath me or let me sit up and peeing lying
down is against my instincts. Probably against yours, too. Yeah, I know, I’m being gross, here. No more gross, I promise.

Finally, I was ready to go back downstairs. I did and I basically waited around a while, but this time I got to see Rod! I was so happy to see him.!
I was also happy to see Dewey Mooey who lapped my face with kisses, and bumped my knee…twice!

Then, finally…finally…Finally… They brought me a wheelchair and I was able to do what nature intended. Thank you God!

More waiting and I got to leave.

While I was in recovery, and Rod was speaking to the doctor, Rod tried to explain to the man about chronic pain patients, breakthrough pain, etc, etc, and
that all these meds I take only help me deal with the myriad oooooos and ows I face every day, and there are a lot of them, not knew ones that might crop
up…He wouldn’t budge.

Not to worry, Dodge was prepared. Dodge thought ahead, and he did get some post op pain meds…just not from his surgeon. Thank you Doctor D!

I got out of there and was so hungry I could have eaten an elephant, so after stopping at my favorite place for take out, I came home, where I ate and have
been resting ever since.

I’d like to thank all those who gave me courage, all those who prayed, with the help of whatever deity, and all those who’ve helped me out… You know who you are.

You all call me “hero”. Ahhh, but you are wrong. It is your random acts of invisible kindness — a cyberhug here, a phone call there, an offer of help here, etc, that make *YOU* the real heroes.

I love you all…More than words can say. You, you are my reason for living.

–Dodge

WARNING:

THIS POST WILL CAUSE YOUR SIDES TO SPLIT!!!!!!

Due to a power outage, only one paramedic, me and a driver, responded to the call. The house was very dark so I asked Kristen, a 3-yr-old girl to hold a flashlight
high over her mommy so I could see while I helped deliver the baby.

Very diligently, Kristen did as she was asked. Mommy pushed and pushed and after a little while, Bryan was born.. I slowly lifted him by his little
feet and spanked him on his bottom.

Bryan began to cry.

I then thanked Kristen for her brave help and asked the wide-eyed 3-yr-old what she thought about what she had just witnessed.

Kristen quickly responded, “He shouldn’t have crawled in there in the first place… Smack his butt again!”

If you don’t laugh at this one, there’s no hope for you!

Cecil Williamson – West Country Witchcraft – 1 of 2

Cecil Williamson – West Country Witchcraft – 2 of 2

Alex Sanders Witchcraft 1970

Alex Sanders Fire Spirit Ritual

Living the Wiccan Life Episode 14, Raymond Buckland

Janet and Stewart Farrar {nudism}

Thought you would find those interesting.

A man was being tailgated by a stressed out woman on a busy boulevard. Suddenly, the light turned yellow, just in front of him. He did the right thing,
stopping at the crosswalk, even though he could have beaten the red light by accelerating through the intersection.
The tailgating woman was furious and honked her horn, screaming in frustration, as she missed her chance to get through the intersection, dropping
her cell phone and makeup.

As she was still in mid-rant, she heard a tap on her window and looked up into the face of a very serious police officer. The officer ordered her to
exit her car with her hands up.

He took her to the police station where she was searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a holding cell. After a couple of hours, a policeman
approached the cell and opened the door. She was escorted back to the booking desk where the arresting officer was waiting with her personal effects.

He said, ”I’m very sorry for this mistake. You see, I pulled up behind your car while you were blowing your horn, flipping off the guy in front
of you and cussing a blue streak at him. I noticed the ‘What Would Jesus Do’ bumper sticker, the ‘Choose Life’ license plate ho lder, the ‘Follow Me
to Sunday-School’ bumper sticker, and the chrome-plated Christian fish emblem on the trunk,

so naturally…I assumed you had stolen the car.”

Posted in Jokes, Uncategorized Tagged: Funny, Jokes ]]> http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/09/joke-of-the-day/feed/ 1 Dodger http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/the-secondand-final-time-i-got-killed/ http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/the-secondand-final-time-i-got-killed/#comments Sun, 08 Feb 2009 17:53:11 +0000 Dodge http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/?p=122 ]]>


The second, and final time I got killed.

One thing you learn pretty soon after you begin your career in EMS is that those “great” stories you tell at the station don’t necessarily go over very
well during thanksgiving dinner. Mom doesn’t want to hear about how you and your trusty pilot came scant inches from getting incinerated in your helicopter
because you almost hit a power line yesterday. Somehow the thrill of such stories is lost when it’s your son telling you about almost not making it home from work. All this running around getting killed business is pretty easy for the primary character. It’s really exciting stuff and if things go terribly
wrong you’re not left crying over some overpriced wooden box with your favorite person in it, destined to cry through decades of “could have been” birthdays
and lonely Christmases. You’re just…well, dead. While most people agree that it is not at all a good thing to be dead, and I am in wholehearted agreement
with those people, let me tell you, things are not so good for those you leave behind either.

When I recounted the “Dog Story”, (available elsewhere on this blog), to my loving family I was bewildered to discover that they didn’t think it was nearly as funny as my buddies around the station had. They politely smiled and changed the subject. I assured them that my job was very safe, and that they could take comfort in the fact that I’d never risk my keester in such a foolish way again.

The story that follows happened about a week later. Needless to say, I politely ate my dinner and didn’t utter a word of it to them. “How’s work going?”
“Oh, same old stuff. These peas are great, Ma. Did you make these?”

My trusty partner Rod and I were, I’m sure, off somewhere minding our own business when we got a call for a “Possible Poisoning”. When we arrived we found
a shirtless, moderately confused looking young man who was maybe eighteen years old shuffling nervously around his living room. I asked the policeman who’d
preceded us what was happening and he said he didn’t know. My curiosity unquenched, I asked the young man, (we’ll call him Adam), what was going on. Adam
explained that someone had been tainting his food with angel dust. The words “angel dust” set off a tiny paramedic alarm in the back of my brain. Angel
dust, or PCP is an animal tranquilizer that consumed by humans sometimes makes them insane, invincible and capable of breathtaking feats of strength and
brutality. This is not a good combination. Adam, however, seemed calm enough, so I let it ring. I asked him in my calmest voice, with my best look of passive
concern if he’d like to join me for a nice, quiet ride to the hospital, so that we might ascertain his chemical status and provide him with whatever assistance
he needed. He thought that was a good idea, as he wasn’t feeling quite himself. He just needed to go in his room and get a shirt. Great, I said. No problem.

One of the super, duper most important rules in “The Paramedic and EMT’s Guide to Living through Your Career” is that you should never, ever, let a patient
“go to his room to get something”, because “something” might turn out to be an Uzi. Having learned my lesson the first time I was nearly killed by not
following the advice found in “The Paramedic and EMT’s Guide to Living through Your Career “, I followed Adam into his bedroom.

When I crossed the threshold I wasn’t sure initially if I wanted to rush further in or turn on my heals and run for my life. The walls of the room were
covered from floor to ceiling with symbols, a swastika here, a pentagram there, a lovely demonic saying over by that festive little lamp. The bells were
ringing really loudly now. After carefully considering the “run like hell” option for a few minutes I decided that if I got closer to Adam I could have
a bit more control over what he picked up, and I stepped in to the room. Adam and I found a suitable garment without any trouble and I led him cheerfully
but carefully to the ambulance. As long as nobody threatened him, I thought, things would be okay.

I sat him in the “jump seat”, the backward facing seat at the front of the ambulance, rather than on the stretcher so he wouldn’t feel confined, and off
we went. About half way there we came to a stop at a traffic light. Adam suddenly looked confused. “Where are you taking me?” he asked, politely. “To the
hospital, just like you asked.” I replied, that alarm still ringing the near background of my mind. He seemed to accept this and settled back into his
seat. I settled back in mine and exhaled. What does that stupid old alarm know anyway? He’s cool.

Adam suddenly sprang out of his seat belt and lunging toward me. Shocked, I lurched back. To my surprise he didn’t plow into me, but went right past. “Damn,”
I thought, “he’s going for the door.” I caught Adam around the waist and yelled for my partner. Adam managed to get one door open and we struggled, halfway
inside and halfway outside out the ambulance. Scant inches past my struggling charge I saw the wide-eyed face of the man in the truck behind us. It was
an armored car, and he looked as though he thought the heist was on. He was starting to reach for his gun when Rod arrived at the back door. Rod grabbed
the inside of the door frame so he could lift himself into the back of the ambulance and at just that moment Adam, whose hand was still on the inside door
handle, slammed the door on Rod’s hand. In doing this he lost is, (our?) balance and we both tumbled to the floor. Just as I was about to reacquire a grip
on things I felt what I thought must have been someone smashing my guts flat. It was Rod, jumping on top of our unruly guest, who was, as it turns out,
on top of me. Funny things occur to you at times like these, and my thought at that moment was “What the hell did the guard think he was going to do with
a gun from inside an armored car?” Just then Al and Adam rolled far enough off of me that I could move again and I was able to joined Rodin the battle
to restrain Adam.

Adam was a skinny guy and we had him two to one, so we managed, after a protracted battle to get him under control. We got him on the stretcher and tightly
applied all three seatbelts. Having exerted himself mopping the floor with both of our asses, he settled in for a bit of rest and returned to his former
calm self. We were scant minutes away from the hospital, so we elected to rush toward more help rather than try and wrestle him into restraints on our
own. We knew from past experience that the sight of restraints would probably incite him to more posterior enhanced housekeeping. I sat at the foot of
the stretcher, between him and the door, looking menacing, or as menacing as I could while trying to catch my breath.

He stayed calm for a few minutes and then looked at me and said the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever heard anyone say in my life. He said, “…so, do you
want me to blow you, or what”

My heart fell. Suddenly I understood. This kid had gotten mixed up in some bad drugs with some bad people who had used him for unspeakably bad things. I
wanted to cry. “No”, I said. “We’re taking you to get some help. You’re going to be okay.” This kid had suddenly been transformed in my mind from a threat,
from an enemy, to a scared, hurt kid. Ten minutes later, I was a scared kid too.

We took him into the hospital, found him a bed and, more difficult, found a nurse who could take report on him. I told her all I knew. The factual information
didn’t boil down to much. As I closed I added that she really needed to put leather restraints on him, as he was likely to be dangerous. The nurse looked
behind us to see our “dangerous” patient filling out paperwork for the registration clerk. She gave me a disapproving glare and walked back to her patient.
“What a jerk.” She didn’t quite say. I shrugged and walked over to a desk to do my paperwork.

A few minutes later I heard yelling coming from where I’d left my new friend and knew just what had happened. Adam had freaked. I jumped up and went over
to help. The nurse and a tech were fighting a touch and go battle to restrain Adam’s left hand while he pummeled them with all of his remaining free appendages.
Rod, my trusty partner was suddenly at my side, and with the help of another tech and the just arrived policeman from Adam’s’s house we joined the battle.
Adam was not interested in capitulating this time. He was giving all six of us a run for our money. I grabbed his legs just above the knees to keep him
from finishing the job of kicking the stuffing out of the nurse. Rod held Adam’s head in order to keep him from biting anyone, not least Rod himself. As
I concentrated on my knee holding technique I heard those four little words you never want to hear from a police officer. He said, “He’s got my gun!”

It was at this point that things became a bit more serious. I looked, reluctantly, in the direction of the officer’s service pistol. I was a little
relieved to see still partly in it’s holster. Adam’s right hand was wrapped around the grip of the gun, the veins in his forearm bulging as he began lifting
the cop off the ground by the barely holstered gun. The cop had both of his hands on top of Adam’s; struggling to keep his gun in the holster “Adam must
be killed” was my first thought.

I let go of his legs. I suddenly didn’t care who he kicked. Kicking suddenly wasn’t that big a deal. I grabbed Adam’s forearm with both hands and began
forcing his arm back down toward the bed, the officer descending with it. I’m not, I wouldn’t say, a violent person. I wait patiently in the 10 items or
less line while the guy in front of me tallies enough frozen vegetables to feed the third world for a few months without so much as a sneer. At this moment,
though, struggling for a loaded handgun in an ER full of nurses, patients, children, and me, my heart knew violence. “If that gun clears that holster,”
I thought, “I’m going to have to break Adam’s arm”. Just then the cop, his training returning to him, twisted away from Adam, applying some strange Asian
finger hold that caused Adam to howl in pain and, more importantly, release the gun.

“Get this red headed m*&^%$ f&^^%$ off of me.” He screamed. Relief at the sight of Adam’s now empty hand turned to curiosity and I turned toward Adam’s
head. When I did, I saw less than half of it. Rod, my red haired partner, was all but standing on Adam’s head, the weight pushing most of it into the soft
mattress and out of view. Rod yelled back “Nobody’s letting go of anything until YOU settle down, damn it!” I smiled at him, my hands still firm on Adam’s
arm, and then laughed. He looked at me like for a second, puzzled, and then he laughed too. Then we all laughed. Adam, confused by our laughter and a bit
tired from nearly killing us all, relaxed and was quickly restrained beyond all hope of escape.

Once I got over the rush that one gets from fighting for one’s life and surviving unscathed, a strange thought occurred to me. Things, I thought, aren’t
always black and white. Moments ago I would have broken Adam’s arm without a regret, moments before that I was ready to weep for his lost soul. What I
felt afterward was something different. Adam had nearly killed me, and others, and I would have done a great deal to stop him, including kill him. At the
same time, I knew why he’d done these things. He was lost, confused and scared beyond my ability to understand what scared is. He’d tried to kill me and
it was okay. He’d been lost, and I could forgive him for that. I shook my head, marveling at my new insight, and went back to my paperwork. This story,
I thought, was definitely not going be invited to dinner. “Great peas, Ma. Did you make these?”

Adam was a run-away. The nurse found his father, and he came and got his lost son. I don’t know where Adam is now. I hope he is well.

Posted in EMS, Paramedic, Paramedicine Tagged: Run-Away ]]> http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/the-secondand-final-time-i-got-killed/feed/ 2 Dodger http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/playing-games-am-i/ http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/playing-games-am-i/#comments Sun, 08 Feb 2009 09:53:23 +0000 Dodge http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/?p=120 ]]>


A certain poster on a certain yahoo group requested that I not answer their posts anymore. I will not. I no longer have any respect for this person, so have no desire to.

However, this is my blog and I can say whatever I like here, so if you don’t want to read it, why don’t you just move right along.

I posted a particular post that I realize was possibly inflamatory. I posted it because it felt like to me, ad if two lists I both enjoyed were being compared. What I said in the post is unimportant. The fact of the matter is, I did not know the backstory, and once I learned the backstory, I apologized again and again.

Apparently, this one person feels that I did notthing but come to the group to “start shit” and then had the nerve to threaten me.

That was not my intent. I specifically stated that I wasn’t posting what I did to make enemies and a simple, “I’m proud of where our group’s at” from the other poster would have cleared the air..

The poster is right. I probably should have asked questions, before jumping in with an accusation, but a person coing on board to “start shit” doesn’t apologize. Since this person was also in another group with me, this person knows that I do not “start shit”, but this person is allowed to think whatever they want.

Since that person obviously feels that I :started shit” and am a bullshit artist, I will be removing myself from the group.

–Dodge

Posted in Chronic Pain, I believe, Life Tagged: bullshit, Games, high school, yahoo group ]]> http://jumpthis.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/playing-games-am-i/feed/ 0 Dodger