It is easy to forget what is going on "over there" as we all grind through these "tough economic times" and worry about the future of health care or our job or whatever.
A couple of weeks ago, I had lunch 3 other 160th Flight Leads. One currently serving, three retired. I work for EMS brand Y (as in Why did they do That?). Another fellow just took a job with Hermann in Houston. Yet another fellow is going to be a missionary in a foreign land. The active duty guy wants to work in our area when he retires, and hence keeps the communication open. So we have lunch when he is stateside.
So we are sitting there at the Macaroni Grill on a regular day when I ask him about a recent mission in which his chalk two aircraft crashed on departure from a "warm" landing zone. The gist - people were shooting and they were leaving and there was no support anywhere nearby. The zone was typically dusty as all get out, and a 47 really pumps it up. On departure chalk two crashed. Americans died. My buddy in the lead aircraft had to make a decision.
Leave or land.
He says at the lunch table, "I had to go back and look for survivors, any man here would have done the same."
I appreciate his faith but can't help wondering how I would have acted. In my nine years in the seat, I did trash one perfectly good MH-47 under fire, but never had to make a decision like that. After 12 years flying in the "real world" I am also more cynical, more jaded, more aware that it's really all about money here in the U S of A.
He flew back into that dark hell of dust and dirt and blood. They trust the the velocity vector and the acceleration cursor more now-days than we did when I did it. He landed on his system, and did the right thing. And found out the bad news.
Apparently the military isn't quite so generous with awards these days. For what he and his crew did, I would recommend the Medal. He didn't die. We'll see.
So I am sitting there and I can feel the karma flowing out across the table. I am not a big karma guy, but I don't know how else to describe it. Honor? Integrity? Do those words still matter in our country? I sit up a little straighter. I hold my head a little higher. I feel somehow - for just a few moments - elevated. I tell him that. It's the only award I have to offer.
The waitress asks, "will this be together or separate?"
pic
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I wasn't flying with Oscar the day I learned how to hover. He was my primary instructor, but for some reason I was with the IP supervisor. This fellow was an old smoker, had thousands of hours, and had taught many monkeys to fly. He did not favor the technique of taking me to a big field and letting me humiliate and scare myself while gyrating wildly to and fro.
"Let's try ground taxi first" he said. "You have the controls. Use the pedals to keep the nose on the line, put in a bit of forward cyclic, increase collective just until we slide forward on the skids, just a little now!"
As I pulled up on the collective while twisting the throttle at it's end, lift and torque took over from gravity and friction and the nose ground to the right with a jerk and a horrible sound from the skids. I immediately pushed the collective back down without un-twisting the throttle and the engine revved.
"Easy now son. When you move the collective you have to compensate with throttle and pedal, all at once! Try again - and get the nose back straight on the line
Again I pulled, but this time I also pushed my left foot forward. Another grinding sound and a lurch, and we are once again looking straight down the lane. This time I don't move the collective, and I do move my feet, and we sit there quivering with enough power in to make us light but not enough to lift us off the ground.
"Okay, now ease in a bit more forward cyclic. You are doing fine."
I push the cyclic forward just a little, and with a shudder and a lurch, and a grinding sound we slide forward a few inches.
"Very nice! You just taxiied a helicopter."
My head feels as if it is swelling inside my helmet, hotspots from the suspension straps are beginning to burn my scalp, sweat is running into my eyes, and I don't think moving forward a couple of inches is much to feel good about. This is hard.
"Okay, let's do it again, only this time try and keep us sliding that way." He points down the lane. I move the controls again, we begin to slide, and this time I feel how much to move the controls so that we don't stop."
"Very good," he says. "You are taxiing. But you are wearing out my skid shoes. Nice and easy, use a little more power to get us a little lighter on our skids."
I increase collective and throttle and left pedal. The aircraft rocks forward on it's skid toes and I see his hand move toward the cyclic in my periphery. I move the cyclic slightly back and we settle back level, and move forward. The grinding sound is less pronounced. But we are still sliding metal across asphalt.
"This is better, but you are still grinding off the skid shoes. Give me just a bit more power and see what you can do."
I move the controls. The grinding all but stops. We are moving forward about as fast as I would walk, and rocking ever so slightly from corner to corner with accompanying scrapes as first the front then the rear skid ends touch. I can feel this, and without thinking I begin to move the cyclic counter to the rocking.
He says, "if you bring in just a bit more power, you won't drag the skids as much."
I add a tiny bit more power, throttle, and pedal. We move forward smoothly, a couple of inches above the ground.
"Okay, now you know how to ground taxi, and oh by the way, you are hovering!"
I immediately overcontrol and lose all coordination and drop us hard back onto the ground. I am tired already.
He laughs, says "good job" and takes the controls to demonstrate a traffic pattern. I adjust my helmet to ease the burn and try to learn.
I have hovered.
"Let's try ground taxi first" he said. "You have the controls. Use the pedals to keep the nose on the line, put in a bit of forward cyclic, increase collective just until we slide forward on the skids, just a little now!"
As I pulled up on the collective while twisting the throttle at it's end, lift and torque took over from gravity and friction and the nose ground to the right with a jerk and a horrible sound from the skids. I immediately pushed the collective back down without un-twisting the throttle and the engine revved.
"Easy now son. When you move the collective you have to compensate with throttle and pedal, all at once! Try again - and get the nose back straight on the line
Again I pulled, but this time I also pushed my left foot forward. Another grinding sound and a lurch, and we are once again looking straight down the lane. This time I don't move the collective, and I do move my feet, and we sit there quivering with enough power in to make us light but not enough to lift us off the ground.
"Okay, now ease in a bit more forward cyclic. You are doing fine."
I push the cyclic forward just a little, and with a shudder and a lurch, and a grinding sound we slide forward a few inches.
"Very nice! You just taxiied a helicopter."
My head feels as if it is swelling inside my helmet, hotspots from the suspension straps are beginning to burn my scalp, sweat is running into my eyes, and I don't think moving forward a couple of inches is much to feel good about. This is hard.
"Okay, let's do it again, only this time try and keep us sliding that way." He points down the lane. I move the controls again, we begin to slide, and this time I feel how much to move the controls so that we don't stop."
"Very good," he says. "You are taxiing. But you are wearing out my skid shoes. Nice and easy, use a little more power to get us a little lighter on our skids."
I increase collective and throttle and left pedal. The aircraft rocks forward on it's skid toes and I see his hand move toward the cyclic in my periphery. I move the cyclic slightly back and we settle back level, and move forward. The grinding sound is less pronounced. But we are still sliding metal across asphalt.
"This is better, but you are still grinding off the skid shoes. Give me just a bit more power and see what you can do."
I move the controls. The grinding all but stops. We are moving forward about as fast as I would walk, and rocking ever so slightly from corner to corner with accompanying scrapes as first the front then the rear skid ends touch. I can feel this, and without thinking I begin to move the cyclic counter to the rocking.
He says, "if you bring in just a bit more power, you won't drag the skids as much."
I add a tiny bit more power, throttle, and pedal. We move forward smoothly, a couple of inches above the ground.
"Okay, now you know how to ground taxi, and oh by the way, you are hovering!"
I immediately overcontrol and lose all coordination and drop us hard back onto the ground. I am tired already.
He laughs, says "good job" and takes the controls to demonstrate a traffic pattern. I adjust my helmet to ease the burn and try to learn.
I have hovered.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Professional Development....
Darth Tater writes;
The first step toward respect for our profession is not union organization. You're not satisfied being a professional pilot so you want to be more like a teamster? If being a professional pilot doesn't get you a table at the Ritz, what's a union card going to do for you? The path to success is through exertion, not extortion. Compulsory unionization would kill our industry.
I reply;
Darth, I get the idea that you and I disagree on union-organizing of pilots employed by companies. Thats fine by me. I think everyone is entitled to their own opinion, and if yours is different than mine, that doesn't make me smarter or dumber than you. We simply see things differently.
In this regard though, I am not referring to labor-union organization. Here is what I wrote:
I submit that the first steps toward a respected profession as helicopter pilots will be organization followed by legitimate barriers to entry into the profession; such as higher educational and experience levels.
Again, I see similarities between where our profession is today and where medicine was a hundred or so years ago. They had "medical schools" popping up everywhere willy-nilly. Some were two year, some three, some four. Curriculums varied widely. Competing philosophies fought for a place such as Naturopathy and Osteopathy (They squashed the Nats and swallowed the Osteos). It was chaos and no one was making any money. More importantly to society though - the profession wasn't living up to it's potential.
Physicians organized. State Medical Societies begot the American Medical Association, and the AMA et.al. got government to change and enforce the rules.
We could do this. I am not a member of the PHPA, yet, but that may be the avenue forward.
First we have to join forces through a professional association, then we have to decide on standards, then we have to get those standards enforced. This for the good of the profession - not the good of my wallet. It probably won't happen any time soon; as the obstacles are many.
When efforts were underway to organize physicians, it was discovered that there were three segments in the population.
First, there were those who had lucrative careers and didn't see any need for change. They didn't care to improve other's lots, and create competition for themselves.
Second, there were those who were quacks, and didn't want to elevate the work above what they could understand.
Finally, there was the third group who pushed for higher standards and were willing to work harder to live up to them.
It's like that with us. I believe our standards are set too low. I believe the wrong people are setting the standards, and I believe that the people who lose - in the long run - are the people we serve.
The first step toward respect for our profession is not union organization. You're not satisfied being a professional pilot so you want to be more like a teamster? If being a professional pilot doesn't get you a table at the Ritz, what's a union card going to do for you? The path to success is through exertion, not extortion. Compulsory unionization would kill our industry.
I reply;
Darth, I get the idea that you and I disagree on union-organizing of pilots employed by companies. Thats fine by me. I think everyone is entitled to their own opinion, and if yours is different than mine, that doesn't make me smarter or dumber than you. We simply see things differently.
In this regard though, I am not referring to labor-union organization. Here is what I wrote:
I submit that the first steps toward a respected profession as helicopter pilots will be organization followed by legitimate barriers to entry into the profession; such as higher educational and experience levels.
Again, I see similarities between where our profession is today and where medicine was a hundred or so years ago. They had "medical schools" popping up everywhere willy-nilly. Some were two year, some three, some four. Curriculums varied widely. Competing philosophies fought for a place such as Naturopathy and Osteopathy (They squashed the Nats and swallowed the Osteos). It was chaos and no one was making any money. More importantly to society though - the profession wasn't living up to it's potential.
Physicians organized. State Medical Societies begot the American Medical Association, and the AMA et.al. got government to change and enforce the rules.
We could do this. I am not a member of the PHPA, yet, but that may be the avenue forward.
First we have to join forces through a professional association, then we have to decide on standards, then we have to get those standards enforced. This for the good of the profession - not the good of my wallet. It probably won't happen any time soon; as the obstacles are many.
When efforts were underway to organize physicians, it was discovered that there were three segments in the population.
First, there were those who had lucrative careers and didn't see any need for change. They didn't care to improve other's lots, and create competition for themselves.
Second, there were those who were quacks, and didn't want to elevate the work above what they could understand.
Finally, there was the third group who pushed for higher standards and were willing to work harder to live up to them.
It's like that with us. I believe our standards are set too low. I believe the wrong people are setting the standards, and I believe that the people who lose - in the long run - are the people we serve.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Helicopter EMS Pilots Could Make Big Money
If we would respect our profession
Author: rotorflex Date: 11/11/2009 1:32:06 PM Show Orig. Msg (this window) Or In New Window
It would respect us back.
In OAH's post, he correlates medicine to aviation. It wasn't so long ago that medicine was held in pretty low esteem by the average person. The medical profession pulled itself up by it's bootstraps; and while they seem to be self-destructing now, physicians have had a great run.
Does it not strike anyone as ironic that the supposed experts on air medical transport are physicians? Their purview should cover patient care -period. Somehow they now weigh in on all aspects of a profession they know little about.
Airline pilots enjoyed a similar prestige for a few decades, but they were not able to enjoy the benefits of a "legitmate complexity" (Paul Starr's words), and could not create barriers to entry for their profession the way that physicians could. So now you can be an airline pilot with 200 hours and make $16,0000 a year. And for that you pay and strive for a long time. The conditions that lead to poor morale and poor performance within the ranks of airline pilots aren't created by them, but they take the blame for every misstep.
The physician"s "time in the sun" is coming to an end. Have you noticed the direct-to-consumer drug ads (which were not allowed by medical groups for many years) now advise you to consult "your prescriber" about said drugs; no longer do they say "your physician". Inroads are being made into the medical profession, and someday you may see a health care "professional" at your local Wal-Mart who makes $16,000 a year and gives you prescriptions for what ails you.
Flying a helicopter is a complex activity, requiring significant preparation, education, and practice. We have only ourselves to blame for the fact that we enjoy so little wealth and prestige for what we do.
It has been said that the first steps toward nationhood are a common language followed by a common currency. I submit that the first steps toward a respected profession as helicopter pilots will be organization followed by legitimate barriers to entry into the profession; such as higher educational and experience levels.
To borrow a phrase from the medical profession; "no one should come between a helicopter pilot and his passengers"
Author: rotorflex Date: 11/11/2009 1:32:06 PM Show Orig. Msg (this window) Or In New Window
It would respect us back.
In OAH's post, he correlates medicine to aviation. It wasn't so long ago that medicine was held in pretty low esteem by the average person. The medical profession pulled itself up by it's bootstraps; and while they seem to be self-destructing now, physicians have had a great run.
Does it not strike anyone as ironic that the supposed experts on air medical transport are physicians? Their purview should cover patient care -period. Somehow they now weigh in on all aspects of a profession they know little about.
Airline pilots enjoyed a similar prestige for a few decades, but they were not able to enjoy the benefits of a "legitmate complexity" (Paul Starr's words), and could not create barriers to entry for their profession the way that physicians could. So now you can be an airline pilot with 200 hours and make $16,0000 a year. And for that you pay and strive for a long time. The conditions that lead to poor morale and poor performance within the ranks of airline pilots aren't created by them, but they take the blame for every misstep.
The physician"s "time in the sun" is coming to an end. Have you noticed the direct-to-consumer drug ads (which were not allowed by medical groups for many years) now advise you to consult "your prescriber" about said drugs; no longer do they say "your physician". Inroads are being made into the medical profession, and someday you may see a health care "professional" at your local Wal-Mart who makes $16,000 a year and gives you prescriptions for what ails you.
Flying a helicopter is a complex activity, requiring significant preparation, education, and practice. We have only ourselves to blame for the fact that we enjoy so little wealth and prestige for what we do.
It has been said that the first steps toward nationhood are a common language followed by a common currency. I submit that the first steps toward a respected profession as helicopter pilots will be organization followed by legitimate barriers to entry into the profession; such as higher educational and experience levels.
To borrow a phrase from the medical profession; "no one should come between a helicopter pilot and his passengers"
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Interviewing soon. This could be for you...
for what it's worth, here is my take on your upcoming interview...
The DO and CP are actually really good guys. The company is in the midst of huge turmoil right now, and the constant change has everyone trying to figure out what the heck is coming next. People are on edge - from the top to the bottom. Profits are down and heads are rolling.
All this means diddly to you - you just want to earn a paycheck.
Do your best during your interview. Study up on the CFRs. Be slow, deliberate, and humble if they give you a flight eval. Heck, do that anyway.
Do demand at least 55K to start, more for a crappy remote location. You might not get another raise for years, and you will be pissed when you discover that one of your coworkers who got hired after you is making that much, so impress them with your stuff, and hold fast to your salary demand.
If they won't pay that right now, be extremely polite and professional and let them think about it (and you) for a few days. If a week or two goes by and you are panicking, you can always call back and renegotiate starting salary. They are paying for your license, period. You invested an assload of time and money to get it, so don't give it away! This is the voice of experience speaking, I hope you are listening.
Remember that the people you are interviewing with have to pay peanuts (because thats what the owners dictate), and then they (the interviewers) have to deal with the consequences (the monkeys that work there). There is no pay scale, no union, no guarantee that your job won't change for the worse at any moment. Having said that, it is a paycheck that hasn't as-of-yet bounced. The job is mostly determined by who's/what's at your base. If you get there, you won't fly with other pilots, you will fly with nurses and medics. Don't be afraid to ask them to help you. And for God's sake don't scare them. A med crew on your side at an EMS gig makes life livable. A med crew trying to run you off usually succeed.
But I ramble....
Good luck and safe flights.
The DO and CP are actually really good guys. The company is in the midst of huge turmoil right now, and the constant change has everyone trying to figure out what the heck is coming next. People are on edge - from the top to the bottom. Profits are down and heads are rolling.
All this means diddly to you - you just want to earn a paycheck.
Do your best during your interview. Study up on the CFRs. Be slow, deliberate, and humble if they give you a flight eval. Heck, do that anyway.
Do demand at least 55K to start, more for a crappy remote location. You might not get another raise for years, and you will be pissed when you discover that one of your coworkers who got hired after you is making that much, so impress them with your stuff, and hold fast to your salary demand.
If they won't pay that right now, be extremely polite and professional and let them think about it (and you) for a few days. If a week or two goes by and you are panicking, you can always call back and renegotiate starting salary. They are paying for your license, period. You invested an assload of time and money to get it, so don't give it away! This is the voice of experience speaking, I hope you are listening.
Remember that the people you are interviewing with have to pay peanuts (because thats what the owners dictate), and then they (the interviewers) have to deal with the consequences (the monkeys that work there). There is no pay scale, no union, no guarantee that your job won't change for the worse at any moment. Having said that, it is a paycheck that hasn't as-of-yet bounced. The job is mostly determined by who's/what's at your base. If you get there, you won't fly with other pilots, you will fly with nurses and medics. Don't be afraid to ask them to help you. And for God's sake don't scare them. A med crew on your side at an EMS gig makes life livable. A med crew trying to run you off usually succeed.
But I ramble....
Good luck and safe flights.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The best of Just Helicopters - THIS IS EMS
KLANK O'Matic "Don't Eat Lunch with the Med Crew"
Author: Klank repost #5/ Rothrhead173 Date: 5/22/2009 8:36:26 AM
Klank
DON’T EAT LUNCH WITH THE MED CREWSitting down for a nice lunch after our first flight of the day, the conversation turned to the morning events. “Did you get a load of the new nurse in the ER? Man, talk about green”, the medic was telling the nurse. The nurse smiled and said in a very loud voice, “I’ll get the Fully, the life saving Fully”. (I know its spelled wrong, but I’m not asking either. People been asking questions around here) I, wondering what this great miracle of modern science is, asked, “what’s a fully” as I take a big bite out of my sandwich. “It’s the tube that’s put in your dick that goes to the piss bag” the timid little medic replied eating her fries. The nurse with a mouth half full of food says, “Did you see the way she grabbed that poor guys thing, she grabbed it with a grip like my father in-law grabs the last longneck out of the cooler at one of our barbecues and shoved it in so far I thought it was going to come out his ass.” I think I’m full now.Mealtime was always a good time to sit and talk about work. It always seems to bring out all the most morbid details that one encounters in this line of work. I didn’t realize how much crap medical people have to deal with, and I’m not talking about paperwork, restocking the ship, and dealing with all the details of their job. I’m talking about real crap, somehow every one of them has a particular crap story that they have to tell.After some time in the saddle, I got my own crap story to tell one day. While waiting for the crew at the pad for an inter-facility I got a call on the radio to bring the something bag. (They name all their bags) Looking at the ship, I see enough bags to go camping for a week, I call back and ask, “What bag?” after a slight pause I hear “The blue one Klank” Ok, boy am I learning stuff now, wow, the blue bag, must get blue bag to the crew, stat. As I wander around the emergency room for a while, some kind sole takes pity on me and ask, “Are you looking for your team?” “Yes I am” I reply to this sweet little thing in her white smock with bunnies on it. “Their in the ICU”, I look at her with a glazed over look that must have been apparent, she points and says, “Just follow the signs that say ICU”. Ok, ICU, good, signs, good, follow good ICU signs, must get through with the blue bag to ICU to save the life of the patient, its all up to me.ICU, I learned is not a happy place, many sick people here, I guess that makes sense, never gave it much thought before. Walking down the hall, looking for the crew, I get this feeling of being unclean, that there are bad things in the air and its sticking to my clothes and I’m breathing it in. Must be strong, get the blue bag to the crew, code three. “Their down there honey, room seven” this rather large woman with kind eyes and a reassuring smile tells me. Rounding the corner in room seven, I see a curtain cracked open about four inches. I’ve made it; I can only pray that it’s in time.Sticking my head through the slit I saw what no person, in any profession, should ever see. Something so bad I cant, and shouldn’t even try to describe it, but let me try anyway. There was this woman, old enough to have babysat George Burns, lying on the bed, with a nurse attending to this little accident she must have had. Picture the changing of a diaper on a baby, and how you hold their legs in the air to clean a very messy number two. The nurse looks up at me and with the expression I must have had on my face, it almost made her smile. With a little smirk, she said, “Next one over” I will never be quite the same person I once was, I must regroup, and get the blue bag to the crew. This will be, after all, just like those things you see in combat, accomplish the mission and live with the pain, oh the horror. Carefully going over to the next bed, I slowly peek through the curtain, I see a flight suit, good, focus on the flight suit, and only the flight suit.“I have the bag”, I exclaim with great pride and sense of fulfillment, knowing that now I too have become a saver of lives in this noble profession. “Just put it under the gurney, we don’t need it now, but just wanted to have it, just in case” the nurse says calmly without even looking at me. “We’ll be about ten more minutes”.I feel the need to leave this place, this place of; I’m not sure how to express how this place makes me feel. I feel dirty, out of my element, and slightly dazed at the sight, sounds, and smells of this man, made, cold, sterile environment. I walk into the hall and first look right and then to the left, damn, how the hell do I get out of here? I was so intent on getting here; I didn’t pay attention to anything. Going to the desk to find my kind, caring nurse to get the directions I need, I see the nurse that I had the little encounter with in, now what is what has become, the horrors of room seven. “Could you please tell me how to get to the emergency room?” I say softly with a slight duress in my voice. She looks up, and with that same, you dumb ass, smirk of a grin, points and says, “Follow the signs that say ER”.Back outside, by my ship, in my environment, with fresh air, and no artificial lights, I clear my head, and think of what I have just undergone. First thing that comes to mind is the movie, Apocalypse Now, when the guy got away from the tiger and kept repeating, “Never get out of the boat”. I know, never go in the hospital, I hate hospitals, and I always have.That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve said today, hell who likes hospitals? Nothing good ever happens in a hospital, it’s always bad. Some would say, babies are born at a hospital, that’s good, well that might be true, but they make you take them home after a few days, hell they could at least keep them till they had a job. Also, what’s this no nooky for six weeks crap, I make one little off the cuff comment to the doc on how sore her jaw is going to be, and I don’t remember much about the next few days.I think if the hospitals did one small thing to improve their image it would make a big difference to future generations. I think if hospitals sold beer in the waiting room it would create a whole new feeling about the place. People wouldn’t mind the long wait when things got busy, husbands would volunteer to take the day off work to accompany their wives for appointments. (That would be a beautiful thing) hell men in general, would go to the hospital more often, and not just when their bleeding real bad, and that would improve health nation wide. I mean, how many of you would go to a bar that didn’t sell booze?Got off the subject, if there is on, ok, med crew, lunch, I’ve found that a blissful ignorance on all medical subjects is preferred. Most of the time they speak in their own language, and can say some pretty gory stuff, and as long as I don’t ask them to put it in a way that I can understand, I can enjoy my lunch and the company of the crew.
Author: Klank repost #5/ Rothrhead173 Date: 5/22/2009 8:36:26 AM
Klank
DON’T EAT LUNCH WITH THE MED CREWSitting down for a nice lunch after our first flight of the day, the conversation turned to the morning events. “Did you get a load of the new nurse in the ER? Man, talk about green”, the medic was telling the nurse. The nurse smiled and said in a very loud voice, “I’ll get the Fully, the life saving Fully”. (I know its spelled wrong, but I’m not asking either. People been asking questions around here) I, wondering what this great miracle of modern science is, asked, “what’s a fully” as I take a big bite out of my sandwich. “It’s the tube that’s put in your dick that goes to the piss bag” the timid little medic replied eating her fries. The nurse with a mouth half full of food says, “Did you see the way she grabbed that poor guys thing, she grabbed it with a grip like my father in-law grabs the last longneck out of the cooler at one of our barbecues and shoved it in so far I thought it was going to come out his ass.” I think I’m full now.Mealtime was always a good time to sit and talk about work. It always seems to bring out all the most morbid details that one encounters in this line of work. I didn’t realize how much crap medical people have to deal with, and I’m not talking about paperwork, restocking the ship, and dealing with all the details of their job. I’m talking about real crap, somehow every one of them has a particular crap story that they have to tell.After some time in the saddle, I got my own crap story to tell one day. While waiting for the crew at the pad for an inter-facility I got a call on the radio to bring the something bag. (They name all their bags) Looking at the ship, I see enough bags to go camping for a week, I call back and ask, “What bag?” after a slight pause I hear “The blue one Klank” Ok, boy am I learning stuff now, wow, the blue bag, must get blue bag to the crew, stat. As I wander around the emergency room for a while, some kind sole takes pity on me and ask, “Are you looking for your team?” “Yes I am” I reply to this sweet little thing in her white smock with bunnies on it. “Their in the ICU”, I look at her with a glazed over look that must have been apparent, she points and says, “Just follow the signs that say ICU”. Ok, ICU, good, signs, good, follow good ICU signs, must get through with the blue bag to ICU to save the life of the patient, its all up to me.ICU, I learned is not a happy place, many sick people here, I guess that makes sense, never gave it much thought before. Walking down the hall, looking for the crew, I get this feeling of being unclean, that there are bad things in the air and its sticking to my clothes and I’m breathing it in. Must be strong, get the blue bag to the crew, code three. “Their down there honey, room seven” this rather large woman with kind eyes and a reassuring smile tells me. Rounding the corner in room seven, I see a curtain cracked open about four inches. I’ve made it; I can only pray that it’s in time.Sticking my head through the slit I saw what no person, in any profession, should ever see. Something so bad I cant, and shouldn’t even try to describe it, but let me try anyway. There was this woman, old enough to have babysat George Burns, lying on the bed, with a nurse attending to this little accident she must have had. Picture the changing of a diaper on a baby, and how you hold their legs in the air to clean a very messy number two. The nurse looks up at me and with the expression I must have had on my face, it almost made her smile. With a little smirk, she said, “Next one over” I will never be quite the same person I once was, I must regroup, and get the blue bag to the crew. This will be, after all, just like those things you see in combat, accomplish the mission and live with the pain, oh the horror. Carefully going over to the next bed, I slowly peek through the curtain, I see a flight suit, good, focus on the flight suit, and only the flight suit.“I have the bag”, I exclaim with great pride and sense of fulfillment, knowing that now I too have become a saver of lives in this noble profession. “Just put it under the gurney, we don’t need it now, but just wanted to have it, just in case” the nurse says calmly without even looking at me. “We’ll be about ten more minutes”.I feel the need to leave this place, this place of; I’m not sure how to express how this place makes me feel. I feel dirty, out of my element, and slightly dazed at the sight, sounds, and smells of this man, made, cold, sterile environment. I walk into the hall and first look right and then to the left, damn, how the hell do I get out of here? I was so intent on getting here; I didn’t pay attention to anything. Going to the desk to find my kind, caring nurse to get the directions I need, I see the nurse that I had the little encounter with in, now what is what has become, the horrors of room seven. “Could you please tell me how to get to the emergency room?” I say softly with a slight duress in my voice. She looks up, and with that same, you dumb ass, smirk of a grin, points and says, “Follow the signs that say ER”.Back outside, by my ship, in my environment, with fresh air, and no artificial lights, I clear my head, and think of what I have just undergone. First thing that comes to mind is the movie, Apocalypse Now, when the guy got away from the tiger and kept repeating, “Never get out of the boat”. I know, never go in the hospital, I hate hospitals, and I always have.That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve said today, hell who likes hospitals? Nothing good ever happens in a hospital, it’s always bad. Some would say, babies are born at a hospital, that’s good, well that might be true, but they make you take them home after a few days, hell they could at least keep them till they had a job. Also, what’s this no nooky for six weeks crap, I make one little off the cuff comment to the doc on how sore her jaw is going to be, and I don’t remember much about the next few days.I think if the hospitals did one small thing to improve their image it would make a big difference to future generations. I think if hospitals sold beer in the waiting room it would create a whole new feeling about the place. People wouldn’t mind the long wait when things got busy, husbands would volunteer to take the day off work to accompany their wives for appointments. (That would be a beautiful thing) hell men in general, would go to the hospital more often, and not just when their bleeding real bad, and that would improve health nation wide. I mean, how many of you would go to a bar that didn’t sell booze?Got off the subject, if there is on, ok, med crew, lunch, I’ve found that a blissful ignorance on all medical subjects is preferred. Most of the time they speak in their own language, and can say some pretty gory stuff, and as long as I don’t ask them to put it in a way that I can understand, I can enjoy my lunch and the company of the crew.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
KLANK's Komedy: "Night Shift"
Someone re-posted this to JH. Thanks to whomever. This guy was hitting this job on the nail back when I started - with a sense of humor. If you are offended by scatalogical humor, go no further!
KLANK's Komedy: "Night Shift"
Author: Klank Repost # 3 / RH173 Date: 5/20/2009 7:41:00 AM
NIGHT SHIFTFirst day back after a nice seven off, time to get my head back in the work mode, night shift this week. My normal game plan to get my body switched around to nights is to stay up kind of late the night before, with a heaping helping of barley pop, eating some jalapeno poppers that I squirt with Cheese in a can. Well its three am the British sank the Bismarck again (the black and white British version) and it was time for bed.Nothing like a good ten hours of sleep, time to get my shift bags ready, I’m a geographic bachelor for my hitch and after a three hour drive to the company provided pilot quarters, I will still have time to lay down for an hour or so before I have to go in. Woooo, a little gassy this morning, that one made the cat run and the dog give me a look of “Dude, stop eating the cat food”. Oh well, just a little air biscuit, no gravy. Something to settle my stomach would be nice, looking in the fridge, I spy six hardboiled eggs, score, left over from when mama made potato salad. That should do the trick, so I ate three of them and take the rest for later.Nothing better than a big cup of coffee with the tunes cranked to just below internal bleeding, cruse control set, beautiful day drive. Humm, a little bit of rumble in my tummy, as I do the butt cheek boogie, lean over slightly and Rippppppp, bounced that one right off the leather seat, I’d say about a 8 for effect. A little odiferous though, better crack the window and let that one go. Fly, be free, and away I go to my first pit stop.I always stop at the Taco Bell just a little over half way of my quest. The coffee has worked its way through and although the volume of my little gas problem has decreased, the odor has magnified tenfold, with a little more pressure in my belly. I make a beeline for the can, as I walk in I see its all clear. I hate having to use public rest rooms especially when I know it’s going to be loud and loose. In the stall I remove my pager from my belt, (ever deep six your pager when you undo your belt to take a dump) drop my drawers and prepare for a moment of meditation. Slam, as the door bangs open and a little voice loudly states, “Daddy, I can do it myself”, Ok son, but I’ll be right outside if you need me. It wasn’t that bad before, but now, in the position of evacuation the pressure builds. La, La, La, he sings as he flushed the urinal twelve times, splash, splash in the sink, four hundred paper towels, and then sink on, sink off, sink on, sink off. I’ve had all I can stand, and I can’t stands no more. Ripppp, Splash, Foosh, with the full echo effect you get in those little boxes they call rest rooms. I hear little feet running like hell for the door, Bang, forgot to open it, Bang, he swung the door open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back and nailed him on the way out. “I can do it myself Daddy”, ya right, hope he’s scared for life. Man I hate the one ply sh#t tickets those cheap bastards put in here.Two Burrito Supremes, but no coffee, can’t believe the coffee upset my gut so, and back on the road. The food is settling my gut, will be there in about an hour, settle in, quick nap and off to work.As I pull into the base I see some activity, cool a flight right off the bat. My co part tells me that we got an inter facility and the med crew is just getting ready to go, should have a good thirty to forty minutes. As I crawl around the ship giving it the once over twice, I get a real bad cramp in my stomach, damn that coffee. With the grip my bung hole has to keep it all inside, I’m sure it could crush a walnut, as I do the funny little walk that I’m glad nobody can see. WOW, Major Bowel Letting, woooo, I got sweat dripping of my forehead, and the smell is like a rotten piece of meat in an old boot buried under an old out house that is now used as a chicken coop. Oh Great, three sheets of toilet paper left, I stretch round and peek under the sink. Empty, Damn, I bet there are fifty rolls in the nurse bathroom but do we have any, NOOOOOO. Kleenex! Half a box, boy that’s smooth, need it all though, with the force that the oozing mass of fluid mix hit the water with, it splashed all over my goat smelling ass. Feels good to get back out in the cool fresh air, med crew on the way, ship looks good, nice night for a flight. As I help the crew load this poor old soul, I can’t help but wonder about him. Ten years older than dirt, eighty pounds, and all alone, could that be me someday?When done properly, this is the most boring flying in the world, everything went great. Got some time to kill, stomach behaving but still just a little uneasy. You know a soda and another hardboiled egg or two should just do the trick, so I go to the machine and get a Mountain Dew, pull out my bag and eat, aw hell all three eggs.A lot cooler now, about 2 C, beautiful clear night, plenty of illum and stars to boot. This is why I’m here, the crew is hunkered down quiet, this was their third flight today, and I’m just glad to be here.Grrrrumble, Bubble, Bubble, Hmmm, I can’t understand what’s going on, its been hours since I drank that coffee. Caution Light in my head, pressure build up, open relief valve. Man, I can’t let one loose now, the crew would throw me out if this is half as bad as that last one. Butt cheek clinched tight now, sitting up very straight, with my toes just barely touching the pedals, with about a five minute ETE. I’m ok now, but when I start my decent and have to start getting on the pedals, I’m worried that it will be running down my leg before it’s all over. Maybe I can wiggle out just a little, you know, just enough to relieve the pressure so I can land this thing and make it back to the john. Nice and warm in here, if I open the window the crew will bitch, if I try to turn up the heat a little, this damn bleed air heater is so sensitive it will blow us out of here. I’ll just crack the window a little bit, pinch off the top, and no one will be the wiser. Window cracked, lean ever so gently to the left and ooooOOOSPLA, BRAKE OFF, Wave off, Abort, Damn that’s going to leave a mark!!!! I wonder if the med crew will, Thump, Thump, I hear the pax windows sliding open hard. Over the intercom I hear a combination of profanity, religious and medical expletives, and something about my mother. Turn up the heat!! The nurse yells, not even using the intercom. I reply with, Close the windows. That is followed by #@$%^%#$@ and *$#@!$%$#!, Damn, and you use that mouth to eat with girl.Back on the pad not much is said, a few looks as they hurry of to finish up their work so they can crash out for a while. I wait so I can do my funny little walk back to the john, pressure really high now and I am in pain. Ahhhh back on the john, and yep, it left a mark, OOOOoh, ouch, that Johnny Cash song “Burning Ring of Fire” starts running through my head. And it Burns, Burns, Burns, Oh Sh#t, I was in such a hurry I forgot to get the damn toilet paper, Damn, Damn, Damn, now what? Extreme times call for extreme measures, lets see, 1997 May issue of People magazine, I was going to read that someday, wrong kind of paper, it will just smear it all over, Ah what do we have here? Trade a Plane, texture good, lots of pages, good. As I sit there ripping pages and crumpling them up, I just can’t understand how one lousy cup of coffee could do all this.
KLANK's Komedy: "Night Shift"
Author: Klank Repost # 3 / RH173 Date: 5/20/2009 7:41:00 AM
NIGHT SHIFTFirst day back after a nice seven off, time to get my head back in the work mode, night shift this week. My normal game plan to get my body switched around to nights is to stay up kind of late the night before, with a heaping helping of barley pop, eating some jalapeno poppers that I squirt with Cheese in a can. Well its three am the British sank the Bismarck again (the black and white British version) and it was time for bed.Nothing like a good ten hours of sleep, time to get my shift bags ready, I’m a geographic bachelor for my hitch and after a three hour drive to the company provided pilot quarters, I will still have time to lay down for an hour or so before I have to go in. Woooo, a little gassy this morning, that one made the cat run and the dog give me a look of “Dude, stop eating the cat food”. Oh well, just a little air biscuit, no gravy. Something to settle my stomach would be nice, looking in the fridge, I spy six hardboiled eggs, score, left over from when mama made potato salad. That should do the trick, so I ate three of them and take the rest for later.Nothing better than a big cup of coffee with the tunes cranked to just below internal bleeding, cruse control set, beautiful day drive. Humm, a little bit of rumble in my tummy, as I do the butt cheek boogie, lean over slightly and Rippppppp, bounced that one right off the leather seat, I’d say about a 8 for effect. A little odiferous though, better crack the window and let that one go. Fly, be free, and away I go to my first pit stop.I always stop at the Taco Bell just a little over half way of my quest. The coffee has worked its way through and although the volume of my little gas problem has decreased, the odor has magnified tenfold, with a little more pressure in my belly. I make a beeline for the can, as I walk in I see its all clear. I hate having to use public rest rooms especially when I know it’s going to be loud and loose. In the stall I remove my pager from my belt, (ever deep six your pager when you undo your belt to take a dump) drop my drawers and prepare for a moment of meditation. Slam, as the door bangs open and a little voice loudly states, “Daddy, I can do it myself”, Ok son, but I’ll be right outside if you need me. It wasn’t that bad before, but now, in the position of evacuation the pressure builds. La, La, La, he sings as he flushed the urinal twelve times, splash, splash in the sink, four hundred paper towels, and then sink on, sink off, sink on, sink off. I’ve had all I can stand, and I can’t stands no more. Ripppp, Splash, Foosh, with the full echo effect you get in those little boxes they call rest rooms. I hear little feet running like hell for the door, Bang, forgot to open it, Bang, he swung the door open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back and nailed him on the way out. “I can do it myself Daddy”, ya right, hope he’s scared for life. Man I hate the one ply sh#t tickets those cheap bastards put in here.Two Burrito Supremes, but no coffee, can’t believe the coffee upset my gut so, and back on the road. The food is settling my gut, will be there in about an hour, settle in, quick nap and off to work.As I pull into the base I see some activity, cool a flight right off the bat. My co part tells me that we got an inter facility and the med crew is just getting ready to go, should have a good thirty to forty minutes. As I crawl around the ship giving it the once over twice, I get a real bad cramp in my stomach, damn that coffee. With the grip my bung hole has to keep it all inside, I’m sure it could crush a walnut, as I do the funny little walk that I’m glad nobody can see. WOW, Major Bowel Letting, woooo, I got sweat dripping of my forehead, and the smell is like a rotten piece of meat in an old boot buried under an old out house that is now used as a chicken coop. Oh Great, three sheets of toilet paper left, I stretch round and peek under the sink. Empty, Damn, I bet there are fifty rolls in the nurse bathroom but do we have any, NOOOOOO. Kleenex! Half a box, boy that’s smooth, need it all though, with the force that the oozing mass of fluid mix hit the water with, it splashed all over my goat smelling ass. Feels good to get back out in the cool fresh air, med crew on the way, ship looks good, nice night for a flight. As I help the crew load this poor old soul, I can’t help but wonder about him. Ten years older than dirt, eighty pounds, and all alone, could that be me someday?When done properly, this is the most boring flying in the world, everything went great. Got some time to kill, stomach behaving but still just a little uneasy. You know a soda and another hardboiled egg or two should just do the trick, so I go to the machine and get a Mountain Dew, pull out my bag and eat, aw hell all three eggs.A lot cooler now, about 2 C, beautiful clear night, plenty of illum and stars to boot. This is why I’m here, the crew is hunkered down quiet, this was their third flight today, and I’m just glad to be here.Grrrrumble, Bubble, Bubble, Hmmm, I can’t understand what’s going on, its been hours since I drank that coffee. Caution Light in my head, pressure build up, open relief valve. Man, I can’t let one loose now, the crew would throw me out if this is half as bad as that last one. Butt cheek clinched tight now, sitting up very straight, with my toes just barely touching the pedals, with about a five minute ETE. I’m ok now, but when I start my decent and have to start getting on the pedals, I’m worried that it will be running down my leg before it’s all over. Maybe I can wiggle out just a little, you know, just enough to relieve the pressure so I can land this thing and make it back to the john. Nice and warm in here, if I open the window the crew will bitch, if I try to turn up the heat a little, this damn bleed air heater is so sensitive it will blow us out of here. I’ll just crack the window a little bit, pinch off the top, and no one will be the wiser. Window cracked, lean ever so gently to the left and ooooOOOSPLA, BRAKE OFF, Wave off, Abort, Damn that’s going to leave a mark!!!! I wonder if the med crew will, Thump, Thump, I hear the pax windows sliding open hard. Over the intercom I hear a combination of profanity, religious and medical expletives, and something about my mother. Turn up the heat!! The nurse yells, not even using the intercom. I reply with, Close the windows. That is followed by #@$%^%#$@ and *$#@!$%$#!, Damn, and you use that mouth to eat with girl.Back on the pad not much is said, a few looks as they hurry of to finish up their work so they can crash out for a while. I wait so I can do my funny little walk back to the john, pressure really high now and I am in pain. Ahhhh back on the john, and yep, it left a mark, OOOOoh, ouch, that Johnny Cash song “Burning Ring of Fire” starts running through my head. And it Burns, Burns, Burns, Oh Sh#t, I was in such a hurry I forgot to get the damn toilet paper, Damn, Damn, Damn, now what? Extreme times call for extreme measures, lets see, 1997 May issue of People magazine, I was going to read that someday, wrong kind of paper, it will just smear it all over, Ah what do we have here? Trade a Plane, texture good, lots of pages, good. As I sit there ripping pages and crumpling them up, I just can’t understand how one lousy cup of coffee could do all this.
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