The squat two story red brick building was deceiving from the street.  While it’s length ran half the block, it actually went an additional two floors below street level.  The metal grid covers on the windows behind the wrought iron fences surrounding the building weren’t there to keep people out.  It was to keep people in.

“What do we have?” I asked my partner.

Freakzilla reached over and pressed a button that momentarily bathed his face in the green light of the data terminal screen before he swung it over so my eyes could read the blazing letters.  Emotionally Disturbed Person.  Segment 7.  Violent.  Wait for police. With no sign of a sector car on the street, Freakzilla hopped out to grab the bags.  This wasn’t anything new.  This was just how we rolled.  I got out of the truck and walked to the side of the ambulance where he was pulling the bags out.  I grabbed the stairchair and shut the doors.

We walked up the gradient staircase to the front door of the facility.  ONLY AUTHORIZED PERMITTED.  IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED.  CURFEW 10:00PM SHARP was emblazoned on the door.  He swung it open and we walked through the vestibule to the second metal door with it’s glass on top giving a view of the actual lobby.  Through the glass of this door we could see the front desk and the man sitting casually atop it.  He was dressed in the blue blazer uniform typical of these types of facilities and mindlessly thumbing through a supermarket rag magazine.

Freakzilla knocked on the glass.  The man on the desk did not look up.  Freakzilla knocked on the glass again.  The man on the desk still did not look up.  Freakzilla looked at me, and I swung the chair against the door like a baseball bat with the loud thwacking sound of the metal on metal reverberating through the vestibule.  The man jumped up suddenly at the sound and hurried to the door.  He fumbled with the keys on the ring before finding the right one to insert into the lock, turn it, and let us in.

“You called 911?” asked Freakzilla as we casually walked through the door.

“Uh yeah,” the man replied as he quickly inspected the door to see if there was any reportable damage.  The bottom of the door had multiple dents, dings, scratches, and paint chipped away that he couldn’t really tell if anything was new.  “It’s downstairs in bee level,” he replied as he closed the door and relocked it.  “I’ll take you down.  Follow me.”

We descended down the dimly lit staircase to the sounds of babies crying over televisions and the mixed smells of macaroni and cheese with rice and beans… all typical of a New York City family homeless shelter.  The blue blazer lead us to a door with it’s lime green paint chipped away to reveal the metal underneath in various locations.  He made a motion with his hand towards it and then stepped back.

I stepped up to the side of the door jam while Freakzilla stepped to the other side.  There was a loud female voice and a lower male voice coming from the other side of the door, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying.  I looked at Freakzilla and he nodded.  I made a fist and pounded on it three times before calling out, “EMS.”

The arguing from the other side immediately stopped and we could hear the three shuffles to reach the door.  The doorknob clicked and swung open.  The person who had opened it was a female about 5 and a half feet tall wearing a worn gray and purple jogging suit.  Brownish hair came out from the top of her head cascading into hues of blonde ending into semi-curls that hid behind it a face that was over coated with make-up to hide the wear and tear.  Recessed into her eye sockets were brown pupils surrounded by bloodshot white.

“Thank God!  Officers I need your help!” she cried, “I had $800 stolen from me by the bitch in that room over there!” She pointed a finger across the hall before continuing, “She took it and I need it back!  I want…”

Freakzilla held up a hand to stop her and said, “Ma’am we’re not the police.  We’re EMS.”

“EMS?  Well how are you going to get my $800 back?” she asked, seemingly legitimately perplexed.  “The other officers were of no help and I need that money!”

“So the police have already been here?” I asked, as the door across the hall clicked and opened slightly.

“Yes!  They said they can’t do anything because I have no proof, but you have to understand, this is a mistake!  I don’t belong here!” she cried, releasing her grasp on the door and allowing it to swing open.  Behind her was a typical one room shelter apartment.  There were bunk beds behind the door.  On the bottom bunk was a man, and on the top bunk were two boys, possibly ages 11 and 7.  All three of them were peering from different positions behind the wood and wool warily at the scene unfolding.

“What do you mean you don’t belong here?” asked Freakzilla, trying to ascertain the root of the problem.

“I don’t belong here!  My husband lost his job a year ago!  We lost our house!” she explained beginning to wave her hands around and turning her head from side to side to talk to both of us, “I am not one of these people!  Do you understand me?  I am not one of them!  I lived on Staten Island for crying out loud!  I am not one of them!” She turned specifically towards me and said, “I am one of you!”

One word popped into my mind.  Delusional.  It was a common thing to get called to these shelters for people who were having emotional breakdowns over their dire situation.

Freakzilla didn’t skip a beat, even though he had just been insulted by this patient, “Well we should take you to explain the situation to the doctors and maybe they can help you get to be where you need to be.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes suddenly becoming wider and seemingly brighter.

“Really,” I lied.

“Can we all go?” she asked, motioning towards her family.

“I don’t think…” I began before she cut me off.

“I don’t want to leave them behind though!” she said, beginning to get riled up again.

“What’s your name dear?” I asked calmly, interjecting something benign into her once again rising adrenalin.

“It’s Cassie,” she said hesitantly, “Cassie Smith.”

“Listen Cassie, I think its probably better that you go first and get things set-up,” explained Freakzilla, “This way they can rest here while you’re making the arrangements you need to.  The quicker we get over there, the quicker you can get taken care of.”

She looked at us both through the stringy hair.  We could see that her brick wall, like the life she had been living, was crumbling.  “Oh, okay.” she succumbed after a few more seconds of contemplation.  With a quick glance backwards she walked into the hallway and brought the door closed on her family…

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This was in 2004.  I often wonder about what happened to her and her family.  Did she get the help she needed?  Were they able to get back on their feet?  Did they make it?  That’s one of the downsides of this business.  We touch people for 30-40 minutes when they are at their most vulnerable and then we’re out of their lives… and they’re out of ours.

Considering everything going on in the world, I wonder how many families is this happening to right now and whether or not someone is there to help them.

As much as things change, things stay the same.

The stories on this blog are in compliance with HIPPA regulation.  Identifying details have been changed to protect the patient’s identity.  If you think I am talking about you, I assure you that I am not.

In March 2000 I opened The Parkway Hospital EMS Unit 51 David (51D).  The unit was dispatched by the Fire Department Of New York Bureau Of Emergency Medical Service to emergencies and incidents that were called in through the New York City 911 system or from either the FDNY Fire Suppression Communications Center and the New York City Police Department.  The unit served primarily western Queens from a home atom of 102A.  The assigned Cross Street Location (CSL) for the unit to standby was at Queens Boulevard and Union Turnpike.

We were the only unit to come out of The Parkway Hospital and we entered into a cut throat territorial system from which we had to carve our piece.  During my time there I worked primarily the overnight shift starting my week on a Thursday night and ending on a Sunday night.  They were 12 hour tours, 48 hours a week, and 36 of those hours were usually spent with my partner known as Freakzilla… and I could have asked for no better.  We were The Lone Wolves In The Wild Wild West.

With an average nightly call volume of 10+ calls, there were a lot of things we did.  There were a lot of things we saw.  There were a lot of people we touched… and who touched us with their stories.  Due to things beyond our control, both political and budgetary in nature, in May 2005 Freakzilla and I took truck 5900 on it’s last ride as 51D.  While the unit may not be in the system anymore, its spirit of having the knowledge, the ability, and the desire to get it done lives on…