Aim High

We're covering one of the 7 towns my company holds 9-1-1 contracts with when we're sent to "meet the police."  I can count on one hand the number of times I've been sent to a call to "meet the police" that didn't involve a drunk person who was causing problems.

The police officer meets us on the front porch.  "Hey guys," he speaks in a low voice, "Basically, we were called here because this guy's been walking around in front of the windows naked constantly."  So far, we're off to a good start.  "He's drunk out of his mind," he tells us, "he thinks it's 1988, and Reagan's president.  Don't touch anything in here you don't have to.  You'll see what I mean.  He's a veteran, so I guess he should go to the VA and see if they can detox him."  I nod, prepare myself for the worst, and head in.  

Inside we find our patient sitting naked on his bed.  What surrounds him is the most abject squalor I have ever seen a person live in.  His bed looks wet, and I can see the telltale chunks of vomit spread around it.  Half-eaten plates of food are cluttered everywhere.  Papers, garbage, and pill bottles are strewn about the room.  Half a handle of vodka rests on the coffee table, and at least six empty cartons of orange juice are strewn about.  Unfortunately, the papers and garbage don't cover the carpeted floor, which squishes damply under my feet–soaked with I don't even want to know what kind of liquid.  Fruit flies hover over a pizza box on the floor.  I think I see a flea hopping across the bed.  A kitchen pot on the floor is filled with a yellow liquid that looks like a mix of leftover broth and urine.  

With the help of the police officer, we find a pair of shorts and a shirt that we help the man put on.  He's incoherent and physically uncoordinated, but seems to agree to go to the hospital to get some help.  He tells me he was in the Air Force, and used to fly helicopters.  I'm not sure it's true, but we find his VA card in his wallet.  

As we assist him in shuffling out of the house, the police officer thanks us.  "I'm sorry you guys have to deal with this," he tells us.  I shrug; "He's a veteran."  Inside I tell myself that I'd take this mostly cooperative ex-serviceman over a drunk, belligerent, over-privileged college student any day.  He's sick, and needs help.  I don't know how he'll be treated at the VA; I don't know if he'll get the help he needs to stay away from booze, or if the damage has already been done, and before long another ambulance will find him dead and bloated on the floor–maybe because his rent was late and the landlord went to check on him, or maybe because the smell got too strong and started to bother the neighbors.  I doubt he'll remember the ride, but I try to treat him with as much respect as I can muster.  I think about how I would feel if I treated him coldly and were later sent back to the same address for a presumption of death.