Street Cred in the Swan Valley

It happened like this:

The guy is going 120 mph in a stolen car, running from the cops. Not surprisingly, being fabulously drunk, he misses a 90 degree turn, launching him and his vehicle (separately) into a low earth orbit, our protagonist being unrestrained. After a flight of around 100 feet, he was then restrained when he landed on a metal fence post, which entered his lower jaw and exited through the middle of his back.

First responders cut the fence post off at the ground and found to their surprise that he was alive. Remarkably, they got a breathing tube in, and brought him to the hospital.

The problem we encountered in the OR was that there remained at least six inches of fence post sticking out of his mouth as well as his back. We couldn’t put him on his back to sort out surgically what was likely many internal injuries.

We tried all the gnarliest orthopedic metal cutters we had, to no avail. “No problem”, said one of the surgical techs, he has a Sawzall in his truck. He brought it in, but one of the ambulance medics noted that the saw had a wood blade. Again, no problem, he had a Sawzall in his truck with a metal blade.

We cut off the ends of the post, opened his chest, and spent the next two hours very carefully separating the very big arteries, windpipe, and esophagus from the fence post. The post did take out his spinal cord, however, and last I heard he was in a nursing home, where he was busted for selling methamphetamine.

Apparently, everyone runs around with a Sawzall in their truck. I felt pretty wimpy. What was I going to do, go get a nail clipper out of my Lexus?

This feeling has recurred in my role as a First Responder in Condon. During an early morning fire last month, I was bewildered by the plethora of valves, gauges, hoses, and trucks. The guys and women in their cool fire suits were connecting, twirling, and pulling calmly and efficiently. They set up this swimming pool looking thing, which is filled with water from tanker trucks, which is then sucked up by the pumper truck.

Same thing when we switched out the house battery in the ambulance. Apparently, everyone runs around, in addition to a Sawzall, with a multimeter. In a scene reminiscent of my fence post saga, a coterie of Carhartt clad dudes opined regarding amps, volts, ohms, wires, relay switches, and various iterations of fuses. I nodded sagely.

We all move in different worlds, sometimes deeply involved, sometimes tangentially. I have done heart transplants, but I have no idea how to change a fuel pump on a truck. I’ve done microsurgical nerve repairs, but the multimeter gives me a headache.

I’ve learned that a thirty-year career 400 miles away is not transferable when it comes to street cred in the Swan Valley. Actually, I’m not sure we have streets, but you know what I mean. I will need to learn all the switches, valves, pumps, amps, meters, winches, and widgets that are required in the world of “git ‘er done.” Having the skills to safely get a fence post out of a guy’s chest safely is cool, sure, but those skills won’t get another guy out of an overturned truck 90 feet down a ravine.

To remain vital, relevant, we need to evolve, adapt; acquiring new skills, sparking the aging brain, eschewing excuses, all the time referencing the fact that a life of service is never bereft of meaning.

I do have a truck now. I just have to figure out all the stuff I need to be carrying around.