Another Haiti photo. I'm not sure if the scale was discarded of not, but it stood alone in the hospital street, seemingly neglected.
I've done eight straight nights on a 911 ambulance, and have spent a little time reflecting on my paramedic sprint. I don't remember their faces, and less so their names, but I remember their ailments. 65-year old man, hypoglycemia and profoundly diaphoretic; 56-year old man, severe asthma attack that I fixed in three minutes flat; 67-year old man with new onset a-fib that I diagnosed by feeling his radial pulse; a twenty something man that I knew was lying to me about drug use just by looking at his dilated pupils. After each run I would review the call in my head looking for mistakes, and there were plenty. I'd see a new medication that I had to look up, a symptom that I didn't catch, a blip on a 12-lead that was significant. Everything got looked up after the fact on my iPhone full of medical applications, mentally filed away for the next time that I see it. I was intent on each run making me a better medic. Being a paramedic is a process, I'm, seeing that now.