The Road to Burnout

By Armando Almase

The profession of a first responder, whether a police officer, fire fighter, or ambulance attendant, is usually a thankless one. We dont do it for the recognition or the money, both of which are very minimal anyway. The reason is usually more complicated than we admit.

Sometimes, what lures us in turns out to be an insignificant reason for why we stay. Helping peopleyoull hear that a lot. It turns out there are very few people we can actually help. Saving livesyoull hear that too, but statistically, the odds are not in favor.

No, if we manage to stay with it long enough, those reasons arent enough to keep us going. Theres a subtle transition most of us dont notice, but ultimately, the job becomes about our partner and the people we work with; most of us see them as a second family. Its also about holding on to a single feeling: hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503537828

Armando Almase

In 2002, Armando Almase began working for a private ambulance company in Las Vegas, Nevada. As some claimed, the average job burnout for an ambulance attendant in Las Vegas was five years. Armando pushed his way through six, providing medical treatment and transportation to over 12,000 men, women, and children. Armando is the author of The Road to Burnout. A journey into the life of an EMS professional in Las Vegas, Nevada. Armando currently resides in West Virginia with his wife and their two children.

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Copyright © 2015 by Armando Almase.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2015901120

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-3780-4

      Softcover      978-1-5035-3781-1

      eBook      978-1-5035-3782-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/10/2015

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CONTENTS

Preface

A Fresh Start

Intermission

Silent Treatment

Parting The Red Sea

Mrs. Poops

The Wrong Guy

Miracle Girl

Unfit Mother

Pimp ’N’ Hoe

It’s That Time Again

Original Or Crispy?

She Didn’t Know

You’re Doing It Wrong

Stoma In The Home’a

Why Did You Do That?

You Waited Too Long

Epilogue

References

PREFACE

The profession of a first responder, whether a police officer, fire fighter, or ambulance attendant, is usually a thankless one. We don’t do it for the recognition or the money, both of which are very minimal anyway. The reason is usually more complicated than we admit.

Sometimes, what lures us in turns out to be an insignificant reason for why we stay. Helping people—you’ll hear that a lot. It turns out there are very few people we can actually help. Saving lives—you’ll hear that too, but statistically, the odds are not in favor.

No, if we manage to stay with it long enough, those reasons aren’t enough to keep us going. There’s a subtle transition most of us don’t notice, but ultimately, the job becomes about our partner and the people we work with; most of us see them as a second family. It’s also about holding on to a single feeling: hope.

I dedicate this story to my former second family of first responders and to the memory of those who lost their lives in the line of duty.

For my father, who placed the needs of his patients above all others. I love you, Dad, and I miss you very much.

This is a true story of my personal and professional experiences. Although the events are true, the names of my former partners, patients and private businesses have been changed to protect their identities.

The following story is graphic in nature and intended only for mature readers.

My story begins during the summer of 2000, and from there I will take you on a journey into the streets of a city where anything that can happen usually does.

You’ll learn what life is like for emergency medical service personnel in a city focused on entertainment and tourism. I’ll bring you with me to 911 calls, where you’ll read of people at their best and their worst. You’ll read of hope and disappointment, miracles and tragedy.

A FRESH START

It’s late in August 2000. I’m riding passenger in a brand-new forest green SUV over the Everest of Desert Mountains. Traffic seems moderately heavy for a weekday, but then again, we’re not in Kansas anymore, or West Virginia for that matter. It’s the homestretch from what has been a three-day road trip from a small town in West Virginia to Southern Nevada; our destination, Henderson.

The sun is setting over the western mountains and almost out of view; Sera switches on the headlights, and then I see it … all the lights from Las Vegas . I panic. What am I doing here? Tears start to roll down my face. I left my friends, family, and everything I know back home! I’m going to die out here!

I close my eyes tight and put my hands over my face, wiping the tears away. What’s wrong with me! I’ve lived and worked in downtown Los Angeles and even got lost in Compton after dark for hours with my buddy, Chris. I’ve spent nights in New York City with my father, who had no sense of direction; I’ve walked the deserted streets of New Orleans at 3:00 a.m. with that same directionally challenged man! I could’ve died one hundred times before. I have no reason to be scared!

I’m twenty-four years old, willing to take risks, and this is probably the most impulsive decision I’ve ever made. I’m near the end of what I believe is my last big move, but this time, it’s on the wings of an empty promise for a job that doesn’t exist.

Fortunately, I have an acquaintance named Matthew who lives in Henderson. Matt’s a genuinely good guy and the golf pro for a private golf club in Las Vegas. When he learns of my situation, he offers me a seasonal/temporary job at the club. I make enough money to pay bills, eat, and watch a movie at the theater once a week where Matt and I usually catch the latest film. The guy even invites me to his house every other night for dinner with his family. He saved my ass.

One afternoon at the club, a co-worker of Hawaiian decent, approaches me and asks, Have you heard of, Pat Morita?

Yeah, of course! I reply.

Are you working tomorrow morning? he asks.

Yeah.

Try to be up front, at the equipment drop-off.

OK? I shrug.

The next morning, I’m stationed at the club’s entrance, where players drop off their golf clubs and park their cars. A black, unassuming four-door sedan with tinted windows pulls up in front of me. I wave to the unidentified occupants inside the vehicle as I walk toward the back of the car. The driver activates the trunk’s release lever and I begin removing the numerous sets of golf clubs.

My peripheral vision catches a figure walking toward me, from the front passenger side of the car. I look up from the trunk and turn my head to the right to make eye contact, it’s Pat Morita. Are you fucking kidding me?

Reaching his hand out to me, he says, Hi, I’m Pat.

Hi! I reply, as we shake hands.

Are you Japanese? he asks.

No, I’m half-Filipino. I smile.

You look Japanese, where are you from?

West Virginia.

There are no Filipinos in West Virginia!

There are actually, many Filipino families.

Our conversation continues for a few minutes, and again he reaches his hand out to me, It was nice to meet you.

We shake hands again and I feel a piece of paper against my palm; he turns his hand over to leave the paper in my hand. I look down and see that it’s a crisp, folded, one-hundred-dollar bill.

Thank you, Mr. Morita.

Call me, Pat.

A few months later, December shows its ugly head; the golf season has ended. Matt feels guilty that I have to leave the club, but that’s our arrangement, and although I’m once again scared shitless, I understand and appreciate all he’s done for me.

A year later and I’m working for a worldwide customer service company who, in their Las Vegas branch, is contracted to provide technical support for a nationwide cable TV and high-speed internet company. It sounds awesome, with a lot of perks and benefits, but it basically means I once again make enough money to pay bills, eat, and watch a movie once a week. I became complacent and robotic. Then one morning at work, life, as we knew it, changed.

September 11, 2001. I’m sitting at my cubicle with a blank, glazed-over expression on my face. Staring at my computer monitor, waiting for both it and my brain to start up, I realize, I may need more coffee!

I place the headphones with the attached microphone on my head and type my username and password into the computer. I reach over to my right and begin to log into the phone system to receive calls from customers who want nothing more than have their computer and Internet problems repaired over the phone, like I’m some miracle worker. Sometimes the miracle I