The Porpoise

There was an assisted living facility around the corner from my first EMS job. A man lived there with a bunch of fascinating memorabilia in his room. The man had medals on display showing he was apparently a hero in the Second World War. There were black and white pictures of him in an Army uniform. I’m told the medal collection hung on his wall was impressive, including some of the big-assed crazy medals you get from foreign countries. There were photos of him with presidents, and there were framed personal letters on his wall from presidents and celebrities. I specifically remember a photo of the man with President Eisenhower’s arm around him in a friendly way. There were pictures of him and Kennedy in his Army uniform, standing tall. But by the time I knew him, he was living in this assisted living place with Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia.

I remember this man well, because he would fall down on a regular basis. The staff (I’m hesitant to assign titles like “nurse” or “caregivers” to them) supposedly wasn’t allowed to assist uninjured residents back to their feet. Apparently the “assisted” in assisted living only goes so far. Anyway, it was common for us to go to the place and pick someone up. This man was an especially common lift assist.

The condition in which we found him was generally consistent. He was never hurt, but you had to get him upright again. He would be naked at the bottom of a bathtub. Wet from head to toe. Soapy. Angry. Combative. Ever try to grab hold of a combative octogenarian when they are wet, soapy, and naked? Probably, if you’re in EMS. So you know that naked, wet, soapy elderly people present few handholds. 

Oh, yeah, and he had a sword hidden his cane. For god’s sake, you had to get the cane away from him before he ran you through.

We called him The Porpoise.

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“What was that last call? Why are you guys back so soon?”

“Picked up The Porpoise.”

“Oh. You two okay?”

I’m of two minds, thinking back on The Porpoise. On one hand, it is sad that age and disease eroded this hero into the state in which I knew him. Aging sucks. I hope he had a big family who missed hearing his stories. I hope they still visited him often, especially when he had clothes on and wasn’t slippery as a greased pig. (A rageful, cane-stabby greased pig.) 

On the other hand, it is awesome that he was still a badass. I can’t wait until I am old enough to live in a nursing home and terrorize new EMTs to the point that I get a nickname. You people are gonna hate to run on me…