i suck!

i really do... i've slacked for so long on these blogs but here's a treat. something gnarly.

it's about four in the afternoon on a completely normal and busy day in this city. picked up some drunks, treated some asthma, a small stroke, and then POW! dispatched to a very nice hotel downtown for the "self inflicted gunshot wound to the abdomen."

usually i don't go to the self inflicted gunshots with any hope for a save, figuring that the head is a pretty easy target and the bullets go pretty fast and well, you're dead. success. but to the abdomen? felt i might be able to save this person. so we lit it up and raced to the hotel. i won't say the name of this hotel but i've heard that the heiress to the fortune is a skank.

i grabbed all the gear that i thought i was going to need and rolled to the elevator to get to one of the highest floors. as i walked down the hallway i was passing the curious tourists who were craning their necks out their doors looking down the hall at all the commotion and i got to the patient's room. there were about six police officers and an engine crew who were already on scene. i asked the cop, "is the patient still alive?"

"no, man. no way. go in and check it out."

i entered the room where there were a few officers, an engine medic, and an engine emt. the patient was lying face down on the rug at the base of the bed. the pt was wearing a gray pinstriped suit, nice leather shoes, and a gold watch. to the patient's left was a large semi-automatic pistol. there was a small desk on his right with a hand-written suicide note on the hotel's stationary just above him.

the patient had curly brown hair with many gray strands. the patient's head was cocked slightly and his arms were down by his side. surrounding his head was a large pool of purple blood, and it was obvious that dispatch had it wrong, that this was a shot to the skull with a large caliber gun. his abdomen was perfectly fine. no save possible here.

so if that picture is bad enough, it gets much worse. what made the scene so strange was that all along the carpet, the bed, the ottoman, and the large upholstered chair, were about 20 or so variously-sized pieces of skull. they ranged from the size of dimes to quarters, and really looked as if someone took a couple of eggshells, crushed them in their hands, and just joyfully tossed them skyward in the hotel room like confetti while standing over the patient. while walking through the hotel room, everyone had to be really careful as to not to stand on a piece of skull. more than once i heard, "hey, you're standing on some skull, watch it!"

"sorry man. woops."

since the suicide note was out in the open i was very curious and so i took a look. basically it sounded like this gentleman was wrapped up in some sort of financial scheme gone sour. there were apologies, and statements of innocence but that noone would believe him and that he was being persecuted and that this was his only way out. pretty lame reason to die, but i guess he was too ashamed to face up to his responsibilities. maybe he ruined some lives, i really don't know. but with all suicides, the thing i can't figure out is why you wouldn't just reinvent yourself. maybe fake your death or something. go live the rest of your life in chile or china. anything but a bullet or poison. pussies.

so i cut the paperwork and called the coroner with the information that i had gathered. and then like some of these calls, i started tripping out.

this guy was dressed well. he had a reasonable amount of money, enough for a gold watch and snappy suit. enough to choose this hotel, enough to buy such a nice gun. so this normal person walks into the hotel and goes to the front desk. "good day to you sir, welcome to the hotel. what name is your room booked?" smiling at my patient, maybe making small talk. and unless things were really awkward, my patient was smiling too, "good afternoon. yes, it is really nice out today. what? no... here for business. maybe i'll have time to take in a show."

then my patient smiles and gives his credit card over for incidentals and takes his room key. "thank you." and walks to the elevator and shares it with a couple of guests. they give a quick smile, everyone is happy, they're on vacation in a very nice hotel in a very interesting city. so much hope. and then my patient gets to his floor and passes a maid who smiles at him and he smiles back. he enters his room and all the smiles are gone and he opens up a beer. he goes to the desk, sees the hotel stationary and spends a little time writing a note. it's not his fault. he's sorry. he turns on the television. he gets up from the desk and grabs his briefcase, putting in on the bed. he opens it and removes the pistol and sits back down on the desk chair. he takes the remote and puts the television volume up as loud as he can. takes a few more sips of beer, and then puts the gun in his mouth. thinks for a second but not too long and he pulls the trigger, head shoots back and he falls out of the chair, drops the gun and is face down on the carpet near the base of the bed with his arms at his sides and his head cocked slightly to the right in a gray, pin-striped suit with skull confetti slowly falling all around the room.

you should have moved to chile.