My partner and I are dispatched to a headache; this is our third headache call of the day, all of which were supremely boring. While I give my headache patients the best care I can, insuring they have no signs of an impending stroke, considering all aspects of the condition, and keeping them as comfortable as possible, I’d rounded out my previous call by looking longingly out the ambulance window, watching my coworkers wheel critical, medicated, intubated patients into the hospital, seeing my colleagues’ cheeks flushed with the excitement of their call. I want that excitement! I want to make a difference in someone’s life, but here I am on the way to another mundane headache call. What’s a girl got to do to get some neuro deficits around here?

As my partner and I pull up to an apartment complex, a first responder approaches to inform us that the patient is on the third floor, there’s no elevator, and his vitals check out fine. My partner and I roll our eyes in tandem as we mentally prepare ourselves for another monotonous experience and waste of valuable resources.

Three flights ascended, we determine the patient is stable, has no priority symptoms, and our equipment will not be necessary. In fact, the patient turns out to be such a nice person, I feel kind of like a jerk for secretly wanting to be with critical patients instead. I prepare the ambulance for a routine headache call, meticulously laying out all the things I think we might need, while my partner (who is pretty much the best paramedic on the planet and my role model) stays with the patient. I prime an IV line, turn on the oxygen tank, lay out the glucometer and blood pressure cuff, and by the time I start spying specks of dirt and spot cleaning, I realize everyone has been gone far too long. What the hell is going on up there? About the time I poke my head out of the back doors of the ambulance, a first responder comes running toward me yelling, “He passed out! We need it all!”

I scramble the equipment back together in a flash, and the first responder and I make the three story hike once again. I arrive to an unconscious, breathing patient, who has been positioned with his feet up to increase bloodflow to his brain. I quickly apply oxygen and put him on the cardiac monitor.

My partner and I simultaneously look at the monitor, look at each other, look at the patient, and look at the monitor once again, with similar blatant quizzical facial expressions. The monitor shows clear and obvious ventricular fibrillation, a non-perfusing lethal rhythm. The patient is breathing, moaning, and moving his head. We frantically double and triple check the cables, convinced there is an error. The fire department must think we’ve lost our minds. We can’t find a pulse, and we absolutely must initiate CPR. My partner prepares to shock the patient, and I perform a chest compression. The patient retorts with a clearly audible “Ow!” I have done plenty of CPR, but never on anyone who is capable of informing me that it hurts. Furthermore, I’ve never in my life seen a dead guy breathe, moan, or move on his own accord. My partner and I lock eyes, and I know we’re thinking the same thing: there’s only one explanation for this—he’s a zombie.

We actually have a cardiac arrest bag full of all kinds of goodies just for this occasion, but I didn’t think to bring it. No one thought we had a dead guy on our hands, what with all the signs of life, so we’ll have to make do with what we have. My partner sends 150 Joules of electricity into the zombie’s chest, which he clearly does not like, judging by the sound he makes. The man turns purple from the nipple line up, a textbook sign of a pulmonary embolism. I continue to perform CPR, while concurrently instructing first responders to prepare equipment.

My partner says he’s going to start an IV in a vein in the man’s neck. I have someone take over CPR, and I practically tackle my partner, which is my standard response when he’s about to do a cool procedure I’ve never done. I insert a large bore catheter in the zombie’s external jugular vein, with my partner expertly walking me through the motions.

After a few more minutes of CPR, code drugs, and defibrillation, while not being distracted by the obvious life-like state of our dead guy (for which the American Heart Association did not prepare us AT ALL), he gets a pulse back. That is to say, our zombie is now un-dead, which goes against all the comic books I devoured as a nerdy, antisocial kid. While this is obviously great for the patient, the return of spontaneous circulation also works out nicely for us, because there was no freaking way we were going to make it down three narrow flights of stairs and do CPR.

A 12 lead ECG shows the patient is also having a monster of a heart attack. So, to sum it up thus far, we have a formerly dead guy who appeared remarkably alive while dead with a possible stroke, pulmonary embolism, and big fat myocardial infarction (that’s just a fancy way of saying heart attack). This is all my fault; I pouted and wished for excitement, and the EMS gods came through with alarming alacrity.

En route to the hospital, we do the zombie-CPR-shock-drugs-un-die dance a few more times. At one point, I’m performing CPR again (I love to do CPR. There’s something thrilling about being a physically fit girl doing manual labor in a largely male dominated field, when big burly dudes say, “Need me to take over for you?” saying and honestly meaning, “No, thanks. I’m good.”) and my partner contemplates aloud, “Because he is having an MI, perhaps the epinephrine will be too much of a strain on his heart and make it worse.”

“True,” I respond, proud of the fact that I can talk and do chest compressions, “but having no pulse at all is probably the larger of the evils.”

“Good point,” he says. He pushes another round of drugs, and I get another break from CPR.

Upon arrival at the hospital, the ED staff has the delight of encountering the same bizarre circumstances as we did, and again, he regains a pulse. Doctors, nurses, and techs are all astonished, while my partner and I play the role of the experienced wise ones in this unusual scenario; after all, this is old news for us by now. The staff takes him, un-dead again, upstairs where he will undergo tests and catheterization to try to combat the zombie trifecta.


The next day, my partner and I take a non-critical patient to triage at the same hospital. My partner suggests we investigate the patient’s outcome, and I eagerly agree. We mosey up to the ICU, trying to give the perception that we belong here, despite the obvious contrast of our uniforms, radios, boots, and shiny badges to the hospital staff’s comfortable scrubs and tennis shoes.

We find a nurse, explain who we are and what we are looking for. The nurse tells us, “Sure! He’s doing great and he’ll probably be discharged by the end of the week. He’s awake if you want to go see him.”

He’s awake. This is far better than either of us had imagined. Honestly, we came to find out if he was dead or a vegetable, but this man is awake.

My partner knocks on the door gently, and he and I enter the patient’s room, mouths agape at the conscious man who is clearly not on life support. The patient looks at us and says, “Well, judging by the uniforms, you must be the people who saved my life. The doctors say that if you hadn’t have been there and done what you did, I wouldn’t be here.”

We stayed and chatted with a man that died in front of us the day before, which is the single greatest experience I may ever have in my career. All his faculties are intact, and he has even managed to retain his sense of hu
mor. I’m more astounded than I was when he was a zombie, but I kept that to myself.

“You know, I’m really sore from it all. I’d like to know what mammoth of a man you had doing CPR on me,” he tells us.

My partner looks at me, and I feel a girl-power grin that starts from my gut and works its way up. “For the most part, I did the CPR. You didn’t seem to like it much then, but it was better than the alternative.”

“Well, thank you both.”

The intense school, the paltry paycheck, the abusive patients, the generalized assholes, and all the crap that goes along with EMS, after seeing that man alive, was worth it.


  • lynn says:

    Careful out there. For future reference, the only to kill a zombie is decapitation or a bullet to the head.

  • Laurie Chase says:

    wow…gimmie more gimmie more. this makes my job sound so incredibly boring. today at work…we bowled. that was my excitement! great writing girl.

  • Taffy says:

    Thank you! I have fun writing this blog. It helps me get the proverbial demons out, and helps me organize my thoughts and perspective.

  • Kris says:

    I just discovered your blog today. I hope your continue to post as often as possible (like daily haha). I work in EMS in Canada and think this is the best written blog out there. I love your stories and writing style, both excellent!

  • Parapup says:

    Kris, thanks for your sweet comment and for the strong work you do! I’m going to try to write more often, but it takes time to write the way I like. If you have any topics you think I might consider exploring, feel free to drop me a line at parapupblog@gmail.com! I’ve always wondered about Canada and the universal healthcare system there. I’ve heard crazy things, so write me with your point of view, too. Thanks!

  • Priscillainda says:

    That same thing happened to me!! My pt went down while walking at beerfest and then when i got to him and put the pads on VF was on the monitor, all troubleshooting aside, he was pulseless and had agonal breathing. I charged the monitor as he was attempting to get up with frankenstein-like outstretched arms and was moaning, double checked the unexistant pulse and pressed the shock button. Unreal! And he actually had ROSC after another shock and some lidocaine, started talking to us in the back of the rig. The kicker was when I asked him what he remembered last he said in a very calm voice while looking me straight in the eye…”You yelling CLEAR!”

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