A sick little boy, or, NOT THE BEES!

Previously, on Gas Station Adventures:

Shots fired! Or, "I don't think the Marines are going to back you up this time, lady."
Why am I bleeding? Or, how simple statements can lead to assault charges
Yelling at the wrong guy, or, how a bitchy lady learned what handcuffs felt like

Before I begin, I need to say that people have tried to guess the location of my station in the comments section of my previous stories. Please don't. It's against the sidebar rules and I'd like to maintain a little bit of anonymity. If you think you've figured out which station it is, just smile to yourself and feel good about your detective work, Lou.

Today, on a very special episode of Gas Station Adventures...

My previous stories have all involved law enforcement. This one, thankfully, does not. It involves a nice summer day, a father with his young son out for a walk, and years of Boy Scout training being put to good use.

I had only been working at the station for about 6-7 months, and spring was getting ready to move out so that summer could move in, turn up the heat, and eat ice cream sandwiches on the couch while watching re-runs of Ren and Stimpy. As I stood my vigil behind the cash register, a small fan blowing still-warm air across my face, a man came rushing into the store carrying a small boy. The man's face was that of near-panic; eyes wide, pale, muscles taught. His voice shook as he quickly explained to me that, as he and his son were out walking, they ran into a bee's nest. The boy had been stung, something that he had not experienced before, and had very quickly started to show the signs of an allergic reaction. Could I please call 911?

Sir, you just walked into the right store.

I vaulted the counter and checked on the little boy. Yep, he was in trouble. His face and neck were swollen, he was wheezing badly and obviously having trouble breathing, he was covered in hives, and his heart rate was insanely fast. He whimpered in that pathetic manner that a young child will when they are very scared. Damn. I opened the door, and yelled for Alan (name changed) to run over.

Me: "Alan, do you have your cell phone?"

Alan: "Uh, yeah, why?"

Me: "Good. Listen closely. Run up to the fire station, and knock on the door. Tell them they have a male child suffering from bad anaphylaxis due to a possible bee sting here at the station, and they need to get down here right away. If you cannot get a hold of someone at the door, or the engines are gone, call 911, and tell them the same thing, then bust your ass back down here. Now, repeat that back to me."

Alan: "Run to the fire station, boy, anaphylaxis, bee sting, call 911 if no one is there."

Me: "Good. Now, RUN!"

And off he went, doing his level best to make Usain Bolt look like an asthmatic sloth with some heavy shopping.

But Osiris32, why didn't you call 911 right then? Isn't that what you are supposed to do in those kind of medical emergencies?

A very good question, Timmy. And, normally, that is exactly what I would have done. However, in a situation like that, time is your enemy. Had I called 911, it would have taken a minute or two to get on the line with the dispatcher, relay them the information, and have the dispatcher call out the emergency. Two, three, maybe even four minutes before the firefighters start rolling. However, in this case, the fire station is quite literally 125 yards away. Alan could run there in under 30 seconds and talk to the firefighters directly, shaving off a ton of time. And since I hadn't heard the fire trucks leave at all that day, I was pretty certain they were still there.

As Alan was doing his Jesse Owen impression, I ran out to my car and grabbed my first aid kit. My lovely, hand-assembled, nearly-$1000-investment first aid kit. In it were the finest medical tools money (and a civilian) could buy. Blood pressure cuff. Pulse oximeter. Stethoscope. Medications. Hell, it even had a suture kit. (It got stolen out of my car two years ago, and I'm still pissed about it). I got to work monitoring the kid's vitals, while writing down everything I could from the father, who was in tears. Within seconds, I heard the wail of a siren. Proper help was on the way.

Moments later, several burly firefighters came through the door in that very business-like manner that firefighters have when they are facing a serious situation. I got out of their way, and started relaying information to the supervisor. They pumped the kid full of epinephrine, got him on an oxygen mask, loaded him onto a gurney, and rushed him out to the rescue truck. Total time elapsed from the moment the father walked through the door to being in the truck, maybe 4 minutes.

I went outside and lit up a cigarette. My hands shook. I hadn't had to perform any sort of emergency medicine like that in years. Kind of amazing how all that stuff I learned in Boy Scouts instantly came back to mind, even though I had been out of the program for almost 10 years. I kept thinking about that little boy, hoping that he would be alright.

I had the next three days off, during which time I was busy with school and a girlfriend. But upon my return, the father was there with the boy. The father thanked me profusely, first by giving me a big hug. He offered to reward me for what I had done, which I of course turned down. I explained that, as an Eagle Scout, it was my duty and pleasure to help other people at all times. Seeing the little boy happy and healthy was more than enough reward. The boy himself was a bit shy, but still said thank you. I smiled all day long.

TL;DR - I really sound like I'm patting myself on the back here.