How I got through a well-being check

"Haven't seen him in a week," said the man who called us to his home.

Like a lot of folks in the industrial city of Providence, Rhode Island he lived on the second floor of the three level home, rented the first floor to his mom, and the third to whoever answered the ad he posted and seemed decent enough.

"Is that unusual?" I asked.

"He stays to himself mostly, but there's usually some sign of life up there, footsteps, a TV, doors closing, you know."

Yeah, I know. Wish I didn't. I wish I had some Vicks to rub under my nose.

"How old is he?"

"Not too old, 50 maybe," said the man.

Fifty. Not too old. Ha ha. My own 50 years seemed to take a lifetime to reach.

We entered the rear hallway. The stairs led straight up to a landing and a door. There was a shamrock decal stuck there and greasy fingerprints around the doorknob.

"Is that smell normal," I asked the landlord who had followed us?

"He's not the cleanest tenant, but this is bad."

"Yeah, it is."

The landlord opened the door and the smell got worse. A clean stove — not because the tenant was a neatnik, rather it was seldom used. Some empty cans of canned spaghetti and balls of whatever they called meat were on a folding card table that served as his dinette. Dirty dishes spilled out of the sink and onto the counter.

The refrigerator stood in the corner inviting me to open it up. Nothing in there, not even a beer.

"Hello, anybody home?" I shouted, knowing the only answer would be my echo.

He was home alright. I could smell him.

I followed the trail to three doors in a rear hallway. Door number one, door number two or door number three. One of the doors had a string of neckties tied together, starting at the door handle and going over the top.

"Rescue 1 to Fire Alarm, start the police to this address."

"Roger Rescue 1, nature?"

"Possible suicide."

I pushed the middle door. It gave a little but would not open. So I pushed a little harder.

"Here he is."

It was now a crime scene, but I needed to confirm that the man was gone. I got the door open about a foot, squeezed through and watched a dead man's weight force the door shut. He had tied the last of the neckties around his neck, strung the rest over the top of the door, tied the last to the opposite side doorknob, kneeled in front of the door, inside his bedroom, facing the back of the door and closed it.

Slowly?

Quickly?

Did he slam the door?

Did he lean into it?

I couldn't figure out the mechanics of it and realized I was spending way too much time thinking about it. Everything inside him had let go. He was bloated, stiff and dead.

Pictures of a woman and some kids had been pinned to the back of the door. I squeezed back through the doorway, pushing the body with the door.

Thankfully you can look at pictures, but they can't look back.

"Does he have any friends or family?"

"He's lived here for a year, since he got out of prison. Nobody visits that I've seen."

Nobody.

The man at the end of the ties was a lot like the homeless ex-con that had been in the ambulance a few hours before we responded to this home. He was intoxicated, but able to talk. His main concern was finding work. He had no address, no references, no money and no past to put on an application. He had been staying at a shelter, waiting for a break. He seemed like a nice enough guy so I told him about a place my brother, a correctional officer told me about, a place that gave ex-cons a chance.

It is difficult to not judge the people that we meet during our shift. As years in EMS add up, and similar experiences begin to appear the same and the people who make up those experiences say the same things, have the same complaints and even look the same, our empathy can fade. For some EMS providers it takes years while others lose it rather quickly. Then there are those who keep it together for their entire career.

Instead of dwelling on the man who gave up, I was able to focus on the one who looked like a living version of the dead guy, who now had a business name for an apartment and an address in his top pocket. I didn't know it when I handed the note to him, but the look of gratitude on his face would get me through a difficult call, and the rest of the shift.

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