Chainsaw
“Respond. Chainsaw injury to the leg.”
These iconic tools are notorious creatures. One slip and even the most practiced handling of one can turn into a life or limb-threatening injury. “Chainsaw” is one of those words you add to a dispatch when you want to impress upon the responders that this might, in fact, be a bit messier than the average call.
They have loaded him into a car and are en route to the hospital, with plans to meet us en route. With only one hospital in the region, this is a common occurrence and can significantly improve treatment and transport time — sometimes by as much as hours. In this case, an empty parking lot at a roadside attraction will do the trick.
There is an SUV parked with its tailgate up. One of the medics is standing at the back, speaking to whoever is inside. The other strolls over to me, her tongue firmly embedded in her cheek. There is nothing spurting, no drip drip drip of blood out of the back of the SUV, and from what I can see nobody is carrying a spare limb on some ice, so we’ve got that going for us.
She says, “We’re not getting a lot of cooperation here.” Together we walk back to the truck, faint moans emanating from the back.
In the rear portion of the SUV sprawls a tall, thin, pale gentleman. He is shirtless, with the side of his face pressed firmly against the window.
His one leg sports a tourniquet fashioned from a leather belt, secured to a homemade splint fashioned out of some spare drywall. The leg is glistening (we’ll come back to that) and his chest is covered in scratches.
Irritated with our attempts to obtain information, he answers only in bursts. These are punctuated by weaker moaning, carrying with it the smell of beer.
Alongside his knee, he has a long, narrow, jagged … wound. It’s not a gash or any type of real laceration. This is a scratch, made by a chainsaw skip that barely touched him.
It’s not even bleeding.
He is shiny, not with the telltale sweat of those in hypovolemic shock, but rather because he has been liberally applying Vaseline jelly to his entire leg. The petroleum product has created a resin effect, allowing his leg to pick up all sorts of colorful debris from the back of this family car. This includes everything from crayon bits, toy pieces, and possibly some stale potato chips.
He’s in no danger of bleeding to death, or even to dizzy. He did, however, turn himself into a petri dish.
He wants nothing to do with the ambulance and says he cannot afford it. No amount of discussion will dissuade him from exiting the back of the SUV. When he gets tired of discussing it, he presses his face against the window and closes his eyes. This interview is over.
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There are children secured in car seats in the back seat. They are absolutely unphased by the drama occurring in the trunk. I check with the driver, who smells suspiciously like our patient.
We notify the mother by phone.* She had no idea about what had transpired and immediately agreed to meet us on the scene. I can tell from her clenched teeth response that she is less than pleased.
She arrives on the scene in a Prius and helps us persuade him to seek medical attention, agreeing to drive him there herself. She has brought an equally sober friend to commandeer the SUV and the children and get them home safely.
Now, all we need to do is get him in the car.
Refusing to listen to reason, he insists on getting in the back seat of the Prius himself. He lurches out of the SUV and begins hopping through the parking lot, holding his tourniquet-wearing, drywall-splinted leg at a 90-degree angle in front of him.
We’re not even going to chase him at this point.
Arriving at the Prius, he grabs the roof and jumps, sliding both legs into the backseat and landing with a dead stop and yowl of pain and crunch of drywall on the far side door that he did not realize was still closed. He is obviously too wounded to realize that he is longer than a Prius is wide.
No longer speaking to us, he folds himself up, pulls the back door shut, and leaves his face smushed against the side window. The wife sighs heavily, thanks us, and off they go, south to the hospital.
Nancy and I stand there silently, watching them leave. We even waved. Not taking her eyes from the road, and still waving she says, “Did you see those scratches?” I did.
“Did you see what they were?” I look at her.
“He was carving his wife’s cell number into his chest with a pair of tweezers.” She shrugged, “He said it was in case he passed out and someone needed to contact his next of kin.”
We continue to stare at the road in silence for a moment, then walk back to our vehicles.
On to the next.
*Author’s Note: For the record, we did not read his chest in order to call his wife.
Originally published at https://www.taloscar.com on August 7, 2023.
