Dre winced. “Yeah, I hear ya. So damn hard to watch.”
Just as we finished restocking and cleaning the rig and filling our plates with some sort of unidentified casserole that at least smelled delicious, we got another call.
“Damn, see what I’m saying? Someone pissed off the gods of emergency calls and we’re getting shit on,” Dre grumbled as he shoved a couple bites in his mouth and grabbed two rolls.
I followed suit, sticking a roll in my mouth and holding one as we rushed to the bus.
Dispatch filled us in that a fifty-two-year-old female was acting strange. The husband had called 911 fearing she was having a stroke or similar.
When we arrived, the scene was definitely a nice break from the seriousness of our last few calls, but the unknown of the situation always put me on edge. A female was stretched out on the couch, laughing hysterically, while trying to eat what looked to be some sort of cake with icing. The husband was frowning and asking his wife if anything hurt or if something was wrong. A sullen teen boy sat on the couch rolling his eyes each time his mother cackled and tried to get the cake into her mouth. She had more icing on her face than in her stomach if I had to guess. She was a mess, but our initial assessment didn’t set off any warning bells of a stroke.
As I tended to the patient’s vitals and did my best not to laugh at her antics—like pretending to whisper about how hungry she was and how she just wanted to sleep but her giggle monster was awake—Dre hid his smile and asked a battery of questions of the husband and son.
The son was as sullen and noncommunicative with Dre as he appeared to be with his parents. His dad, however, did his best to answer the questions.
“She was super hyper when I got home and that isn’t like her at all at this time of day. She’s a teacher and usually she’s conked on the couch with wine and papers to grade, not bustling around the kitchen talking a mile a minute.” The man frowned at his wife splayed out on the couch. “Can you tell what’s wrong with her? You’re sure it’s not a stroke?”
“Nothing indicates a stroke at this time, but it is concerning if this behavior is unlike her. You say she drinks wine, could she have possibly had more than normal?” Dre asked.
The man shook his head. “I didn’t see a bottle or glass anywhere. And she usually gets sleepy with wine, not laughing like a maniac.”
“I don’t smell alcohol,” I said. “Her heartrate is elevated, but she doesn’t present as inebriated.”
The lady laughed loudly. “Ineeeeebriated. That’s a funny word.” Her words were sluggish, but not slurred. She tried again to lift her arm and take a piece of cake from the nearby plate, but she got distracted and stared as if mesmerized by the uncoordinated movement of her limb. “Just wanna eat cake,” she said slowly while continuing to watch her arm move through the air. “Sooooo hungry. Sooooo sleepy. I wanna eat a nap,” she said and dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“Does she use drugs? Recreationally or prescription?” Dre asked.
“No, never. I guess we probably both smoked some pot as teens, but nothing as adults.”
“Oh, nice,” the son grumbled. “So, you can do it, but I can’t. So lame.” He launched himself from the couch and headed out of the room. “This is so embarrassing.”
I narrowed my eyes at the kid’s back as he disappeared and Dre continued asking questions.
“Does she take any prescriptions? Any herbal supplements?”
Doing another vital check to assure the patient wasn’t in any immediate danger, I slipped from the room, catching Dre’s eye to let him know I’d be right back.
I found the kid holding a plastic baggie, frantically digging through a dresser drawer. His wide, panicked eyes turned my way when I walked into his room.
“What did she take?” I asked, one hundred percent sure that he knew exactly what I was talking about.
“How the fuck should I…” he started.
I cocked my head, eyed the baggie, and waited.
“I don’t know for sure,” he hedged, a look of worry marring his face as he chewed on the corner of his lip.
Bullshit. “Look, it’s for her safety that we know what she took so we can treat her. What was in the baggie?”
“There’s no way she would have taken them. She doesn’t do anything bad, she’s like the goodie two-shoes of all goodie two-shoes.” He stared at the baggie.
“What was in there?”
“Edibles,” he muttered.
I took the baggie from the kid. “Thank you. That helps a lot. We can let the hospital know and she’ll be better in no time.”
“Wait, you aren’t going to tell my dad, are you?” The kid gripped my arm. “Seriously, can you not? He’ll kill me.”
“It’s best that you tell him before the hospital does.”
“Will you call the police?” The kid’s voice broke.
“Look, my job is to get your mom to the hospital. Now that I know what’s causing her change in behavior, I can treat her and deliver her to the ER. What they do from that point is up to them.” I walked into the living room where the patient was chuckling quietly as she moved her fingers in front of her eyes. She had calmed a lot and looked ready to drop to sleep any second. “Ma’am, did you eat any gummies today?” I held the bag in front of her.
She cackled through a sleepy haze, her droopy eyes bloodshot. “I love gummies. Scott was hiding candy in his
