The thirty-something heavily tattooed man with a world-class mullet who got third degree burns on his fingers in his own backyard meth lab.
The forty-something man who was brought in completely naked, with a blood alcohol level five times the legal limit -three times in one week. Two of those times he was so intoxicated that he had to be put on a vent because he couldn't seem to breathe on his own.
The fifty-something man who has not (by choice) gotten out of bed in a year, but is content to lie there while his (disabled) sister takes care of his every need. When he snapped his fingers at me to clean up the mess he had just made in the bed, he didn't care much for my response. His sister, he explained, thought it was a privilege just to take care of him.
I've had a string of paramedic students this summer. The poor souls get to follow me around and learn how to do everything the wrong way. One guy has been with me a whole bunch of times, and has sort of followed along vicariously as my summer of upheaval has unfolded. He started out meek and trying to fade into the woodwork, but then, guided by the other reprobates I work with, he started to get a little mouthy. That was fine. I like 'em mouthy.
Until we were dealing with patient number two - the frequently intubated one with the Guinness Book of World Records blood alcohol level. My student looked at me evilly and said,
"Quit your bitchin'. You're better off than most single women. At least you get to meet a lot of eligible men at work. "