Carl calls wondering if I am busy. "What's up?" I ask. "Well, chum, I'm not feeling too good -- feeling a little punk." Punk, is Carl's term for feeling not at all well. "I was wonderin' if you could come up and help me -- I can't get my breath." He wheezes. "I'll be there in three minutes Carl. Stand by." "No rush," he says, trying not to be any bother.

Carl has a propensity for understating things in order not to be a bother so when he calls asking specifically for help, I know that he is in real distress.

I snatch my radio from its charger, start the truck and lock it into four-wheel-drive -- I need to traverse 2 miles of mud-road like a land-locked-rocket -- my dear old friend is in trouble.

I radio my Chief: "Bedford 3-3 to 1-1." "1-1, go ahead 3-3." "3-3 is responding to a medical call at 1793 Green Bay Rd., patient is having trouble breathing. I am about 1 minute out, will advise when I arrive. Can you stand by, 1-1?" "10-4, 3-3. 1-1 is standing by. 1-1, clear." "3-3, clear."

I quickly enter Carl's diningroom -- Carl now sleeps here on a single bed as he can no longer navigate his century-old staircase safely. "How are you feeling old-sock?" "Well, not just the best at this moment chum. I'm short of breath." Carl's breathing is labored. An oxygen hose is looped around his head dispensing 5 liters per minute to his nose, however, the hose is not lined up with his nostrils and although his ventilator is properly arranged on his face and working, the dear old soul has forgotten to add the medication.

"Okay partner, let's get you fixed up here." I remove the ventilator and line-up his oxygen hose. "It didn't take you long to get here, Lea. Did you run?" Carl giggles. I mix Carl's medication and reinstall his ventilator. "I sure did run! The wife says I can use the exercise." "She did?" "Yep, says that I'm getting so fat I'm giving the bathtub stretch-marks!" Carl roars with laughter.

"Carl, I need to take your pulse -- got a watch?" "Sure right here, in my pocket." Carl reaches into a tattered pocket removing a worn silver Timex. "How come you're not wearing that Carl? Do you have eyes in that pocket?" Carl giggles. "No, the darn band broke. It's hard to find a good watch any more. I gave ten dollars for that at the hardware store in Westport."

Carl offers a wrist that supports a work-swollen hand as big as an anvil. I study the watch as I count -- forty beats per minute. "Okay Carl, I think we need to call Parham EMS -- just to be sure." Carl looks at me half smiling. "Could I get a second opinion?" "Sure!" I pause looking him over. "You're ugly too!" The gentle giant erupts with laughter. Carl pauses and looks at the watch. "I gave ten dollars for that at the hardware store in Westport." His repeat comment reminds me that Carl's short-term memory has been fading significantly over the past two months.

"Bedford 3-3 to 1-1." "1-1, go ahead 3-3." "Be advised that the patient has a pulse of forty beats per minute. He may have over medicated. Dispatch Parham EMS." "10-4, 3-3. Calling Parham EMS." "3-3, clear." "1-1, clear."

I sit beside my old friend. "What's wrong Lea?" "Well old-sock, your pulse is a little low, even if you were an Olympic runner. Now, it could be your Digoxin, but I'm not allowed to make that call -- they will. How are you feeling now?" "I feel a little better." "Okay, I will keep taking your pulse and make notes for the EMS."

I hear my radio crackle, "Control to Bedford 3-3, be advised that Parham EMS is responding." "10-4, control. 3-3, clear." As I take Carl's pulse I hear one of our captains offer assistance -- he is on his way home and will be passing the farm. "10-4, 1-6, I can use a hand." "10-4, 3-3, 1-6 is responding." "3-3, clear." "1-6, clear."

Carl looks at the watch. "I gave ten dollars for that at the hardware store in Westport -- hard to find a good watch any more." I fight off tears and pat Carl's hand, saying, "They just don't make 'em like they used to." "They, sure don't," he softly replies.

Captain Knapp arrives and enters the room. "How's Carl?" He asks. "Oh, not too bad." Replies Carl. "Captain, I've started notes with respect to this call. They're over there. I motion to the table with a nod. Captain Knapp continues making notes as I convey Carl's pulse-rate.

Parham EMS arrives and asks that I gather up his medication so they can make note of it. As I gather the different bottles, EMS give Carl an ECG and record his blood pressure -- "One twenty over sixty." After a short conversation they decide to transport Carl to the hospital.

"Lea, will you call Pat and tell her where I'll be?" Carl's voice is muffled by the ventilator mask. I dial the phone and relay Carl's condition. "Just a sec, Pat, Parham EMS is right here. They can fill in the details." I hand the phone over to them.

As they talk, Carl grabs my hand asking me to make sure that the wood-stoves are shut down and that the lights are off, and the house is locked. Carl stares to the left of my face -- his eyesight is getting worse. I pat Carl's hand. "No problem partner. I will take care of everything." "Thanks chum." Carl settles back on the stretcher. Captain Knapp leaves along with Parham EMS.

Standing on the hill in the shadow of the old farm house I recall Carl telling me it was his dream to purchase this place after he returned from fighting in the war over fifty-five years ago. As the flashing lights disappear, I feel that Carl is still fighting, but as it is for all men, eventually, we all lose our fight with time.