Thursday, March 14, 2013

A Story of First Aid...


This is a true story of First Aid, and that of being prepared.

When I was 13, I lived with my dad in an apartment complex in a small town on the West Coast. Late in the evening while taking the trash out to the dumpster, halfway across the complex was a man lying on the ground. He only groaned a little when I asked if he was okay. It was a dark and foggy November evening, so I didn't immediately realize that the puddles around him were predominately his blood.

I finished taking the trash to the dumpster (!), and stopped to take a closer look on the return trip. When I knelt down to give him a nudge and ask him again, I realized that his chest was covered in blood. I raised his shirt to find the source: what appeared to be three little puncture wounds, one in the stomach, two in the chest.

My first thought based on the appearance of the puncture wounds was that they were from an icepick. I found out later that these were actually from a kitchen knife.

Having learned basic first aid in the Boy Scouts, I immediately placed each hand on a chest wound to apply pressure, moving them only to check his vital signs (very weak pulse and breathing, unresponsive eye movements, and talking to him only elicited weak groans.)

The first person appear, on a balcony above, was a school buddy of mine. I told him to call for help, but his response was that he had heard fighting in a different apartment a little earlier, that this guy was probably just drunk, and that he'd see me later...

About a minute later, some guy walked hurriedly up saying, "Joe, you okay?!? You're gonna be okay, Joe!"

Worried about shock, and that help probably hadn't been called, I told this guy (hereon referred to as guy #1) to go back to his apartment, call 911, and come right back with two blankets. Off he went.

While guy #1 was gone, another guy (guy #2) comes out, walks up, and says "Is he dead yet? He'll be okay. I'm not running, I just gotta go take care of some stuff... I not running," and goes back to his apartment.

Guy #1 returns with the blankets and a pillow. "Come on, Joe, hang in there man!"

I take the first blanket, double it, and have guy #1 help me move Joe on top of it; I was concerned about him being on the cold ground. As I doubled the second blanket to put on top of him, Joe started gagging. I look up to see that guy #1 had placed the pillow under the top of Joe's head, closing his airway.

I exclaimed, "What are you doing?!?" in a tone only a know-it-all thirteen year old could take, and moved the pillow to under his neck to cock his head back. Breathing restored.

After covering him and resuming pressure on his wounds through the blanket, guy #2 comes back out. "Is he dead yet? I'm not running. I just want you to know I'm not running."

Guy #2 then proceeds to jump in his car, which was parked right there, and drive away.

About 4 minutes later, the first police officer shows up. After taking a moment to shuffle around his clipboard and some papers, he switches off his dashboard light, steps out of the car, and saunters over to us carrying his Maglite.

"Is this guy okay?" the officer asked.

I pull aside the blanket, lift up his shirt, and show the wounds, saying "Help us with the first aid!"

He responds in a shockingly disinterested tone, "Well, the paramedics should be here soon..."

"When?!?"

(Disinterestedly) "They should be on there way; the radio just said that they were on their way," and wanders back to sit in his patrol car.

And not a single question. No "What happened," or, "Did you witness anything," or even, "Do you know who this is?" Nothing.

Another minute or two later (it felt like 10), a fire truck arrives with the first EMT's, and I get shuffled out of the way. Almost immediately after that, an ambulance arrives.

Since, even with some persistence, I can't get the attention of either the police or the EMT's, I head back to my dad's apartment and tell him the story. Concerned for my safety, he told me not to tell anyone my involvement, just in case the perpetrator (guy #2) try to "Track me down."

The following day, I absolutely insisted that we call the police so I could give a statement; if I could help make an I.D., or fill in any detail, I wanted to help.

That afternoon, Inspector Jones comes by for my statement, and has me match some Polaroid photographs with who was who in my story. He then let me know that the wounds I described as looking like they were from an ice-pick were actually from a kitchen knife, that Joe didn't make it since one of the wounds pierced both his heart and a lung, and that the suspect had already been arrested early that morning.

(Dad told me afterwards that he was proud that I insisted on calling the police and wanting to help...)

I learned some very, very important life lessons that night.
  1. Other people that you encounter during an emergency probably won't be equipped emotionally or knowledge-wise to help. They may not even care.
  2. A badge and uniform doesn't mean that the calvary has arrived. They may not even care, either. A person's actions are what counts.
  3. You may be the only one who can act and help during an emergency. While other people are busy exclaiming "Oh my god!" or saying, "Whatever... See ya'," you'll quickly find yourself alone as the only one with a level head getting things done. (See #1 above.)
One of the things that I still do today, some 28 years later, is carry a good First Aid Kit (or "FAK"). In fact, I have several. In addition to the usual Level 1 FIrst Aid Kits (I have about 4, depending upon which bag I am carrying that day), I also have a Level 2 FAK, a pocket sized FAK, and a little teeny boo-boo kit in the seat pack of my bicycle.

Now a first aid kit---- even a really good one---- wouldn't have saved Joe's life that night (I have it on good authority that even an emergency room wouldn't have; only if he'd made it to an actual Trauma Center within 30 minutes of sustaining his wounds would he have made it.) But a good First Aid Kit coupled with some knowledge of how to use it could indeed be the difference between living and dying.

While I wasn't equipped with a FAK during my fateful 40 yard walk to the dumpster, as the first responder I wasn't exactly caught flat-footed either.

I was mentally prepared.

The mental preparation was having the knowledge of what to do when faced with a person who had sustained serious trauma. I carried in my head the basic knowledge of what to do.

So even without a First Aid Kit to employ, I was still able to take positive action. And if one of those stab wounds was a mere inch or 2 to the side, the outcome of my efforts could well have been very different indeed.

Stay safe out there, folks. And be prepared; that First Aid Kit could very well be used to treat you.

-Hamhock

Have a story of your own? I'd love to hear about it. Just contact me through my blog.