What if the EMT gets sick?
After cutting 20 lawns with the temperature hovering in the low nineties, while fighting a sinus infection, I limp into EMT class for a night of BLS and Airway practicals. Last Saturday was spent shut in a concrete room, with wheezing airconditioning, learning healthcare provider level CPR. Even though I already held this certification as a First Responder, it was necessary to attend to meet the propper hour quota.
When I show up, blowing my nose and sweating my ass off, I have to take a written test and pass each practical station ( a dummy and an instructor giving me senarios) twice. The written test is easy, save for two questions which the instructors subsequently deemed "a joke because in the field, that shit doesn't matter." I finish my exam and use the time waiting for my classmates to sleep-- sinus infections are exhausting, so is Sudafed.
The first practical test is One and Two Rescuer CPR. After five compressions out of fifteen, I'm getting tired and sweating through my Boston Fire Department shirt. Of course, I'm embarassed because I pride myself on being in shape. I should be able to blow through CPR drills like nothing.
The big, badass firefighter is dripping all over the dummy and talking so fast the instructor is worried about him...Great. One the members of my group, a large woman from Glouster RI tells the instructor I was booting black tar heroin. My study partner Gilbert quickly says, "He's heavily medicated, ma'am. He's very sick." I nod like one of those bobbing head dolls on the dashboard.
I get through my two adult CPR senarios with no problem aside from not telling a bystander to call 911, something mandated by the American Heart Association. I somehow think showing up on scene and telling someone to call 911 would not inspire confidence in my abilities as a firefighter/EMT.
After two foreign body airway obstruction (cool doctor speak for choking) drills I receive two more passing grades. As I'm coughing up a lung Tinsely asks "How's that airway doing?"
My favorite senario of the night comes when dealing with a dummy representing an unresponsive 6 year old who swallowed a marble and can't breathe. He's cyanotic and the mother, played by a Kojack bald instructor is going bullshit. "My baaaaayyyybbbaaaaay! OOOhh, my baby!" I calmly walk up and grab the "mother" by the shoulders. "Ma'am," I say very gently, getting "her" attention. "It's the thinning of the herd." After about fifteen seconds of astonished silence the room erupts with laughter. I, of course, then run through what I would aactually do with backblows, and compressions, rescue breaths all the good shit.
I do CPR on a doll representing little Janie, an unresponsive infant. After three cycles of breathing and compressions I get her back to life. Rich, the firefighter next to me takes his turn and manages to remove the little girl's head. He asks if he can keep it to strap to his helmet then makes the headless baby do break dancing spins.
I pass each of my drills with no problem and find my written test waiting when I'm done. By this time I'm dead on my feet, the Sudafed wore off and I'm facing the full force of my illness. While still trying to look tough for my peers, I soak another napkin with my nose. My test grade is a 92, 8 points higher than the minimum passing grade of 84.
As I pack up my binder and books, the thought of a dose of NyQuil and an early bedtime takes on an erotic quality. I try not to think about the twenty lawns and 90 degree weather waiting for me the next day.
My weekends are the only time to myself, the time when I can relax from work and training so when I find out that my Rescue Diver course will be at six thrity every Saturday and Sunday mornings, I try to move things around. The dive master tells me that he usually doesn't like to move the lessons around but since I'm a firefighter--a profession he pursued-- he'll try and make the instructor give me lessons on Tuesday and Thursday nights.
With the freedom of my weekends thus secured I am free to spend time relaxing with my girlfriend of over two years, reminding myself why I am so lucky.
When I show up, blowing my nose and sweating my ass off, I have to take a written test and pass each practical station ( a dummy and an instructor giving me senarios) twice. The written test is easy, save for two questions which the instructors subsequently deemed "a joke because in the field, that shit doesn't matter." I finish my exam and use the time waiting for my classmates to sleep-- sinus infections are exhausting, so is Sudafed.
The first practical test is One and Two Rescuer CPR. After five compressions out of fifteen, I'm getting tired and sweating through my Boston Fire Department shirt. Of course, I'm embarassed because I pride myself on being in shape. I should be able to blow through CPR drills like nothing.
The big, badass firefighter is dripping all over the dummy and talking so fast the instructor is worried about him...Great. One the members of my group, a large woman from Glouster RI tells the instructor I was booting black tar heroin. My study partner Gilbert quickly says, "He's heavily medicated, ma'am. He's very sick." I nod like one of those bobbing head dolls on the dashboard.
I get through my two adult CPR senarios with no problem aside from not telling a bystander to call 911, something mandated by the American Heart Association. I somehow think showing up on scene and telling someone to call 911 would not inspire confidence in my abilities as a firefighter/EMT.
After two foreign body airway obstruction (cool doctor speak for choking) drills I receive two more passing grades. As I'm coughing up a lung Tinsely asks "How's that airway doing?"
My favorite senario of the night comes when dealing with a dummy representing an unresponsive 6 year old who swallowed a marble and can't breathe. He's cyanotic and the mother, played by a Kojack bald instructor is going bullshit. "My baaaaayyyybbbaaaaay! OOOhh, my baby!" I calmly walk up and grab the "mother" by the shoulders. "Ma'am," I say very gently, getting "her" attention. "It's the thinning of the herd." After about fifteen seconds of astonished silence the room erupts with laughter. I, of course, then run through what I would aactually do with backblows, and compressions, rescue breaths all the good shit.
I do CPR on a doll representing little Janie, an unresponsive infant. After three cycles of breathing and compressions I get her back to life. Rich, the firefighter next to me takes his turn and manages to remove the little girl's head. He asks if he can keep it to strap to his helmet then makes the headless baby do break dancing spins.
I pass each of my drills with no problem and find my written test waiting when I'm done. By this time I'm dead on my feet, the Sudafed wore off and I'm facing the full force of my illness. While still trying to look tough for my peers, I soak another napkin with my nose. My test grade is a 92, 8 points higher than the minimum passing grade of 84.
As I pack up my binder and books, the thought of a dose of NyQuil and an early bedtime takes on an erotic quality. I try not to think about the twenty lawns and 90 degree weather waiting for me the next day.
My weekends are the only time to myself, the time when I can relax from work and training so when I find out that my Rescue Diver course will be at six thrity every Saturday and Sunday mornings, I try to move things around. The dive master tells me that he usually doesn't like to move the lessons around but since I'm a firefighter--a profession he pursued-- he'll try and make the instructor give me lessons on Tuesday and Thursday nights.
With the freedom of my weekends thus secured I am free to spend time relaxing with my girlfriend of over two years, reminding myself why I am so lucky.
posted by Nick Stabile at 7:41 PM
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