Sometimes It Works, Sometimes It Doesn't

As a medical-type person (for clarification, I was a medical administrator), being certified in CPR came with the territory. Every two years, I’d be at my mandatory refresher training. People in the class varied in skill level and experience, from dentists to public health technicians to emergency room physicians. Still, everyone went through the standardized steps. 

A few people who had actually provided CPR in real life shared their experiences. These people were primarily medical providers. Everyone would listen, including myself, not thinking too deeply about it. Some of the people from my unit had actually provided CPR or other life-saving medical care to random civilians outside of their jobs or the military and had actually saved lives. “Thank goodness you were there!” is something many would say. One medic highlighted that the “crunch” you feel when breaking ribs is something you can never forget. “Eww,” is what I thought, but found the information interesting and realistic sounding.

Like many other military training events, the point of the repetitious training is to build muscle memory. I cringe and internally visualize myself throwing a temper tantrum every time I have to participate in a training exercise related to CBRNE, locking down, and having to report on far fetched events. Time after time, the same things happen. Nothing major changes, just a few variables. The protocols and reports don’t change much. It can seem boring, exhausting, and mentally painful. I guess that’s how muscle memory is built. One can only hope the impressed-upon skills gained through tedious drilling never are needed. But if they are, well, I guess I will be ready. You just never know when you will need said skillset, even if it’s just on a walk or a run in your own neighborhood.

I, personally, like walks. It gives me the alone time I need to think about life and relax a bit. My neighborhood walk is excellent. It’s over a mile and half of sidewalks and the homes and yards are lovely to look at. Neighbors decorate during the holidays and kids can play freely without much fear of strangers or speeding cars. Needless to say, I was caught off guard when, one day, I witnessed three grown adults trying to lift a neighbor out of his recumbent bike. 

My earbuds were on, but my brain stopped listening to Mel Robbins as I cautiously approached the scene. Five seconds later, I looked down at the unconscious looking man; it was no one I had met before.

“Is he breathing? I asked.

 “No,” a 70 year old-looking woman whispered with panic overtones.

“Does anyone know CPR?” Three heads shook left and right. Before I consciously knew what to do next, my mouth said, “I do.” I threw my phone, earbuds, and sunglasses to the side and immediately got into position over the man’s chest, fingers superimposed and interlaced. A bystander called 911. I made my first compression.

CRUNCH!

Without fully acknowledging the sound until hours later, I continued, pushing down to the ground deliberately and fully, another 29 compressions. Checking. Continuing. Checking. After a few rounds, one of the other bystanders switched out with me. Another woman stood near us; she was the man’s wife. She didn’t say much and just watched as my partner and I provided consistent compressions for seven minutes until the ambulance arrived. 

The space where we worked, under a fully bloomed hydrangea bush, transformed into a mini-emergency room. The EMTs set up their contraptions, inserted IVs, and worked tirelessly to get the man up and running again. I was given the additional job of IV bag holder to ensure the contents successfully made it to the patient on the grass. 

Peeking neighbors started making their way over to the wife to provide support. I continued to provide tension to the IV bag while the team pushed a cocktail of medications in between the compressions of an automated machine and AED. Eventually, the man of the grass did regain a pulse and was stable enough to be transported to the hospital. The spirits of those around elevated with hope. I gave the wife a hug and walked back home as the ambulance left the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the man. Wondering. Hoping. It reminded me of the time in Iraq where my team worked on a mom and her daughters. They had been very badly injured. We stabilized them and sent them off to Germany while the mom’s husband and son lay dead in our refrigerated mobile morgue. We never did find out if the family made a recovery, but I hope they did. I like to think that our regular training saved their lives, but I’m not sure.

My shoulders and abdominal muscles were on absolute fire when I woke up the following morning. The kind of fire that perpetuates more fire and cannot be easily extinguished. My mother had warned me the night before that this might happen. I underestimated her. The adrenaline had worn off and the intense motions from the day prior caught up to me. Even with the annoying pain, I had the urge to go running. I had unspent energy and amassed a bucket of stress that needed to get exhausted. 

I decided to take my regular route. I couldn’t stop thinking about the day before. I now had new memories associated with my walk-run route. As I approached the familiar hydrangea bush, a nearby lady, who I had seen the day before, was pulling out of her driveway. She smiled and waved as I ran past her. Five steps past her silver convertible, I turned around.

I took out an earbud and asked the question that kept me up all night.

“Did he make it?”

She flattened her smile and said, “No. He didn’t. I’m about to go to the store to get ingredients to make the family a lasagna.”

I felt defeated. My training didn’t work. I didn’t work. I nodded in acceptance.

“You did everything you could,” she said in response to my body language.

“Ok. Have a good day,” I mustered as I about-faced and continued running. 

I tried to push it down, the feeling of failure. I tried to run past the emotion of loss, even for a person I never met. It didn’t work so well. Instead of running my normal route, I decided to just walk. I walked around the circle of this lost soul’s neighborhood three times just so I could replay the events. “Was there anything more I could have done?”

I decided no, not really. Still, I like to believe my training and muscle memory provided a glimmer of hope, even if only for a short while.