Refusing to merely talk the talk, I opted to walk-the-walk. I stated that I wanted to learn First Aid, and thus went after the knowledge. I got sick and tired of waiting for my Fortune 500 employer to clear a vendor issue regarding their First Aid instructors. Thus I busted out Seto Kaiba’s trump card and sought out the training myself.
I arrived to the First Aid training classroom, and the instructor asked us about our past experiences with the material. The two other pupils had both been through numerous Frist Aid courses before, and this was merely just a recertification for them. Eventually, the focus turned to me; I admitted my total rookie status. Short of a few PowerPoint slides that a gym teacher bulldozed through roughly 15 years ago, I had no familiarity with First Aid.
That’s right, nothing. I had never even touched a mannequin up until this lesson. The instructor was cool about it; after all, we all start somewhere. However, this did little to calm my nerves. Despite the laxed atmosphere, my mind raced. I furiously took notes in my notebook (because I’m so analog) though I could not keep up with what seemed like a break-neck pace. I was clearly out of my depths amongst the seasoned pros in the room.
After a cursory explanation of the technique regarding chest compressions, it was time to practice on the mannequin. My nerves shot so wildly out of control that my initial chest compression went far too deep; I reached the poor dummy’s back with my palm! After correcting my novice ways, I hyper-focused on maintaining the rhythm of the compressions, to the point that I forgot to, you know, actually fucking count. So much for the 30:2 ratio…
I sat back down, feeling the stress-induced knotting of my stomach; a sensation I had not experienced since COVID. My breaths became noticeably shallower as my mind raced to places of how morbid the material was. I prayed to various gods that I don’t believe in that I wouldn’t have to perform the task on a live patient, triply-so that I wouldn’t have to do it alone.
Next, we went to the AED portion of the class. We worked in tandems to practice putting on the AED patches onto the plastic patient. My attention was laser-focused during the lecture. However, when it came time to actually stick the pads on, I had gotten the order wrong! We all took turns applying the AED after performing chest compressions. While I had cinched the chest compressions (no spine-touches this time), my command issuing was weak. While usually fearless in my regular job in delegating responsibilities, my lack of confidence showed in my timid delivery. Definitely conduct unbecoming of The Man.
The worst part was performing these same tasks on the baby-sized mannequin. My heart absolutely sank when the instructor mentioned how frequently babies need First Aid/CPR. Despite holding what was essentially a doll, my nerves still rampaged. Fortunately, my technique was enough to save the inanimate infant this time.
We then moved to the Stop the Bleed section of the course. I had successfully managed to sticky-gauze my own forearm before we moved to tourniquets. I applied a tourniquet to my own leg (thankfully not at full force). As predicted, I didn’t get it right at first. But after a few quick seconds of seeing my mistake, I managed to secure the strap around my thigh and twist the wand clockwise. It’s too bad that my numb jaw wouldn’t stop chattering…
We moved onto packing a wound, complete with a fleshier mannequin, absolutely pooling with Hollywood blood. My hands would not stop shaking as I donned my sterile gloves. The this is morbid thoughts came back as I had to dig my thumb into the soft fleshy opening to cram the gauze in; red corn syrup gushed everywhere. With that said, I packed the wound full of gauze; no bleed-outs on my watch. Mission-Accomplished!
The lesson concluded shortly after that. Instead of feeling like a success, all I could feel was that I need more training. The nerves refused to dissipate. I set in the driver’s seat of my car, unable to fully process the responsibility and the moral weight of the knowledge that I had just acquired. My hands tremored so violently that I tried to squirt Purell on to my palms from the trial-sized bottle in my car…and fucking missed. Yes, at point-blank range, the glob landed right on my shirt.
I got home and made it a mission to take inventory of First Aid supplies I had and compared them to my freshly-scrawled notes. I won’t keep you in suspense, it was subpar to say the least. While I owned a First Aid kit, it lacked the goodies that the instructor mentioned it ought to have. Not to mention, I purchased it 9 years ago and then stored it under my bathroom sink. The once sanitary gauze rolls were now moldy; a lesson learned the hard way. Within twelve hours, I went on Amazon and bought myself two appropriate First Aid kits (one for home, one for the car) and two combat tourniquets.
Besides the whole feeling completely deficient thing, another thought crept into my mind. The instructor was roughly seven years my junior, though he had seen his fair share of horrifying scenarios. It made me wonder if I had spent my early days allocating too many skill points into science and money. It’s as if I had become nearly useless outside of those two arenas (three if you count writing, but the jury’s still out on that one). Change is hard, but change is possible and change is necessary.
Ass thoroughly kicked, more training is needed.
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