Somebody save me

Columnist recounts positive experience with paramedics.

I was just trying to catch some air. I’d been watching my 7-year-old grandson sail over the jumps at the bike park we were visiting. My son urged me to go a little faster on my new mountain bike to “catch some air.”

It was certain to make an awesome photograph, so I handed my son my camera and decided that when I reached the peak of the berm, I wouldn’t brake, as instinct suggested, but I would let myself launch into the clear, blue air. I didn’t realize, when he instructed me to stand up on the pedals as I went over the jump, that it was necessary to the physics of the stunt. Standing up seemed a little too daring.

My front tire hugged the trail like a Bridgestone and the back tire behaved more like a hang glider. My body most resembled a sky diver without a chute.

I remember the sensation of my helmet grinding in the gravel as the rest of my body tumbled over.

Oh I hurt. I wasn’t sure I wasn’t broken to bits, but as I tried this limb and then another, I seemed mostly in one bleeding piece. I gingerly rose from the dust and allowed my husband and son to guide me down the trail. I became more and more disoriented as I walked toward the car. I didn’t know where I was or where I lived. I knew that I must have some level of brain injury, and told my husband to call 911. He says I said it at least half a dozen times.

My husband tells me that the sheriff arrived within a minute and helped reassure all involved. I don’t remember that part.

The next thing I remember is a paramedic talking to me. He was asking me questions and narrating what he was doing as he took my blood pressure and did a preliminary assessment.

I don’t remember actually seeing his face. I have the impression that he was a young, handsome fellow, but that impression is probably based mostly on my preconceived ideas about knights in shining armor and rescue workers.

Maybe I’ve been incredibly lucky in the rescue workers that have responded to my urgent calls, but I don’t think it’s luck. Experience suggests that all rescue workers are calm, sympathetic, knowledgeable, friendly and capable.

I’ve seen police at accident scenes calming and reassuring those involved in the incident with tremendous compassion, particularly those who were at fault and knew it.

Another time, a young guest fell unconscious on our living room floor and, when he came around, showed symptoms of having a heart attack. Rescue workers were there in a few moments and correctly identified the source of his distress (panic and hyperventilation) so that by the time the ambulance arrived, he was already feeling pretty good.

The time my son Brian filleted his fingers in the midst of a Colorado blizzard, it took the volunteer fire department rescue workers half an hour to get through the deep snow to our house. But the dispatcher on the 911 line calmly instructed me what to do and what was likely to happen. When the EMTs did arrive, they calmly surveyed the ghastly injury as they joked with my son. By the time they climbed out of the ambulance, they were laughing and joking like fast friends.

Another time, I tore my hamstring water skiing. If given a choice between that or childbirth, I’d take childbirth twice. I was so grateful that my brotherin-law, Barry Baxter, is an EMT and a fireman. He not only knew exactly how to best convey me into the boat, his calm confidence reassured me and helped me to be calm enough to assess my own injury.

A rescue worker’s calm, controlled presence is enough to stop someone from going into shock. I haven’t figured out whether only people with the attributes of calm, confidence and competence think of going into those fields or whether that reassuring demeanor is the result of terrific training.

I’m healing up pretty quickly from my career as a stunt cyclist. The brain scan showed no damage. Unfortunately, my son looked away at just the wrong moment and didn’t get a picture.

But I’m feeling grateful for those that I know are standing by to come to our rescue. Thank you to all the thousands of men and women who minister to us in our most frightening moments. Every time you help someone, you claim a lifelong tender spot in someone’s heart.

Only in America, God bless it!

I gingerly rose from the dust and allowed my husband and son to guide me down the trail. I became more and more disoriented as I walked toward the car. I didn’t know where I was or where I lived. I knew that I must have some level of brain injury, and told my husband to call 911. He says I said it at least half a dozen times.