Help!

It is not often that one gets that golden opportunity, the long- hoped for chance to be somebody’s hero.

It usually starts with a cry for help.

Help! She cried, and despite the danger of walking nose-first into a cliche, G and I headed for the unmistakeable phenomenon of white woman screaming, on her back on the ground.

Grounded People

Why do grounded people make us so immediately defensive? I blame the Inner Cynic. Is it a drunk? Is it faking? Is it dirty? Does it have an infectious disease? Is it acting? Is it a joke?

Against which, is it a person in trouble comes a pretty poor second.

But on this occasion a perfectly sane (apparently) sober (certainly) uninfectious retired white womb was lying on her back, on the ground, shouting for help. Her foot was quite obviously twisted in the wrong was. Behind a tree nearby a trio of homeless people continued quite oblivious in their lost world of heroin.

At last! Mr hero option! I sat next to her, held her hand and in my best hero voice  told G to call an ambulance.

Then, as I had seen in movies (and in real life) I started chatting with the woman to try and take her mind away from the pain.

Her grip on my arm and forearm varied from a father and daughter travelling through a forest in the dark to the determination  of a martial artist to make fingers and thumb meet through flesh. While I considered the possibility of a deep dark bruise, I resolved to endure as long as possible.

She is Sue. A widow, lives on her own with a cat. Takes antidepressants, was a clerical assistant in a number of different businesses from a store group to a bank. Has opinions, that’s for sure! A very likeable person, good for the occasional tea and biscuits, but maybe not for long term deep friendships.

Others gathered. The owner of a local guest house – German, delightfully but restrainedly camp. Her hairdresser- Algerian, not camp. A beautiful motherly black lady from a nearby flat who knew Sue somewhat. She brought pillows and stayed the course. A very fit twenty-something young man, who described himself as a “first responder” who busily ensured that all the niceties of assessing and dealing with a street casualty were properly performed – checking heart rate, looking at the injury, making her comfortable. These three, plus me and  G were to be her companions and supporters for the next two and a half hours.

Which is how long it took for the ambulance to arrive.

Street scene in CT.

Casualty on the ground,

bystanders all around. Passers by passing by

And I, entrapped by the  wound

Sit a prisoner of my own good faith and wait

While strangers, late, decide my fate…

Hours went by- no ambulance. G ran to the hospital (only a few blocks away) to ask why and was assured one had been dispatched. Ran back. No ambulance. The First Responder phoned. ~ another passer-by phoned. Eventually a lady labeled ‘Medic” arrived all efficiency and determination and she phoned.

And FINALLY the ambulance arrived, just in time for me to detach my hand from that of the victim, count all my fingers and begin work on getting the blood flowing again.

The paramedics were exceptional. Efficient, kind, well equipped. All that needed to be done was done. And when the question of her ability to pay was settled (she was unable to pay) Sue was finally loaded in and the ambulance set off, regrettably with no sirens whatsoever.

Next episode: A Tale of two hospitals