Today we learned how to take blood pressure readings. What does it say about me that I found it incredibly fun? Clearly, I need to get out more. But I can't begin to count the number of times I've had my blood pressure taken, and all those times I never understood the numbers, the equipment, the results. I now own a stethoscope and a cuff and a sphygmomanometer. In purple. And I know how to use them. Well, okay, I need a lot more practice. After all, I'm not sure a patient on the verge of cardiac arrest is going to appreciate how long it takes me to line up the cuff over the brachial pulse, inflate, reposition my ear pieces, deflate slowly, inflate again just to be sure I heard the pulse, deflate again even more slowly so as to get the diastolic number correct, etc.
But lab today was fun. There were four of us sitting around, taking turns with one another's pulses, radial and brachial and systolic and diastolic, pulsated and auscultated, and laughing because I was convinced my partner was one of the undead, and then, poor guy, I left the cuff fully inflated around his arm as I asked someone else a question, so he calmly reached over and released the air for himself. I still chuckle just thinking about it, but maybe it's one of those circumstances where you had to be there.
And that's the point: I am so glad I am there. It's intense. There is a ton of information being thrown at you, there's constant assessing going on, constant preparing for the next quiz, next exam, but also preparing for the real world of emergency medical services. And you're in a room with 31 other people, people who were complete strangers two weeks ago. Two weeks! I've only seen these people four times in my life, but they are familiar to me now, I know things about them I never thought I'd know about anyone in such a short period of time. It's not like joining the military or even like being a kid at summer camp, where every waking moment is shared with your cohorts so you bond in no time. But we are all in that room, sharing a common purpose, which is to pass our tests, both written and practicals, and learn all the skills we need to know in order to be effective emergency medical personnel. None of us could do it in a vacuum. Yeah, there are some jerks in the class who think they're the best of the best already, who came in with a cocky attitude and act like the world owes them something. There are people like that everywhere. The majority of the other students, however, are supportive and encouraging and really want to be good at what they do. They want to offer help and accept help. They want to have fun and learn everything.
Yup, learning and having fun. I'm not sure it gets much better than that.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Chair lifts and quizzes and line-ups, oh my!
I may have been right-on when I worried about demoralization and humiliation. I guess I'm not done with the "what was I thinking?" train of thought.
Thursday, I was exhausted. And that was at the beginning of class. Our instructor gives us 10 minutes of break time for every hour of lecture time, which is fabulous. It's also incredibly smart on her part. It keeps mid-class interruptions to a minimum (such as people getting up to go to the bathroom) and allows the room full of young men (and a few women) to move around and expend some of their energy. And it allows old, tired people like me to try to wake up and re-focus.
It was still a great lecture. It was about taking care of yourself as an EMT. It was about the physical and emotional demands that are placed on you. It's a stressful profession, on your body and on your mind. Our instructor talked about how hard it is to lose patients who are infants or kids, and about how hard it is to deal with a victim who might have things in common with you because it's almost impossible not to put yourself in the victim's place. She talked about how important it is not to put yourself at risk, but also how hard it is not to, sometimes. Being in this profession can take a toll on personal relationships because who else can really understand what you're going through, other than another EMT? It's intense, all the way around.
I don't know what I will do the first time I see a dead body. I don't know what it will be like to see someone who's bleeding profusely, who's hysterical, who's just lost a limb. I hope I'll be able to stay calm and be helpful, and if I'm going to freak out, do it away from the patient. But I don't know. Sometimes I flinch just seeing something on TV, although I've tried to control that in the past few months.
But there's a chance I won't even get to that point. We had our first day of "lifts" on Thursday, and I am not nearly as strong as I thought I was. I have pretty good endurance, but actual strength, enough to lift a real person, I don't know. I stumbled a couple of times, and my self-confidence plummeted. I almost dropped someone. I wasn't prepared for how heavy people are, and how important technique is. I never ask for help when I'm carrying big bags of dog food out to the car, and it's only recently that my boys have gotten too heavy for me to carry them upstairs while they're sleeping, so I didn't think I'd have so much trouble sharing the weight of a human being with someone else. (Don't worry--it's not like I thought this job would be centered around people asking me to carry bags of pet food to their car.)
Why did I stop going to the gym?
On Thursday, I was doing it all wrong. I was lifting with my arms and back, not with my legs. When I tried to lift with my legs, I lost my balance. I was also so self-conscious about my own weight that I didn't allow myself to be the "victim" in any of the carrying scenarios, because I didn't want the guys who'd be lifting me to feel how heavy I am.
This is not for the faint-of-heart. This is not for people who are worried about other people's impressions of them. I do not know what I am doing. But I don't want to quit. I can't tell you how much I don't want to quit. And it's not because of pride, at least not entirely. It's because I am still loving it. I have met some great people. I am crazy about the instructor. I am crazy about this field. It is exciting and fascinating and unlike anything I have ever done before.
On Thursday, when I was struggling, and feeling bad, the other students and the instructors were great. They did not make me feel bad. My main instructor was supportive and helpful. The instructor who was the person showing my group how to use chair lifts to get patients down the stairs was downright saintly. It was our last rotation, and I was terrified. We were on an actual flight of stairs, there was a real person in the chair, and when it was my turn to try to get the person down, I said to the instructor, "I don't want to do this. I am really afraid I will drop him." The instructor smiled and said, "No, you won't. I won't let you. I'll be with you all the way."
I'm 5'5", a good 20 pounds overweight, and in my mid-40s. How could this gentleman be so confident? How could he know he wouldn't let me f--- this up?
He knew. He helped me, he showed me what to do, and he wouldn't let me get out of it just because I was scared. He was gentle and kind. Could I have done it without his help? Not in a million years. But he said to me, "Out in the field, you can always ask for help. Don't ever be afraid to ask for help."
I want to do this. Professionally, I've never wanted anything more. I have a college degree, I have a master's degree. I have far more education and life experience than any other student in the class. But I am behind. My education and life experience, at least as far as the physical aspect of this job is concerned, are meaningless. I am at a disadvantage. I can live with that. Sometimes I feel guilty that I may have taken the spot in this program that someone more qualified might have had, someone who has a much better chance of being an excellent EMT, so I am committed to doing the best I can.
Time to do some squats.
Thursday, I was exhausted. And that was at the beginning of class. Our instructor gives us 10 minutes of break time for every hour of lecture time, which is fabulous. It's also incredibly smart on her part. It keeps mid-class interruptions to a minimum (such as people getting up to go to the bathroom) and allows the room full of young men (and a few women) to move around and expend some of their energy. And it allows old, tired people like me to try to wake up and re-focus.
It was still a great lecture. It was about taking care of yourself as an EMT. It was about the physical and emotional demands that are placed on you. It's a stressful profession, on your body and on your mind. Our instructor talked about how hard it is to lose patients who are infants or kids, and about how hard it is to deal with a victim who might have things in common with you because it's almost impossible not to put yourself in the victim's place. She talked about how important it is not to put yourself at risk, but also how hard it is not to, sometimes. Being in this profession can take a toll on personal relationships because who else can really understand what you're going through, other than another EMT? It's intense, all the way around.
I don't know what I will do the first time I see a dead body. I don't know what it will be like to see someone who's bleeding profusely, who's hysterical, who's just lost a limb. I hope I'll be able to stay calm and be helpful, and if I'm going to freak out, do it away from the patient. But I don't know. Sometimes I flinch just seeing something on TV, although I've tried to control that in the past few months.
But there's a chance I won't even get to that point. We had our first day of "lifts" on Thursday, and I am not nearly as strong as I thought I was. I have pretty good endurance, but actual strength, enough to lift a real person, I don't know. I stumbled a couple of times, and my self-confidence plummeted. I almost dropped someone. I wasn't prepared for how heavy people are, and how important technique is. I never ask for help when I'm carrying big bags of dog food out to the car, and it's only recently that my boys have gotten too heavy for me to carry them upstairs while they're sleeping, so I didn't think I'd have so much trouble sharing the weight of a human being with someone else. (Don't worry--it's not like I thought this job would be centered around people asking me to carry bags of pet food to their car.)
Why did I stop going to the gym?
On Thursday, I was doing it all wrong. I was lifting with my arms and back, not with my legs. When I tried to lift with my legs, I lost my balance. I was also so self-conscious about my own weight that I didn't allow myself to be the "victim" in any of the carrying scenarios, because I didn't want the guys who'd be lifting me to feel how heavy I am.
This is not for the faint-of-heart. This is not for people who are worried about other people's impressions of them. I do not know what I am doing. But I don't want to quit. I can't tell you how much I don't want to quit. And it's not because of pride, at least not entirely. It's because I am still loving it. I have met some great people. I am crazy about the instructor. I am crazy about this field. It is exciting and fascinating and unlike anything I have ever done before.
On Thursday, when I was struggling, and feeling bad, the other students and the instructors were great. They did not make me feel bad. My main instructor was supportive and helpful. The instructor who was the person showing my group how to use chair lifts to get patients down the stairs was downright saintly. It was our last rotation, and I was terrified. We were on an actual flight of stairs, there was a real person in the chair, and when it was my turn to try to get the person down, I said to the instructor, "I don't want to do this. I am really afraid I will drop him." The instructor smiled and said, "No, you won't. I won't let you. I'll be with you all the way."
I'm 5'5", a good 20 pounds overweight, and in my mid-40s. How could this gentleman be so confident? How could he know he wouldn't let me f--- this up?
He knew. He helped me, he showed me what to do, and he wouldn't let me get out of it just because I was scared. He was gentle and kind. Could I have done it without his help? Not in a million years. But he said to me, "Out in the field, you can always ask for help. Don't ever be afraid to ask for help."
I want to do this. Professionally, I've never wanted anything more. I have a college degree, I have a master's degree. I have far more education and life experience than any other student in the class. But I am behind. My education and life experience, at least as far as the physical aspect of this job is concerned, are meaningless. I am at a disadvantage. I can live with that. Sometimes I feel guilty that I may have taken the spot in this program that someone more qualified might have had, someone who has a much better chance of being an excellent EMT, so I am committed to doing the best I can.
Time to do some squats.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Whole New World
What an amazing day. I am exhausted and energized and excited and euphoric. I woke up nervous and unsure, grumpy and defensive. When I went to the campus bookstore yesterday to purchase goggles and a uniform sweatshirt, I stood in line behind 2 EMS students who were young and knowledgeable, having obviously been through the basic program already. They seemed confident and sure of themselves, and appeared to be buddies in the program. They were also young enough that I could easily have been their mother. I also determined that their combined body weight would probably come in somewhere around my single weight. I suddenly felt all my enthusiasm and motivation pour out of me. What was I doing? What was I thinking? What in God's name made me think I could do this, would enjoy it, would find it anything but humiliating and demoralizing?
So I woke up out of sorts, not sure what I was getting into, and telling myself I could just do my work, keep my head down, get what I could from the program, and move on. It didn't help that I couldn't figure out where to park, or even how to get into the building once I did park--the campus is labyrinthine, and basically hell for someone like me who has absolutely no sense of direction.
But on my way in, I ended up walking in with a young woman who was also on her way to the class. She knew exactly where she (and therefore I) was supposed to go, and we went together. I had another moment of panic when we walked into the classroom at 8:50 for a 9:00 class and the room was already filled with students. Before I could stop myself, I gasped to her, "Oh my God, are we late?" (Being late is an even more serious rule violation than messing up the uniform.) But she replied, "No, we're not late."
We found seats toward the back, though I'd told myself I'd want to sit near the front in order to help my focus, and not have to worry about seeing the board or the screen. We were soon joined by a young woman who could only be described as perky; her hair was pulled back in a long red ponytail, her round face was adorably freckled, and she was not completely in uniform. She sat right down, introduced herself, and we began to chat. (I know you will think I am making it up when I say it turns out that she is a cheerleading coach.)
Then it started. The information, the rules, the guidelines. I looked around surreptitiously and noticed several people not in full uniform. We were told there'd be a "line-up" every day, starting today, during which our uniforms would be looked over. Interestingly, it never happened, but we've been told it will for sure on Thursday. I imagine there were quite a few relieved students in that room. And I didn't care that other students "got away with" not having their uniforms when I made sure I had mine because it was well worth it for me not to spend the whole day dreading the moment of the line-up.
Our instructor is a woman, which is not what I expected but which is comforting and inspiring. (There are 32 students in the class, and 6 of us are female.) She is also my age or a little older, but she's been in the business for a couple of decades at least, and I am by far the oldest student. Well, there's one man who might be my age, or it could just be that he hasn't aged well and looks older than he is.
We have assigned seats: a little disappointing because the two women and I were enjoying sitting near one another. I ended up sitting at the end of a row, which is nice, and closer to the front, which is also nice, but next to a man who didn't read the rule about avoiding too much cologne. I thought about starting a conversation with him because his last name is a name we came very close to calling our first son, but thought I might not want to start harping on the fact that I'm old enough to have kids, at least not this early in the semester.
There will be quizzes every day (classes are twice a week) and homework assigned every day, as well. Fridays are free lab days which means anyone can come in and practice lab skills. We're also allowed to bring equipment home, including mannequins, in order to practice, as long as they get brought back the following Monday. (I'm thinking that could have proved amusing over the Halloween weekend.)
I'm nervous about the quizzes and the exams, the practicals and the clinicals. What I think I may be most nervous about are the things over which I have no control--such as arriving late one day because one of the boys is sick, or having to miss a day of class because I am sick or because my husband has to be out of town and something requires that I be home. I don't want to miss anything, and I don't want to be late; I don't want any "blue slips" or "green slips."
But I loved my first day. I enjoyed the other students with whom I got to interact, I was fascinated by the anecdotes the instructor offered, I liked being challenged by bagging and giving compressions to a plastic dummy (which I need help with--had it been a real patient, he'd be long dead by now, thanks to me). I loved the morbid jokes that go flying around, that are not just tolerated but embraced by the experienced staff who explained that it's a great way to handle the stress of working with death and injuries day in and day out.
I can't wait until Thursday.
So I woke up out of sorts, not sure what I was getting into, and telling myself I could just do my work, keep my head down, get what I could from the program, and move on. It didn't help that I couldn't figure out where to park, or even how to get into the building once I did park--the campus is labyrinthine, and basically hell for someone like me who has absolutely no sense of direction.
But on my way in, I ended up walking in with a young woman who was also on her way to the class. She knew exactly where she (and therefore I) was supposed to go, and we went together. I had another moment of panic when we walked into the classroom at 8:50 for a 9:00 class and the room was already filled with students. Before I could stop myself, I gasped to her, "Oh my God, are we late?" (Being late is an even more serious rule violation than messing up the uniform.) But she replied, "No, we're not late."
We found seats toward the back, though I'd told myself I'd want to sit near the front in order to help my focus, and not have to worry about seeing the board or the screen. We were soon joined by a young woman who could only be described as perky; her hair was pulled back in a long red ponytail, her round face was adorably freckled, and she was not completely in uniform. She sat right down, introduced herself, and we began to chat. (I know you will think I am making it up when I say it turns out that she is a cheerleading coach.)
Then it started. The information, the rules, the guidelines. I looked around surreptitiously and noticed several people not in full uniform. We were told there'd be a "line-up" every day, starting today, during which our uniforms would be looked over. Interestingly, it never happened, but we've been told it will for sure on Thursday. I imagine there were quite a few relieved students in that room. And I didn't care that other students "got away with" not having their uniforms when I made sure I had mine because it was well worth it for me not to spend the whole day dreading the moment of the line-up.
Our instructor is a woman, which is not what I expected but which is comforting and inspiring. (There are 32 students in the class, and 6 of us are female.) She is also my age or a little older, but she's been in the business for a couple of decades at least, and I am by far the oldest student. Well, there's one man who might be my age, or it could just be that he hasn't aged well and looks older than he is.
We have assigned seats: a little disappointing because the two women and I were enjoying sitting near one another. I ended up sitting at the end of a row, which is nice, and closer to the front, which is also nice, but next to a man who didn't read the rule about avoiding too much cologne. I thought about starting a conversation with him because his last name is a name we came very close to calling our first son, but thought I might not want to start harping on the fact that I'm old enough to have kids, at least not this early in the semester.
There will be quizzes every day (classes are twice a week) and homework assigned every day, as well. Fridays are free lab days which means anyone can come in and practice lab skills. We're also allowed to bring equipment home, including mannequins, in order to practice, as long as they get brought back the following Monday. (I'm thinking that could have proved amusing over the Halloween weekend.)
I'm nervous about the quizzes and the exams, the practicals and the clinicals. What I think I may be most nervous about are the things over which I have no control--such as arriving late one day because one of the boys is sick, or having to miss a day of class because I am sick or because my husband has to be out of town and something requires that I be home. I don't want to miss anything, and I don't want to be late; I don't want any "blue slips" or "green slips."
But I loved my first day. I enjoyed the other students with whom I got to interact, I was fascinated by the anecdotes the instructor offered, I liked being challenged by bagging and giving compressions to a plastic dummy (which I need help with--had it been a real patient, he'd be long dead by now, thanks to me). I loved the morbid jokes that go flying around, that are not just tolerated but embraced by the experienced staff who explained that it's a great way to handle the stress of working with death and injuries day in and day out.
I can't wait until Thursday.
Friday, January 8, 2010
In For a Penny...
Today is Friday. On Tuesday, four days from now, I will don the world's least flattering outfit and head to my first class for EMT training. There are ways in which I have had a gestation period with the whole experience: last month I attended a generic orientation for the community college, and used my trip out to the campus as an excuse to pick up the uniform shirts we have to be wearing on Day One. I paid for my classes a day or two later. I had my physical for the program a few days ago, which included the first in a series of Hepatitis B vaccines as well as a drug screening. Yesterday my husband picked up my required books for me while I went to an army-navy store to purchase the rest of the uniform (navy blue pants, cargo-style; black belt; smooth-toed boots). Actually, the boots have to be sent from a near-by store because they didn't have my size, so today I will get the boots, as well as pick up the health form that will have the results of my drug screen.
But each day it gets a little more real. I flipped through a couple of the books yesterday, one of which is the workbook that needs to be filled out for clinical runs, the other of which is the book that explains vehicle extrication. They involve rules--rules like you must address everyone as Mr. or Ms., that you can't argue about whether or not your attire is acceptable, don't wear jewelry or perfume, the cargo uniform pants are actually not acceptable for the clinical runs (you must wear navy plain-front pants instead), if it's cold outside you can wear the school-approved EMS outerwear shirt, your socks must be black.
I used to be a pseudo-boho. The woman who would turn out to be my best friend in college (and with whom I am still extremely close) admitted that the first time she saw me she thought I was a drug dealer. I love tie-dye anything. I love dream catchers. But these rules don't faze me. There are ways in which public service, such as police work, being a member of a fire department, being an EMT, is much like the military. There just isn't room for mistakes or inconsistency, there isn't time to ponder or debate when timing is everything. I suppose it's like many things in life: you have to learn the rules of grammar, or art, or music, before you can play with them or introduce any kind of finesse. I know there is an art to being a great--well, a great anything. But the rules have to come first.
That's something I could not have swallowed, let alone embraced, years ago. I was anti-establishment all the way. I questioned everything. Maybe I've gotten more conservative as I've gotten older, or maybe I just understand the world differently. Maybe, I hope, I actually understand the world more fully. I would not send my own children to a school where they had to wear a uniform, because I don't believe that that's what childhood or education is about. Uniforms are to make the teachers' and administrators' lives simpler; I do not believe they teach the children a damn thing. And that means that particular place of education is putting convenience before the needs of the children.
But childhood is supposed to be a time of questioning, of trying to make sense of the world while at the same time discovering oneself. If a child comes to school dressed inappropriately, that is a teachable moment. It takes time--someone will have to have a conversation with that child about why his or her choice of attire is inappropriate, and there will be a give-and-take. But that teaches the child so many things in that one interaction: that he or she is worth engaging in conversation, that his or her viewpoint matters, that he or she is being heard. And then he or she must listen, respect an other's viewpoint, and take the time to digest the reasons for not being allowed to dress that way, even if he or she doesn't agree.
But I am not getting trained as an EMT so I can have conversations with my superiors about how having to wear navy blue is not allowing me to express my individuality. I am getting trained as an EMT because I want to learn how to help people in an emergency. The best way to train people to do that is to make rules that must be followed, and spend precious time on things that matter. If what I wear matters to me, I should pick a different option. After all, as I said to the young woman from whom I am buying a pair of the world's ugliest boots for $100, I clearly am not going into this profession for the fashion.
Well, this topic was a digression. Because even more than the rules that at one time would have seemed arbitrary and ridiculous, I was struck by the scope of an EMT's experience, even just an EMT Basic. The two words that come to mind most frequently when I think about this particular journey are excited and terrified. I might get to hold a little girl's hand all the way to the hospital to reassure her and help her feel less frightened; I might see someone bleed to death. I might get to assist in childbirth; I might have to support a woman who's just been told her husband is dead. I might have to help fold back the hood of a car in order to get someone out of the driver's seat. I might have to hear that I did something wrong or something stupid. I might spend a 12-hour shift sitting in the seat of an ambulance reading a book or watching the rain fall.
And it all starts Tuesday.
But each day it gets a little more real. I flipped through a couple of the books yesterday, one of which is the workbook that needs to be filled out for clinical runs, the other of which is the book that explains vehicle extrication. They involve rules--rules like you must address everyone as Mr. or Ms., that you can't argue about whether or not your attire is acceptable, don't wear jewelry or perfume, the cargo uniform pants are actually not acceptable for the clinical runs (you must wear navy plain-front pants instead), if it's cold outside you can wear the school-approved EMS outerwear shirt, your socks must be black.
I used to be a pseudo-boho. The woman who would turn out to be my best friend in college (and with whom I am still extremely close) admitted that the first time she saw me she thought I was a drug dealer. I love tie-dye anything. I love dream catchers. But these rules don't faze me. There are ways in which public service, such as police work, being a member of a fire department, being an EMT, is much like the military. There just isn't room for mistakes or inconsistency, there isn't time to ponder or debate when timing is everything. I suppose it's like many things in life: you have to learn the rules of grammar, or art, or music, before you can play with them or introduce any kind of finesse. I know there is an art to being a great--well, a great anything. But the rules have to come first.
That's something I could not have swallowed, let alone embraced, years ago. I was anti-establishment all the way. I questioned everything. Maybe I've gotten more conservative as I've gotten older, or maybe I just understand the world differently. Maybe, I hope, I actually understand the world more fully. I would not send my own children to a school where they had to wear a uniform, because I don't believe that that's what childhood or education is about. Uniforms are to make the teachers' and administrators' lives simpler; I do not believe they teach the children a damn thing. And that means that particular place of education is putting convenience before the needs of the children.
But childhood is supposed to be a time of questioning, of trying to make sense of the world while at the same time discovering oneself. If a child comes to school dressed inappropriately, that is a teachable moment. It takes time--someone will have to have a conversation with that child about why his or her choice of attire is inappropriate, and there will be a give-and-take. But that teaches the child so many things in that one interaction: that he or she is worth engaging in conversation, that his or her viewpoint matters, that he or she is being heard. And then he or she must listen, respect an other's viewpoint, and take the time to digest the reasons for not being allowed to dress that way, even if he or she doesn't agree.
But I am not getting trained as an EMT so I can have conversations with my superiors about how having to wear navy blue is not allowing me to express my individuality. I am getting trained as an EMT because I want to learn how to help people in an emergency. The best way to train people to do that is to make rules that must be followed, and spend precious time on things that matter. If what I wear matters to me, I should pick a different option. After all, as I said to the young woman from whom I am buying a pair of the world's ugliest boots for $100, I clearly am not going into this profession for the fashion.
Well, this topic was a digression. Because even more than the rules that at one time would have seemed arbitrary and ridiculous, I was struck by the scope of an EMT's experience, even just an EMT Basic. The two words that come to mind most frequently when I think about this particular journey are excited and terrified. I might get to hold a little girl's hand all the way to the hospital to reassure her and help her feel less frightened; I might see someone bleed to death. I might get to assist in childbirth; I might have to support a woman who's just been told her husband is dead. I might have to help fold back the hood of a car in order to get someone out of the driver's seat. I might have to hear that I did something wrong or something stupid. I might spend a 12-hour shift sitting in the seat of an ambulance reading a book or watching the rain fall.
And it all starts Tuesday.
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