On the way home
Jul. 16th, 2008 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
It was hot and humid when I left work, close to ninety. And the wind was gusty, in the wrong direction, and then I realized that my tires were low, so it was really taking a lot of effort to move the bike. And I just wasn't in the mood. I'll take the light rail, I decided. So I crossed the tracks and swooped into the rail station at Cedar-Riverside--and then braked abruptly at the sight in front of me.
A man was lying stretched out on the ground, his head about six inches from the edge of the platform, having a seizure.
I hopped off the bike and rushed over, wondering why on earth none of the half dozen or so onlookers were helping him. They were, I realized later--two of them were on their cell phones, calling 911, but no one was approaching him. It also occurred to me later that most of the onlookers were Somali women, and I believe they have a religious taboo against touching any man to whom they are not related. I wonder, but do not know, whether that taboo can overlooked in a medical emergency.
My first thought was to check him for a medical alert ID bracelet, and sure enough, I discovered, when I extracted his arm (with a little difficulty) from underneath his body, there was a bracelet with his name and his condition: epilepsy. By that time, one of the women had reached and was talking with the 911 operator, and the operator asked the caller to give the phone to me, since I was assessing his condition. The operator told me not to try to restrain him or to attempt to put anything in his mouth (I knew that, but I'll bet a lot of people confronted with an epileptic episode wouldn't). She transferred me to an EMT, who talked to me some more, as I held the man's hand. After about five minutes the seizure stopped, although he was quite dazed for awhile afterwards. A light rail train pulled into the station, and the conductor was obviously concerned, and so didn't pull the train out. The crossing gate kept clanging, and the train kept sounding bells, and then the conductor came on the station loudspeaker to let the passengers disembarking know that there was a medical situation going on. It was all but impossible to hear the EMT on the phone over all the noise.
But eventually the confusion was sorted out and we waited for the ambulance to arrive. I continued to hold the man's hand, mopping up the saliva that he had drooled with a wad of Kleenex that a passerby offered to me. I talked to him as reassuringly as I could, addressing him by his name, telling him that my name was Peg, that help was on the way. I held up his fallen hat over his head so that the shadow fell across his face, until another bystander took it and held it up for me. He still wasn't able to verbalize by the time the paramedics arrived, but they pulled him aside and set him on a bench, dismissing the gurney back to the ambulance. He had some bleeding from scraped elbows and knees .
I thought about it as I got on the train with my bike to go home (and so great was my distraction that I realized, several stops later, that for the first time ever I had forgotten to pay for my ride. Sorry, Metro Transit. I still had a wad of unused Kleenex in my hand.). The whole incident, of course, was startling for the passersby, although personally I think I acquitted myself pretty well. I thought about all the milling around that people were doing, the startled squawks: Omigod! It's a medical emergency! But I suppose for him, it might be just routine--so routine that maybe it happens every month. Or every week. Or even several times a week. Maybe he came around to find me holding his hand, smiling down at him, and all he could think (once his brain started working again) was "Oh, great, they had to go call the ambulance again. Geez."
But I kept thinking about how close he was to the tracks. His head was a mere six inches from the edge of the platform as he convulsed there in front of me. What if he had fallen on the tracks themselves? I don't think I could have lifted a convulsing man back to the platform by myself. What if it hadn't been a five minute wait before the train came; what if it had been pulling into the station when he fell?
Well, it didn't happen this time. I did what I could. That is what it must be like to live with epilepsy--to know that your life, at each moment, might be endangered if you fall in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and your salvation may depend on the split second decisions of frightened strangers.
A curious reliance on grace, is it not?
A man was lying stretched out on the ground, his head about six inches from the edge of the platform, having a seizure.
I hopped off the bike and rushed over, wondering why on earth none of the half dozen or so onlookers were helping him. They were, I realized later--two of them were on their cell phones, calling 911, but no one was approaching him. It also occurred to me later that most of the onlookers were Somali women, and I believe they have a religious taboo against touching any man to whom they are not related. I wonder, but do not know, whether that taboo can overlooked in a medical emergency.
My first thought was to check him for a medical alert ID bracelet, and sure enough, I discovered, when I extracted his arm (with a little difficulty) from underneath his body, there was a bracelet with his name and his condition: epilepsy. By that time, one of the women had reached and was talking with the 911 operator, and the operator asked the caller to give the phone to me, since I was assessing his condition. The operator told me not to try to restrain him or to attempt to put anything in his mouth (I knew that, but I'll bet a lot of people confronted with an epileptic episode wouldn't). She transferred me to an EMT, who talked to me some more, as I held the man's hand. After about five minutes the seizure stopped, although he was quite dazed for awhile afterwards. A light rail train pulled into the station, and the conductor was obviously concerned, and so didn't pull the train out. The crossing gate kept clanging, and the train kept sounding bells, and then the conductor came on the station loudspeaker to let the passengers disembarking know that there was a medical situation going on. It was all but impossible to hear the EMT on the phone over all the noise.
But eventually the confusion was sorted out and we waited for the ambulance to arrive. I continued to hold the man's hand, mopping up the saliva that he had drooled with a wad of Kleenex that a passerby offered to me. I talked to him as reassuringly as I could, addressing him by his name, telling him that my name was Peg, that help was on the way. I held up his fallen hat over his head so that the shadow fell across his face, until another bystander took it and held it up for me. He still wasn't able to verbalize by the time the paramedics arrived, but they pulled him aside and set him on a bench, dismissing the gurney back to the ambulance. He had some bleeding from scraped elbows and knees .
I thought about it as I got on the train with my bike to go home (and so great was my distraction that I realized, several stops later, that for the first time ever I had forgotten to pay for my ride. Sorry, Metro Transit. I still had a wad of unused Kleenex in my hand.). The whole incident, of course, was startling for the passersby, although personally I think I acquitted myself pretty well. I thought about all the milling around that people were doing, the startled squawks: Omigod! It's a medical emergency! But I suppose for him, it might be just routine--so routine that maybe it happens every month. Or every week. Or even several times a week. Maybe he came around to find me holding his hand, smiling down at him, and all he could think (once his brain started working again) was "Oh, great, they had to go call the ambulance again. Geez."
But I kept thinking about how close he was to the tracks. His head was a mere six inches from the edge of the platform as he convulsed there in front of me. What if he had fallen on the tracks themselves? I don't think I could have lifted a convulsing man back to the platform by myself. What if it hadn't been a five minute wait before the train came; what if it had been pulling into the station when he fell?
Well, it didn't happen this time. I did what I could. That is what it must be like to live with epilepsy--to know that your life, at each moment, might be endangered if you fall in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and your salvation may depend on the split second decisions of frightened strangers.
A curious reliance on grace, is it not?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-17 08:28 pm (UTC)Yes. And knowing that, at any moment, your brain - your mind - can slip completely off the gears. It is a total and absolute loss of control. The knowledge that your body and mind cannot be relied upon, ever again.
*wry smile*
Hi. Epileptic here.
You did very well.