Yes, every three years I find myself (usually on a sultry summer evening) hunched over a plastic half-torso in the St. John's Ambulance building and getting really personal with it. And the dummies always seem to be named Johnny or Annie.
I used to actually lock lips with Johnny in first aid courses of yesteryear, but now we always do the rescue breathing with one of those little rubber masks that cover the mouth and nose. Which is much nicer, and you're less likely to get vomit on you if you are resucitating a real person. But what are the odds I'll have a mask in my pocket when I happen upon an accident scene? The odds are low.
I really enjoyed the teacher's style tonight though, which is good because I have to go back tomorrow for another four hours. His name is Larry, and he's an ex-paramedic. He had all sorts of interesting (and surprisingly amusing) anecdotes about kids getting slurpie straws impaled near their brain stems and guys wth hypothermia suddenly stripping naked for a nap in a snowbank.
He pointed out that most doctors and paramedics need to develop a black sense of humour as a coping mechanism. We, as daycare workers, will probably never have to deal with sucking chest gunshot wounds. Lordy, I hope not.
It's usually road rash, bee stings, nose bleeds and blood glucose tests for kids with diabetes. I think the worst thing in nine years has been a fractured wrist.
2 comments:
oooh, sucking chest wounds...kissing little Johnny won't help that!
I sincerely hope I never need the assistance of the paramedics trained by the Kiss It Better Medical School.... yi!
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