Bob and Chuck

A couple of weeks ago, Rob and I were driving down a busy road in a Portland neighborhood. We both saw the man at the same time. He was on the other side of the street, in the gutter, lying on his side, squirming in what looked like pain or distress.

It took us several minutes and one-way streets to circle back to him. By the time we arrived, two other cars had stopped. One woman was on her cell phone, another was grabbing blankets from her trunk, and a man wearing blue latex gloves was cradling the elderly man’s head in his hands while a woman put pressure on the increasingly red gauze pad on the man’s forehead.

Information was exchanged quickly. An ambulance was on the way. The man wearing the blue gloves was a nurse. Bob, the man on the ground, had tripped, fallen, and hit his head on the asphalt. Bob was lucid and not complaining about any pain elsewhere.

Medically, everything seemed under control. Rob and I stood there, trying to figure out if and how we could help. Rob silently prayed. I knelt down, reached for Bob’s hand – the one without blood on it – and held it. I smiled at Bob with as much peace and confidence and warmth as I could. He held on pretty tightly.

The group of strangers quickly united as Team Bob to keep him calm and distracted.

Bob told us about his son and that he had just been in Portland for three weeks. Bob had recently moved from Pocatello, Idaho. I told him that’s where my parents met, on the ISU campus, instantly grateful for a personal connection to my new friend. Bob revealed that this would be his second time in an ambulance since he arrived in Oregon.

“You know, there are better ways to meet new people, Bob,” said the Gauze Gal with a huge smile.

Bob apologized for causing such a fuss, as two more cars stopped to ask if they could help.

“I sure do feel loved!” Bob said with a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude.

Bob and I were chatting about Twin Falls, Idaho when the ambulance arrived and the EMTs took over. As Bob was trying to remember what pills he takes every day, Team Bob patted his hand, wished him good luck, welcomed him to Portland where people love him, and promised prayers.

As Rob and I resumed our trek about Portland, we remarked that this was the second time in three months that we had come upon an elderly man in a gutter in need of help. The other was in a neighborhood in Southern California near where Rob’s family lives. The man had fallen in the street in front of his house, his cane now out of reach, and his voice too weak to summon help from his wife inside.

Thanks to too much practice with surgeries and aching body parts, Rob and I knew the proper techniques to get the man safely upright and eventually into the passenger seat of his wife’s car. The man had quite a bump swelling on his forehead and a very anxious wife determined to get him to the doctor quickly.

Although in both situations, Rob and I had an enormous urge to help, it far outweighed our actual knowledge and preparedness to do so safely and wisely. When we trotted up to Bob, we brought a bottle of water. As we offered it, the nurse politely deflected the offer suggesting it was better for Bob not to eat or drink anything in case of a head trauma or shock. And I am certain the nurse was cringing at my lack of personal safety when I naively held Bob’s hand with my bare one.

By the end of the night after meeting Bob, a few things had been decided. We would now start carrying medical supplies in our car trunks. Blankets, gauze pads, ace bandages, latex gloves. Also, since we now seemingly have “finding people who have fallen in gutters” as a new hobby, we would take a first aid class so we would be better prepared to help.

And so last week, Rob and I spent three hours in a middle school classroom with CPR manikins, an automated external defibrillator, and a booklet explaining basic pediatric and adult care for bleeding, shock, and broken limbs.

Most of the other students were there because of job requirements or because a new baby was imminent. Rob and I were the only Gutter Finders.

Although we weren’t looking to get certified for CPR, Rob and I both now have the cards and bruises to prove we know what to do if one of our Gutter Buddies isn’t responsive or breathing. And yes, bruises! Repeated chest compressions with one hand on top of the other resulted in both Rob and I having sore, bruised hands the next day. Clearly, we were dedicated to keeping our manikin alive.

Rob and I named our CPR manikin Chuck.  Because I finally
figured out who he reminded me of.  Adding Rob's glasses
nailed it.  The instructor thought I was exaggerating when I
told her we were laughing because the manikin looked just
like my boss for my first Real World Job out of college.
Fortunately, I figured out the resemblance well into the
class and long after many guarded breath kisses.  Awkward!

I’m very glad the class description was misleading, because CPR training has changed a bit since the last time I took it as a junior high schooler envisioning a career in babysitting (fun fact: I baby sat once and determined I was much better suited for office work).

Gone are the days of required mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. In are the days of personal safety and mouth guards. Gone is all the counting and switching from chest compressions to breathing. In is a focus on continual compressions and minimal breaths if you choose. Gone are using your fingers to clear out the mouth. In is minimizing your contact with someone else’s bodily fluids.

I still feel like I want more in depth training for first aid, though. I’m not looking to be a roadside nurse or EMT, but I do want to have more ingrained know-how and confidence to properly help in a medical emergency.

That being said, our class last week made it clear that the most critical tool I have is my cell phone. My biggest job – CPR or otherwise -- is to summon help from people who are trained and experienced to provide aid. Turns out, making a phone call and being calmly and confidently present might be hugely and simply enough.