On a recent road trip, a couple of weird things happened that made me shake my head at the universe.

Now if you think this yarn is going down into the potholes and dickhead drivers  subject I am normally red hot on, you are wrong.

This is a tale on the path of embarrassment, horror and fear.  

The first part of the journey was a night in a hotel up the road a bit, in Albury, which is where the embarrassment came into play. I am not one for public speaking and try to avoid the spotlight as much as possible. In fact, Donna does all the ABC  Radio Paper Chase segments, not because it is some ungodly hour of the morning, but  because I simply don’t like the sound of my own voice.

At funerals, weddings and any time that I am required to offer a quivering-voiced piece of advice I start by saying  “I’ll keep this short and sweet”.  

Anyway, I found myself in a line to sign in and get my keys for the night at the hotel when a rather rattled elderly man jumped the queue to ask the staff for assistance. He explained to the reception team an older woman had fallen down some stairs.

The reception team didn’t seem to be worried and kept processing the guests so this is where I fired into action and followed the guy saying to him “I can help, I  have a first aid certificate”.

I imagined the woman was lying on some steps in a dark stairwell needing my 40 years of back-to-back first aid certification I have been doing  since I was 17. At last, my skills and training would pay off.  

The man, with me hot on his tail, busted through a set of double doors leading into an auditorium with around 200 people seated, all looking my way. He yelled “I  have the medico, I have the medico”. Hello, stage fright.  

I made my way to the stage where I helped the poor old girl to her feet, which resulted in applause from the audience, and then it was literally exit stage left. Like a  scene from Thank God You’re Here.  

The next milestone moment of the road trip was in Maitland, NSW. Donna had chosen this place to stay for the night. I had glimpsed at the photos she showed me and it looked fabulous.

But we then rolled up to this rather ominous-looking building, in fact gargoyles perching on the rooftop wouldn’t have been out of place.  After checking in I went down to get a couple of things from the car and said  to the receptionist “please don’t tell me this place was an old hospital?”.

“No,”she  replied, “this place used to be a Catholic orphanage”.

I asked if there were any ghosts but “only if you believe” she replied.  So I self-medicated with wine to get to sleep, as I am a little sensitive to these things, and as I nodded off, Donna asked what was wrong with my breathing?.  

I told her I felt like there was something heavy on my chest and then slipped into an alcoholic-induced slumber until about 2.30am when I was woken by the pitter patter of little feet running up and down the hallway. I was awake for hours after that,  hearing all sorts of things that went bump in the night.  

As the morning light started to come into the room I managed to get a bit more  sleep and when we finally woke around seven, I told Donna my tales of terror and showed her some rather deep scratch marks on my stomach.

She is not a believer but  she had also heard the constant running up and down the hallway.  A quick Google of the place in question revealed it was not uncommon to hear such tales, in fact there is a whole web page devoted to it which include a groom-to be feeling someone pressing on his chest and yelling “get out, get out”.  

Embarrassment, horror and fear rant over…  (Ed’s note: I am not a believer but I won’t be staying there again. Very strange.)  

Every year for the past 39 years, since I was 17, I have done a first aid course. The first one was for my skipper’s ticket which involved a little bit more than your average, what is now day course, plus home study.
The certificate was a small ships doctor’s course, which involved practicing sutures by stitching up hunks of pork and stuffing our counterparts into body bags for storage in the ice holds. The course went for a full three days of rolling around the floor perfecting bandages down to the millimetre, washing out eyes, knowing what objects to remove and what to leave in. It was intense.
I am a great believer in regular first aid, in particular the CPR course, as the knowledge and technology has increased and changed and is something that most of us should be across.
A couple of examples of changes are the acronym ABC – Airway, Breathing and Circulation. This stuff was around when I was at my first course at the tender age of 17. Now the acronym has changed to DRSABCD which is Danger, Response, Send, Airway, Breathing, CPR and Defibrillation.
The courses now are not so precise and are more of a field first aid arrangement where you are taught to use what you have available and not to leave the defibrillator and EpiPen to the ambos, you get in and do it yourself.
So I commenced my once in three year training last week. (Not locally I will add. You will see why.) After about an hour of self-learning I attended the face-to-face class. It was good, comprehensive enough – and the only thing I didn’t like was the instructor. It was a Sunday, and he strolled in, no introduction, leaned back in his seat, feet on the desk and started explaining how he knew so much he had no need for the provided slides etc.
He had been an ambo, he said, but never signed up for what Covid brought along. Almost died in a car accident because he had to wear a mask and was breathing in carbon dioxide. Said no-one should have to wear a mask for hours on end. Hello surgeons, hello nurses, hello theatre attendants – as in surgical theatres…
He then launched into a few PTR – points to remember – and then asked us all to produce our licences and come up and sign our names “in the box”. A woman, who had English as a second language but had lived in Australia for 10 years, went forward and asked “which box?” to which he replied, in a loud voice, “the one next to your name”. She tentatively asked again, and by now he was shouting at her. Not once pointing to the paper – just shouting “the one next to your name!”.
Now, someone, me, should have stepped up. And to my eternal regret and shame I didn’t. I don’t know why. But it was clearly bullying and maybe racist. The most I managed was giving her a smile and an eye roll in his direction when she sat down. (When I signed my name it was actually confusing.)
Anyway, the class continued. We heard more of his stories. Like it is important to find out everything about an injured person even if you have to empty their handbag onto the street. Turned out he had found a Jane Doe one time who had been raped – “gang raped” – and her parents had not found out until the next morning. For some reason he had to go into all the gory detail on that one. Odd.
Then, because he had skipped the slides, he was ahead of time and decided to slow down by asking us about pets. He had a snake, of course. One person said they had owned a cat but it had died. “Did you turn it into a rug?” he asked. “No, we buried it in the garden,” was the sad reply. I swear he grinned. Until this day I can honestly say I have never met an ambo, or former ambo, I didn’t like, but I did not like this guy. Oh, the Heimlich manoeuvre is also over, just like this rant…