In summer I work on the mountain, managing our “Adventure Park.” I put it in quotes because what constitutes adventure is very much open to interpretation. If you think a lake, kids’ play areas, hiking trails, and an alpine coaster is enough to make you feel adventurous, be my guest.
Anyway, we sometimes get called out to bike and hike accidents alongside the volunteer mountain rescue crew, since there’s no full-time summer hike/bike patrol needed. So here we are, with a 50-something male who fell off his mountain bike in a tight turn, couldn’t brace his fall with his hands or arms, and ended up taking the whole impact with his hip. We presumed either a hip dislocation or a femoral hip fracture — either way, the dude was in pain.
As my colleague Max dealt with finding a landing spot for the helicopter and coordinating with dispatch, I had some alone time with Hip Man. There is not much “patching up” work we can do in those waiting-for-the-cavalry moments. Patients mostly already lie whichever way is least painful for them, so you don’t want to faff around much if they’re not lying somewhere precarious. Also, by the time we get there, bystanders and family/friends usually have done all the peripheral “let me fix your cap, do you want water, I’ll stand here so you get some shade” work. So we use this time to gather the patient’s information (name, DoB, health insurance, etc.) and some more details about the accident mechanics and timings, as these can be useful for the doctors.
Now: what isn’t immediately apparent when I take someone’s information is what I’m actually taking in, is all of his information. As I gather his address, the fact that he’s a Gemini and doesn’t take any medication but is gluten intolerant, I learn something much more important:
Is there a delay in response, does he slur his words, does he repeat himself, does he remember every detail about the fall or just the beginning and the end, etc.
What looks like a casual conversation to the patient is a covert CIA behavioral assessment for me. It all feels very exciting and takes a lot of concentration.
In this particular case, I couldn’t have told you if our biking friend was concussed or stroking out, because the man had a very vocal girlfriend. She stood over us, casting a balmy, albeit threatening shadow, and confidently, loudly, and very quickly answered all my questions for him.
Girl... I get that you are trying to be useful, but if you want to help your man, just shut up. (And before any sexist connotations arise in your mind’s eye — men are just as chitty-chatty over their women, not to mention parents who like to control their injured kids’ answers.)
Normally, it’s enough to not make eye contact with the “answerer” and remain solely focused on the patient. People will pick up on the social cue and simmer down. But this lady had no such finesse. Somewhere along the line I had picked up her name, so I said: “Petra, I need you to let him speak.”
That did it, and bike man and I promptly paid the price for the audacity to shut her up, as not only did she shut up, she also removed herself from our location, taking her convenient shadow with her.
Soon enough, bike man got sorted out, the scene was cleared, and we all went our merry way — except maybe Petra’s ego, which got a little dented. My point is this:
Sometimes, the very best thing you can do for your loved ones is to not try and actively help. Just be there. Just stay put, let the professionals (first aid in our case, therapists, teachers, whoever...) do their job. Let whoever is struggling, struggle.
Even if it’s hard to watch.
Your job as a spouse, friend, or parent is to just BE there. Cast a comforting shadow and be present. Calmly and steadily. Don’t fix things, steer things, control things. Just be there and shut up.
And if right now, you are the one struggling, and you have to do so alone, because there is nobody around, let me assure you, there is. On a higher level. David Wagoner’s poem Lost says it best:
LOST
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
So if you just fell off your bike, let the forest find you, and just ... shut up.
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Great reminder! I have a tendency to be “that girl!” Eek! Haha Thank you!
Love this.