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 The Red Cross flag; the Oulu branch has been around since 1931
I'm familiar with first aid and CPR (Cardio (heart) Pulmonary (lung) Resuscitation) from the years I worked as a nurse on wards for liver transplantations, rheumatology, and internal diseases. I followed these courses regularly, but haven´t since I moved to Finland and worked as a city administrator, so I’m out of touch on the newest developments in first aid technique. It´s time for a refresher course, I decide when the invitation appears through the letterbox.
A group of 17 expats meet on a Friday at six at the Red Cross premises at Uusikatu, with first aid trainer Marko Halonen. Halonen, a blond, 40-something registered nurse and Red Cross trainer, is from Oulu. He admits he has no experience in teaching in English but he´s confident we’ll sort out the language.
“How do you call for help?” asks Marko, starting an instructional DVD.
“I always carry a whistle with me,” laughs Philippe, the French architect who sits next to me. Smart idea, I think, and am reminded of boy scouts in uniform playing hide and seek in the forest.
The video, however, shows a phone conversation between a young patient with diabetes and a friendly-looking lady from the European emergency number “112” office. "Do the people at “112” speak English?" asks one of the Chinese participants. “Sure they do,” confirms Marko.
The evening is filled with questions, demonstrations and drills.
“How do you help an unconscious person?” asks Marko. “If it’s a drunk I´d rather look in another direction,” I say in a flush of honesty, remembering the (unconscious looking) drunks laying around in the park on warm summer days. The wrong answer, as it turns out. “From now on, unconscious people shouldn’t go unnoticed,” he continues.
An ICT type from New Zealand asks if rescuers can find him if he tries to save a hiker with heart problems in the forest, if he only gives them coordinates.
“Coordinates will do,” replies the all-knowing Marko, “-but an address would be better.”
Whether Marko is a fluent English speaker or not, he´s exactly the person I’d like to see if things go physically terrible wrong with me, I conclude after the first evening. He´s calm, to the point and most importantly he seems to know his stuff.
Later, when my friend Mary drives me back home in her car, our heads loaded with first aid techniques and good intentions, I suddenly notice a man sitting on one of the benches at the bus stop. He looks a bit shabby with long hair, and his head hangs down. Don’t move, I hope, secretly.
“What do you think? Is he unconscious?” I ask eagerly. “Dunno, no space to park,” says Mary undisturbed while speeding away.
The course continues on Saturday morning with coffee and resuscitation exercises. Anne, a female dummy, dressed in red, with unnatural little feet and closed eyes lies on the floor. “Who starts?” says Marko, looking into my direction, or what I take to be looking in my direction.
I stand up, murmur something to the doll and kick her small feet to see if she´s conscious. There´s no reply, so I routinely pinch her in the shoulder and check for breathing by holding my hand to her mouth.
Nothing happens, so I tilt her head backward lift the chin and start to give 30 compressions. After that I tilt once her head back again. Her neck, inhumanly stiff, bounces back reluctantly. “Two rescue breaths and make sure her mouth is completely sealed,” announces Marko. I blow carefully and–luckily–see Anne´s chest come up. I´ve resuscitated patients in the past and as a professional nurse would have felt utterly ashamed to fail the most important technique. I sigh, relieved.
All participants get a change to practice their skills on Anne. “30 Chest compressions at a rate of 100 per minute is tiring,” puffs an Italian student while pressing down on the doll’s chest in a quick tempo. A Russian scientist, on his turn, doesn´t blow enough air into the lungs. Obviously Anne would have died under his hands, I think.
Anne´s successor is a cute looking baby. “Open the airway gently,” instructs Marko, putting the baby on the table, “-place only two fingers on the centre of the chest.”
As the day ends, we learn how to stop bleeding and how to apply bandages to wounds. With a Turkish course-mate, I wrap the architect´s lower arms with bandages until he looks like a suicidal patient rescued.
“This is a must for everybody,” Philippe nods when I ask him for his opinion about the course. Other participants agree. “It was very useful,” says Marion, a German massage therapist, as we leave the Red Cross building on Uusikatu, in the centre of town.
With the well deserved first aid pass in our hands, we depart to the streets of Oulu, officially recognized, competent first aiders ready for action.
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