I can make your heart flutter; if you want me to, of course. It would be an easy thing for me to do: all I would need would be a couple of sticky pads, 2000 volts, and a little button that lights up orange, and I would have your heart quivering like it was Elvis’ groin. I might even be able to make it sing a verse or two of Jailhouse Rock while I’m at it; after all, there’s no end to my talent.
Actually, strictly speaking, what I am now able to do is stop your heart from fluttering, as a couple of days ago I took a Defibrillation qualification. It had been a long time coming, and I had lost count of the number of times I had told the folks at work that I wasn’t qualified in that area. One day every week for the past 7 months I would arrive at the gym to find my name in large bold letters on the board behind reception: Emergency First Aider & Defibrillator Administrator: Scaramouche Jones. I would sigh softly, shake my head in a sad fashion and remind them that yes, I can indeed perform emergency first aid should anyone need it, but I am about as qualified to restart a fluttering heart as a salmon is. Or at least I was; until now.
I quite liked the course I was sent on, even though it started slowly. Sixteen or seventeen of us crammed into a little room while some guy at the front droned on about Health & Safety. Most of us let our minds drift while the more routine matters were refreshed in our minds: yes, we know we should look for danger before approaching a situation; yes, we know we should use some form of face shield if performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in case the patient vomits down our throat, or they have AIDS or something; yes Jessica Alba, I would like you to suck that. Ok, I admit it - by the time my mind processed that last one I had begun to daydream. But the fact was that none of the courses that were offered to us included Defibrillation by itself - that only came combined with a first aid refresher course; so everything the guy at the front was telling me was all information I had been examined on less than a year ago; as a result all these facts were still fresh in my mind. Soon though, we moved on to newer things.
To let myself be smug for a moment, I have had reasonable experience in making bodies tingle during my life. This was not the first time I had run my hands over slender curves and made a body quiver uncontrollably. It was, however, the first time I had made a body do so by hooking it up to the national grid and firing enough electricity into it that it lit up like a Christmas Tree and its glow could be seen from the moon; I’m not kidding, as soon as I hit the shock button I swear lights flickered in neighbouring buildings.
I had previously qualified in CPR as part of my original emergency first aid course, so - anxious to get on to new territory - I grabbed the nearest resuscitation dummy and quickly pumped away at my new plastic friend demonstrating that yes, I could still remember how to do it. Finally – at last! – we were allowed to play with the defibrillators.
Unfortunately for us – or perhaps fortunately for the city’s powers companies – the instructor wouldn’t let us work with fully charged defibrillators; instead we had to use training batteries in our machines, which didn’t deliver half as much of a jolt as the actual battery does. It’s probably just as well he restricted our voltage actually, as we would have ended up killing each other or something. I admit to feeling a little annoyed at the power reduction though, as it spoiled my money-making plan to sell toast during the break: “you want the bread toasted on the other side as well? Sure, no problem… [attaches pads] CLEAR! Bzzzzzttt! There you go mate, nice and brown both sides. That’ll be a dollar.”
Anyway – out came the little box of fireworks and we began running through the process involved. It was all a bit of an anti-climax, to be honest. I had visions of me hobbling up to the patient like Dr House, poking them with my stick to see if they would respond, then screaming for 50,000 mg of adrenalin and plugging their toe into the nearest lamp. Ok, perhaps 50,000 mg of adrenalin would be a bit much, but you get my drift. The reality of defibrillation is that the little machine tells you exactly what to do. Step – by – step. “Ok, hotshot,” it says, “stick a pad on there, stick the other pad on there, wait while I analyse the patient, right he needs shocking so get the fuck out of the way and then press this button – see I’m even flashing it for you so you don’t press the wrong one – BAM! Is he alive now? He is? Good. Now put me back in the cupboard and don’t forget to turn out the lights when you’re done.”
I felt so cheated! Then again, there are a lot of idiots in the world. Possibly including me. The machine giving a step by step guide is probably a good thing.
So, now when my name is written in large bold letters on the board behind reception at work, informing the world that I will be fixing their wobbling heart should the need to do so ever arise, at least now I can leave the salmon behind and tell people yeah, I can actually do that.
I’ll even sing Jailhouse Rock to them while I do so.
