We rolled five paramedics to the association fitness center this morning. Two seniors went down, but everybody went home.
I was just passing the 22-minute mark on my 30-minute routine on the XT20 Sports Art combination rower and bicycle. As I have been doing for two weeks, I strapped my feet into the pedals at 7:30 a.m. and was vigorously rowing my way across the peaceful waters of Lake Andrews, when I heard a shriek.
Stunned, I twisted sideways, looking backwards, toward the sound. There, in the space between her treadmill and the wall, lay Helen, about 65 years old, in a fetal position, the rubber blades of the treadmill going flap, flap, flap against her back, her brown sweatshirt being tugged under the still-live machine as she yelled out.
I jerked my feet from the XT20 pedal straps. But before I could get to the moving treadmill, Jill, the super-athletic yoga meister and gym coach, was already there, cradling Helen away from the moving belt. It fell to me to stop the treadmill and yank it away from them. I was assisted in this endeavor by Harold, 76, portly, who had jumped from his treadmill to lend a hand.
We succeeded in dragging the now-stilled treadmill a foot or so. I found her glasses. They were fine. Helen wanted her glasses, but I could see the bridge of her nose was bleeding slightly after her fall.
By now, Naomi was on the hall telephone, talking to 911. Jill asked for towels, wet ones, and an ice pak from the office fridge. We supplied both and it began to appear that things were normalizing.
The 911 operator was full of questions, or course. The phone was too far away, so I stood midway and, using my best big boy voice, relayed questions and answers between Naomi and Jill, trying not to insert my opinions.
"Is she conscious?" "Is she conscious!"
"Yes!" "Yes!"
"Is she alert?" "Is she alert!"
"Yes!" "Yes!"
"Is there bleeding?"
And so on. And so on.
Just as we were getting to the part about nausea, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harold go down. He had been standing there, leaning on the treadmill, when he lost it. Down he went, at my feet, in a limp, sideways roll. I cradled his unconscious head in my hands. Jill was there now, leaving Helen in the care of a bystander, she took Harold's pulse, a weak one.
Just as I was contemplating rolling Harold over and wondering if I was really going to have to do CPR and how the hell that was going to work, Harold came to. "I'm alright," he kept saying. Of course he wasn't. By now we had a pillow under his head, but soon he was on his knees trying to get up. I got him a folding chair and we tried to keep his head as low as possible. He'd been exercising, stopped, moved the treadmill, and once he wasn't needed anymore, fainted. He was in good humor, if not great shape.
About now, the paramedics arrived.
As a one-year veteran of the association fitness center, may I say with certainty that never have there been five more muscular, trim, youthful men in the fitness center all at one time. The Golder hook and ladder idled outside, as the blue-clad medics, with black boxes and aquamarine gloves, streamed in. May I say with certainty that there has never been a more welcome sight in the fitness center.
Our patients are fine. Both went home after being thoroughly tested, questioned and examined. The medics eventually huddled, fist-pumped and left us to our labors, reloading their empty stretcher, driving away to write their reports. Mounted again on my XTR20 Sports Art trainer, I observed the room getting back to normal, gratefully watching Helen, a bit bruised in the face, walk out with her ride home.
Harold was combing his gray hair in the locker room, saying that he had fainted once before, in the sauna. We talked about how everybody is susceptible to blood loss to the head when sudden movements are made.
I wasn't sure how much time to re-log to restart my training routine. It was five to eight. Jill the jock laughed. Don't worry, she said. You got a good work out today.
"Think about all that adrenalin."
Everybody went home safe, so did I, taking the usual sunny run-walk up steep Howland's Highway and down the hill, reflecting on the morning's events and trying to remember procedures that Kathleen and I learned when we took that CPR course.
