Not a rant here, just didn’t know where to put this.
Because the jeep is still in the shop, I decided to walk 5 blocks to the Chevron to get some beer and assorted munchies before the Fiesta Bowl. Coming out, a guy yelled at me “Hey! You know CPR?”. Someone had just driven up with an unconscious man in their back seat who they had seen collapse on the side of 10th Street about two minutes before. I jogged over, made sure someone was on the phone to 911 and checked on the guy in the back seat. Not breathing; no pulse. Another bystander and I pulled him out and laid him on the ground of the Chevron parking lot.
Reaching back into my lifeguard days in highschool, I gave it a shot. The guy was pretty fat, and my fingers were cold, so I put my ear against his chest to make sure compressions were necessary. Still no pulse. I got through two 2/15 cycles before the ambulance pulled up and the EMTs took over. Unfortunately they were also unable to revive him and he was pronounced dead at the scene.
The funny thing is, and I guess this is why I’m posting, is that I find it a bit odd that I don’t feel anything about what happened. Nothing. I don’t even think my heart rate sped up through the whole episode. It had the emotional impact on me as when a homeless guy asks me for a quarter, i.e. very little. I wonder if I have grown so callous that a guy dies on me and I am more concerned with washing the taste of his breath out of mouth, the stink of his sweat off the side of my head, and cheering on Ohio State than I am about the guy who died and who he was or if he has any family.
I don’t feel much about this aspect either. I don’t feel guilt for not caring, and I don’t feel pride for helping when others looked away. Again, it feels much the same as giving a guy a quarter. But he died. It’s odd that mortality has come to mean so little to me.