I’m generally not a fan of fast food, but in an effort to bond with my new coworkers at my first medical job, we went to KFC for lunch. A few tables away, an extremely elderly woman started coughing and crying.

The Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices hadn’t gone down so well.

“OH MY GAWD! She’s choking! Someone call 9-1-1!” some lady screeched, while everyone else just stood around.

“NO! Don’t call 9-1-1!” the lady’s son retorted. “We can’t afford it! She doesn’t have insurance and I can’t pay for it. Do not call 9-1-1! Please!”

“Motherfucka, call 9-1-1!” bellowed a very large Black man who had come running out of the kitchen donning an apron and a kitchen knife. “Bitch, call 9-1-1 before I fuckin’ kill you!”

“Fine, call 9-1-1, call 9-1-1!” whimpered her death-wishing son. “Call 9-1-1!”

As this comic scene was unfolding, everyone began to stare in our direction, as my coworkers and I were wearing scrubs. And despite all of us working in non-clinical roles at the time, scrubs equate to “They must know what to do” in the minds of plain-clothed onlookers.

I knew she wasn’t choking as she was coughing and moving air, but I went over to the table and did a quick finger sweep of her mouth and throat to clear out all of the mushed chicken and a piece of bone that was in there.

Shortly after, the paramedics arrived, gave her some oxygen, and she began to settle down a bit while we went back to eating our lunches. Her son didn’t get his inheritance that day, anyway.

 

“Um…excuse me, sir? Hello? Sir?” squeaked a mousey voice coupled with a tap on my shoulder.

As I turned my head, I was met by a concerned 11-year-old girl.

“I think my friend is choking. Do you know what to do?”

Looking across a few tables at the Whole Foods food court, I spotted an even younger girl clutching her throat, face beet red, eyes panicky wide.

Afraid I would crush her tiny frame if I tried the Heimlich, I gave her a number of hard back blows before a solid chunk of hamburger and bun finally flew out of her mouth.

A crowd of on-lookers had formed during the mini emergency, standing around watching. The only suggestion made was from a woman who kept saying, “Give her some water! She needs water!”

Nice try, but throat clenching is not the universal sign for thirst.

The girl’s mother and aunt thanked me profusely, the Whole Foods manager gave me a free beer, and the now-breathing girl calmed her tears. I later found her hamburger dried to my boot.

 

On my way back to Virginia from the Delaware beaches, two people on a crotch rocket (with more CCs than brain cells) flew by at nearly 100-mph, weaving between cars. They were both wearing helmets, but the driver was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and the female passenger was wearing white sandals, jeans, and a t-shirt.

A few miles ahead, my friend and I came up on brake lights, debris in the road, and stopped traffic. As we were forced to the shoulder, there was a group of people circled around something on the ground. It was the female passenger, unconscious on her back, next to the motorcycle that was in multiple pieces. It had slammed into the back of a minivan that had stopped abruptly. Her sandal was melted to the exhaust, and her feet and hands contained more gravel than skin, bone exposed. So this is what road rash looks like.

Her boyfriend, who had been driving, was clearly in shock, as bones from one wrist protruded through the palm of his hand. He hadn’t even noticed. He was trying to light a cigarette, but couldn’t stop shaking to manage the lighter. He was pacing and kept yelling, “I should have never bought a bike. I should have never bought a bike!”

The motorcycle was only a few feet away and I could smell the gas and see it dripping on the hot exhaust. I yelled for a few of the onlookers to move it, and they picked it up and threw it into the grass on the side of the road.

Her cracked helmet was already off of her head. None of the bystanders would touch her because she was bloody. The woman regained consciousness briefly while my friend and I tried to stabilize her. She quickly became combative and tried to get up but her legs weren’t moving. With her bloodied hands, she grabbed my neck as I was kneeling over her head and wouldn’t let go. She kept begging not to let her die and talked about a child. She then lost consciousness, began to seize, and started to vomit. She never regained consciousness while we were there.

After what seemed like hours, the advanced life support unit arrived, boarded her, and arranged for a helicopter to meet them farther down the highway. The rescue squad asked us a few questions and helped clean her blood off of us. I never found out what happened to her.

 

I’ve had a few other experiences similar to these over the years and one theme remains common throughout: When there is an emergency of any sort, most people do nothing. That is the worst possible option. Even if you have no first-response training, at the very least, pick up a phone and call for help. In the situation with the motorcycle crash, no one had thought to call 9-1-1 until we asked. Hard to believe, but it happens. Keep a set of latex gloves in your aptly named glove box so you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty if the need arises. If you do have training, direct others in the situation. People are generally willing to help if told what to do.

The situation can be scary, for sure. But don’t hesitate to help. It could be you or a loved one on the ground some day.

And don’t feed bone-in chicken to the very elderly…