Ryan ER

Written by Bridie O'Donnell

Tuesday, 13 April 2010 21:02

Always be the second doctor at an arrest. That's what I learnt in my intern year. Basically, as a junior doctor, you don't want to be telling any nurses, other doctors or even cleaners how to do their job. Working overnight on ward-call, I attended many cardiac arrests, and they were so bloody stressful that one never remembers anything. Always be the second doctor at an arrest. That's what I learnt in my intern year.

Basically, as a junior doctor, you don't want to be telling any nurses, other doctors or even cleaners how to do their job. Working overnight on ward-call, I attended many cardiac arrests, and they were so bloody stressful that one never remembers anything. There's a greater chance of the intern dying of terror before the poor patient gets a endotracheal tube or some excessive chest force from the big-boned night nurse.

After 10 tiring days racing the Spring Classics in Belgium and Holland, we had capped the adventure off with a bad meal, a worse hotel and a truly terrible nights' sleep. The morning after, 4 very tired riders survived airport security and were looking forward to simulating sleep on the Ryan Air flight from Charleroi to Bologna.

Alas, it was not to be.

I happened to be sitting next to actor, Stellan Skarsgård (well, a Swedish guy who was his doppelganger, right down to the scarf and pensive look), and was grateful for some inglese conversation. When the air hosite leaned over me to reach the 02 cylinder, I decided to take a closer look at the minor commotion a few rows up.

A woman had collapsed and people around her were looking stressed. I was instantly reminded of an incredible story I heard years ago about a doctor who had managed to treat a woman's tension pneumothorax by plunging an unraveled coathanger into the front of her chest, to release the life-threatening pressure in her lungs and prevent cardiac arrest. He was rewarded with a Singapore Airlines ballpoint pen and a 2nd glass of merlot. Clearly, I was in a tight spot.

I told the hostie I was a doctor, and wandered up to la Senora. She was unconscious, but not dead and once we had managed a bit of the ol' shake n shout (which, in Italiano, is standard conversation technique), we established she was ok. Just a clammy, slow pulsed, faint version of her former self.

We elevated her sturdy little legs across the aisle seat, and I made an attempt to get some information (her sister said she was completely healthy, but aren't they all? This woman weighed about 100kg and was 4'1, in full black nonna kit. Completely standard).

Now there was no impending death in the skies, Bernadette and Moira decided it was time to start wheeling the cart of overpriced plastic food to see if they couldn't make some more cash for Ireland's economy. Shame nonna's feet were in the aisle as her head fit nicely into the window seat. The other doctor and I began chatting about cycling. He was about to retire in 3 months (hence why he rushed to the scene before me - still loving the action!) and hoped Basso would win the Giro. The woman's sister and her husband seemed much more interested in why I was Australian but riding in an Italian team. And so tall! And how about that terrific midnight blue PVC jacket!! And did I like Italy more than Australia?

I gracefully declined the 4-day old brioche and nicotine free cigarettes "which provide no discomfort to fellow passengers!" that Ryan Air offer to all medical rescue officers, and slunk back to Stellan to discuss the death of the entire Polish government. Well, we talked Cancellara's win in Paris Roubaix, actually. My Mum has a big thing for Fabian. He did you proud, Mama. Those legs, like pistons!