4. No Good Deed

The van cut the motorcyclist, knocking him off his bike. It then went on the pavement and into the wall division between two shops.

More people were rushing towards the van and its driver who was practically unharmed, while the biker was lying still where his body stopped rolling. The smashed smoking van looked more dramatic and a better subject for cellphone photos.

 I ignored the circus and approached the biker together with another man. It was getting dark and he was wearing an open black leather jacket, but I could already see he was broken and bleeding.

I took a first aid course through work two years ago. My certificate has expired since and I was fairly certain I forgot everything a day after the course. I was searching through the old section in my brain where the first aid knowledge gathered dust.

 The man next to me was already calling for an ambulance. I had to do something, but at the same time afraid to do the wrong thing. Moving this guy incorrectly could be disastrous, but that wasn’t the biggest worry. There was a priority list of things to take care of when providing first aid. I couldn’t remember all of them, but I did remember the first two: Breathing and bleeding.

The most important thing is to make sure the victim can breathe. Worrying about causing permanent damage is pointless if the victim dies from lack of oxygen. Then there’s bleeding which can also kill you fairly quickly depending on the injury. Again, bleeding must be stopped at all cost, even at the risk of paralysis.

For a fraction of a second I worried about causing damage and getting sued, but I shook off that thought. What was I going to do? Walk away?

I got down on my knees and gently patted the man’s upper body under his jacket. I didn’t need to check his breathing as I could see and feel his chest going up and down. When I pulled out my hands my right hand was covered in blood as if I was hand painting. My left hand was clean. There might have been other wounds, but I could only tend to one wound at a time.

 I placed both hands on the wound and pressed.

The man was slowly waking up and mumbling. I tried getting my face nearer to his to hear better without taking my hands off.

“I have aids.” He said weakly. I remembered the cut on my right hand and my guts froze.

A few weeks later I got the bad news. Knowing that I saved that man’s life, however much of it he had left, didn’t make me feel better. Had I known better I would have let him bleed to death. I am not ashamed to admit it.

At least that’s what I tell people when they find out I am HIV positive. It’s less embarrassing than confessing my drug addled orgies from days gone by.