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Entry tags:
CPR
“Annie, Annie, are you okay?”
One of my students jostles the mannequin’s shoulder, the Resusci-Annie, following the video demonstration to the word. Now, ear poised over the lifeless open mouth, listening for a breath that will never come. Lips on her blank, helpless face, two breaths blown in. A partner listens for a heartbeat on her hollow chest. ABC: Airway, Breathing, Circulation. The partner starts compressions, a device in Annie's torso clicking to indicate sufficient force.
As their instructor I nod encouragement, but my heart isn’t in it. A month after getting my pre-med degree, the excitement’s worn off; medical school now looms six weeks away like the next inevitable junction in the railroad, going too fast now to jump off.
I shouldn’t complain; most people in history have faced harder lives, with fewer choices. At least I chose this career, albeit without thinking much about what I really wanted. Truth is, I still don’t know what I want—but everyone else assumes it’s the track I'm on, and all I know is that it isn’t.
The next team takes the Resusci-Annie, and begins again. “Annie, Annie, are you okay?” Except for us, the gym has emptied for the night.
This class is just another stretch of track; I became an instructor to burnish my med school application. My students are here for other necessities: renewing lifeguard credentials, becoming dorm RAs, you name it. I know most of them, underclassmen staying at the college for the summer.
But will they ever use what they learn here? “You never know,” they tell each other, thinking perhaps of how I've told them to practice until the process becomes mechanical, reflexive, so in the slim chance that the occasion arises, they won't have to think about what to do next. But I wish I could be as uncertain as them: I know with a dreadful certainty that I will face dying people, and try to save them. I also know that CPR saves as few as 2% of those it’s used on. They’ve seen movies; they think it always works.
Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Once everyone’s had one last practice, I call it a night. Two students who work in the gym cheerfully offer to take the training gear to storage while I wheel the television array to the elevator.
Upstairs, I lock it up and use the bathroom. While washing my hands, I find myself staring into the mirror. It’s all mechanical, I think. I’m just going through the motions now, doing the compressions, but what are the chances I'll be glad I did? If I went downstairs and had a heart attack, would I even want my students to save me?
The thought jolts me. Is that really how I feel? Could it really be any worse if I did jump from this train?
You never know.
I go back downstairs. My students are gone, having cleared up the mats, the infant resuscitation doll, the ventilation masks. But they forgot the Resusci-Annie; she seems forlorn, propped up in her blue plastic case, staring out the window at the parking lot.
It really could be worse, I’m telling myself again. She’s never even even going to leave this building again. Except in a dumpster, I suppose.
But suddenly I'm sick of my own reassurances. I am already folding the doll’s fabric legs into the case when I stop, and scoop her into my arms instead.
“We’re getting out of here, Annie. Okay? Both of us.”
When we get to my car, I hold her against my chest like a small child while I unlock the door. I set her in the passenger seat gently, belt her in. She stares out the windshield, rubber mouth open in surprise. I know how she feels.
On the highway in the July dark, it is starting to rain. I flick on the wipers, push down the gas. I turn up the radio. I have no idea where I’m headed.
One of my students jostles the mannequin’s shoulder, the Resusci-Annie, following the video demonstration to the word. Now, ear poised over the lifeless open mouth, listening for a breath that will never come. Lips on her blank, helpless face, two breaths blown in. A partner listens for a heartbeat on her hollow chest. ABC: Airway, Breathing, Circulation. The partner starts compressions, a device in Annie's torso clicking to indicate sufficient force.
As their instructor I nod encouragement, but my heart isn’t in it. A month after getting my pre-med degree, the excitement’s worn off; medical school now looms six weeks away like the next inevitable junction in the railroad, going too fast now to jump off.
I shouldn’t complain; most people in history have faced harder lives, with fewer choices. At least I chose this career, albeit without thinking much about what I really wanted. Truth is, I still don’t know what I want—but everyone else assumes it’s the track I'm on, and all I know is that it isn’t.
The next team takes the Resusci-Annie, and begins again. “Annie, Annie, are you okay?” Except for us, the gym has emptied for the night.
This class is just another stretch of track; I became an instructor to burnish my med school application. My students are here for other necessities: renewing lifeguard credentials, becoming dorm RAs, you name it. I know most of them, underclassmen staying at the college for the summer.
But will they ever use what they learn here? “You never know,” they tell each other, thinking perhaps of how I've told them to practice until the process becomes mechanical, reflexive, so in the slim chance that the occasion arises, they won't have to think about what to do next. But I wish I could be as uncertain as them: I know with a dreadful certainty that I will face dying people, and try to save them. I also know that CPR saves as few as 2% of those it’s used on. They’ve seen movies; they think it always works.
Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Once everyone’s had one last practice, I call it a night. Two students who work in the gym cheerfully offer to take the training gear to storage while I wheel the television array to the elevator.
Upstairs, I lock it up and use the bathroom. While washing my hands, I find myself staring into the mirror. It’s all mechanical, I think. I’m just going through the motions now, doing the compressions, but what are the chances I'll be glad I did? If I went downstairs and had a heart attack, would I even want my students to save me?
The thought jolts me. Is that really how I feel? Could it really be any worse if I did jump from this train?
You never know.
I go back downstairs. My students are gone, having cleared up the mats, the infant resuscitation doll, the ventilation masks. But they forgot the Resusci-Annie; she seems forlorn, propped up in her blue plastic case, staring out the window at the parking lot.
It really could be worse, I’m telling myself again. She’s never even even going to leave this building again. Except in a dumpster, I suppose.
But suddenly I'm sick of my own reassurances. I am already folding the doll’s fabric legs into the case when I stop, and scoop her into my arms instead.
“We’re getting out of here, Annie. Okay? Both of us.”
When we get to my car, I hold her against my chest like a small child while I unlock the door. I set her in the passenger seat gently, belt her in. She stares out the windshield, rubber mouth open in surprise. I know how she feels.
On the highway in the July dark, it is starting to rain. I flick on the wipers, push down the gas. I turn up the radio. I have no idea where I’m headed.