The New York Time's Effect on Man

I saw a white light. And it had a great bass run.

I am currently enrolled in a class called pathophysiology. It is literally the study of disease in the body, and it is so difficult that my spell checker doesn't even agree that it's a word. Don't get me wrong, it's fascinating, but sometimes it can be difficult to see how the information we cover is going to have anything to do with nursing. The fact is I will not need to understand the clotting cascade in order to see that a patient is bleeding to death. At any rate, explaining it to the patient would be little comfort.

After next semester I will no longer have to take any biology classes. When I begin nursing school proper my training will become more specific to my tasks in the clinics. I will be working with patients, and working with my hands. In preparation for this, I was recently required to enroll in a life-saving course.

It wasn't as great as it sounds. For one thing, I guess I don't know when my birthday is because I scheduled the class for the evening of, so instead of celebrating with my wife and friends I was repeatedly mashing the rib cage of a rubber mannequin who I had just met. For another, the class didn't seem very thorough. I mean, I passed. I have a card that certifies my training in areas of saving lives. But I am honestly not sure I could do it on a non-rubber person. Perhaps, if faced with a situation, adrenaline would kick in, muscle memory would take over, and I would coolly go about the task of resuscitating, but I'm just not sure the 8 minutes of practice was enough. I make french toast every Sunday, but I still look at the cookbook each time, just to be safe. If forced, I think I could make french toast without a recipe, but I would be worrying the entire time that I had skipped a step, probably the most important step.

You: "Weren't you supposed to use bread?"
Me: "I can't remember..."

The instructors, of which there were three, didn't seem concerned. They spoke jovially about the goal of CPR—trying to squish the human heart between the sternum and the spine to maintain oxygen flow—all the while eating Dunkin Donuts. They were paramedics, so I suppose they had become quite used to the idea of a stopped heart, enough so that food sounded appealing.

For that matter, they had all let themselves go a bit. As a trio, I'll bet they weighed 800 pounds. However unlikely, I kept thinking how awful it would be if the three amigos all keeled over in class, mid-donut, exposing us as inept frauds who didn't know the first thing about CPR. Apart from the extreme guilt I would feel, I am fairly sure they would make us retake the class.

My favorite thing I learned in my life-saving course was how to keep time. The proper tempo for CPR is 100 chest compressions per minute, a number that could easily be estimated. However, this is a matter of life and death, so the instructors revealed a foolproof industry secret—the Bee Gees. Apparently, the song Stayin' Alive was recorded at or around 100bpm. Compressing the chest in time with the pulsing disco downbeat will effectively help the victim stay alive. In a way, this is a very effective teaching technique. Aside from the cute correlation between the title and the action for which it is being employed, the song is memorable enough that a person can recall it at will, and honestly, if you can't keep the beat to a disco song, I don't want you doing CPR on me anyway.

The only weird part, I assume, will be when I actually have to use CPR. There I am, hammering away on someone's chest, trying to force enough oxygen into their brain to stave off permanent damage, humming that chilling song I will forever associate with death, the Bee Gees looking over my shoulders like satiny Grim Reapers.